|Ashton Anchors (zweimalgebissen) wrote in marinasylum,|
@ 2011-05-26 02:09:00
|Entry tags:||ashton anchors, miranda lotto|
[ Closed ]
"Figure your lady friend wouldn't be too keen if you got messed up in something." The man had said.
He was right. Ashton can't go home looking like this. Pale, blood-stained, his jeans scuffed, and his shirt torn. No, there would be too many questions. Not least of all: "Why are you so weak? How is someone like this supposed to protect me?"
At least, that's what he thinks she would say. Conrad would no doubt be disappointed, too. This wasn't like it had been with Saya. There he was obviously outmatched with experience and weaponry. This time? It was pure hesitation. It would have been so easy to summon forth a blade and impale that man. Maybe cut off his arms so he can't pull at anyone's clothes again; to try and strangle someone for fun.
Fun! That other man had fun with the dragons, didn't he? Puppets! Puppets, of all the damn things to do with the corpses, he put on a show. The thought pulled Ashton's muscles taught like cables. And today he has nothing to show for his efforts except a stern reprimand from the Defense Force member that came to break them up, and blood on his arms and face. He isn't even scratched, though, which is the funny thing. A good bit of that blood isn't even his. At least the crazy man hadn't been armed.
--or maybe he should have been armed. A chevalier would not have backed down from a threat like that, no matter the circumstance. It would have all been over by now, and the plea of self defense would have been more convincing.
Putting his thoughts on hold for a moment, Ashton glanced around. Though he's lived in the dome for what felt like ages, his green eyes can't make sense of where he was at this moment. He knew he was heading away from the direction of home, lest he stumble in the doorway like a runaway pet, fresh from a fight with a tougher neighborhood dog, crossing the threshold with his tail firmly tucked between his legs. No, he can't go there, but the shelter wasn't this way, either, was it? The shelter - aptly named, now - where he could clean up before getting some new clothes and then heading home (and hoping Conrad had not yet heard news of his failure).
Before all that, his body needed something in return for the beating he had forced it to endure. A hunger burned inside of him that would not cause his stomach to growl; a hunger no hamburger steak would satisfy. And a hunger that grew more urgent by the minute.
(OOC: Taking place after the fight with Hidan, alongside Link, from earlier today. That post is kept game canon with mod permission. Potential triggers inside for blood drinking, morbid thoughts, awful prose, etc.)