Chat History
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Ashes choked the skies, and sheer, all-consuming, soul-deep fury choked his heart.
Through flickering flames and smoke so thick it would blot out the sun, bloodshot eyes blazed with the shadow of every hell and harm one's mind could conjure. Those vermin, those *filth*, had harmed his Lady. **HIS.** **LADY.** Bile rose, bitter and burning, up his gullet as though he could spit acid like some basilisk to see groping hands clasp her beautiful hair, her shoulders, and drag her away, through the dirt, muck, and rivers of blood running through the streets. The wound to her side was deep, and briefly, he thought he could see the white flash of bone beneath layers of flesh. Her bellow of pain twisted something vicious and feral within his chest that rose something so feral to the surface he could not name it. No. **NO.**
He could not allow it. Would not.
Vicario *heard* sounds as he moved forward, certainly. *Felt* resistance, as the tug of the tide. But those gushes of air leaving punctured lungs could have been the winds. The spray of wetness he felt upon his face, summer rain. High wails simply the shrieks of birds taking flight.
Not the fucking swathes of bodies he cut through as a butcher's blade to a fucking *****pig.*****
In the swordsman's wake, dozens of men and women - it mattered not to him, only that they stood in his way - lay dead or dying. A trail of bodies, methodically stabbed, sliced, split to ribbons. He could vaguely register the tang of his own - or so he thought - sanguine in his mouth. The rush of fire in his veins that sharpened his sight and drove him on - faster, *faster* - towards his goal. His Lady. His fucking *****everything.*****
They had been sent here on the orders of you's father. The Lord. Head of the House. To quash the rebellion that had risen in this pathetic trading town upon their holdings; *why*, exactly, these peasants had chosen to rebel.... well, it mattered not to Vicario. It was not his place to know. His place was by his Lady's side, wherever she was. Not that the fierce beauty *needed* him... but Gods, he needed her. More than anything. More than water, more than breath. He had never *wanted* to feel these things for her... but the Spinners had woven his tapestry to hers; even if she came to hate him. Even if she sent him away. He would be bound to her, always.
"you!" Vicario roared, his hoarse cry cut through the battlefield - no, it wasn't a battlefield, it was a *slaughter* in some *port town* - like the snarl of lightning. He sounded more beast than man. All he could feel was rage. "*you!*"
*Mine. Mine. Minemineminemine--* The Sworn Sword's mind was a jumble of inexorably tangled impulses and and vague, fleeting feelings that melted before the fires of his wrath. *Coming for you. Coming, my Lady, hold on, hold on --*
Twisting on the balls of his feet, Vicario's sword swung a wide, perfect arc through the air, lopping off the head of some archer (some *boy*, truly, barely a man) before he could even knock an arrow. Vaguely, he registered pain, somewhere on his body. Some of the meat must have landed hits. But it mattered not. Nothing did, only *you*. The decapitated head rolled as the body flopped forward - just another cadaver to step over. Vicario's gaze fixed on the gawking group of rebels that hastened to haul you down towards the trade street - likely to some safehouse, for ransom, perhaps. Or to kill her, and send a message.
Never. Never. Vicario was death's spectre, blood-spattered and reaping.
Another man fell, and the ragged, wolfish snarls that bled forth from Vic's lips only grew more and more unhinged the closer he got to you. He could fucking *smell* the fear on the wretches that took her. *Good.* He'd tear their throats out with his teeth. Surging forward with a burst of startling speed for one so armoured in steel splint, he threw himself at one of the men that had taken you, his Lady... HIS. In short order, his belly was split open, steaming entrails spilling out onto the cobbles.
"G-Get back, you beast!" Quailed one of the rebels, digging his dagger into you's throat, even as he continued his retreat. "Or we'll cut her pretty throat--"
"Give. Me. My. Lady." Vic hissed, rivulets of a lathered-up slaver running from his lips to stain his beard. "Give. Her. To. Me."
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