The problem with stopping an intense man in the midst of action is that he might not recognize you. Ithacles had already kicked Skandra twice before he knew who he was. And by then it was too late. He'd already done something incredibly stupid. He allowed himself to find the floor with a thump. The wild rage wasn't gone from hsi eyes but ti was accompanied by confusion, and most of all, grief.
"Alright!" he shouted back. He walked himself up the wall and tried to wipe the tension away from his glower with a hand. He left knee was numb. Must have crushed it down into the stone when he fell.
"Oh, what the fuck is this?" he damned of the spearmen who appeared. "If one of you cunts feels up to it, go ahead. The sharp end goes first."
Every single time Ithacles actually spoke that way he felt completely out of control. And he was. It was as if something in his brain had taken over and he was simply watching. Not that he was struggling to stop it, to reel it in and put it back in its dark place. He never, out loud, doubted another soldier's courage or duty. But there was a certain pride that came with being one of the Reavers, one of the elite, and it was so rarely something one could express.
Skandra held him cuffed against the wall and Ithacles continued to stare glowing coal at the spearmen. They shifted nervously and didn't feel quite so sure of how to hold their weaponry.