Post by Deleted on Aug 27, 2015 4:49:55 GMT -5
To work off the tension in his being would be a wonderful thing. But Stephane was not sure release would come to him easily or quickly. He was irritated, to say the least, by the events that had come to pass and he felt most horribly betrayed by his kin. There were dark thoughts in his mind, tremulous gloomy thoughts that told of a blackness to his soul. But Stephane was not a man to act out of anger, he never had been one to behave in such manner. Thus, he was waiting for cooler head to prevail and would be patient to however long that took. For now, he was riding out his anger, but action was not upon him. At least, no action other than to beat down a plethora of guards.
Today, in an attempt to break the tightness he felt and under the guise of refreshing his sword arm in preparation for the tourney ahead, Stephane was sparing with several of his close guards. He, like the others of royal stature, had a usual body of men who were his personal escort. Often, Stephane would ditch them to see to his own affairs, but when riding through the streets there were seven men who always took his side. Today, three of them had drawn the short straw and were taking a beating.
A monster with a sword, he was cold and calculating in every move. His mind seemed to act outside of his body as he span to meet steal on steal. These were no practice blades and the men he opposed knew better than to hold back for Stephane had no qualms in wounding them. Rallied against three of them, the men had been bursting in their battle for several long, hard minutes, before the Prince finally called hold. All four of them, when weapon was dropped from the kiss of its brothers and sheathed, seemed to double over, breathless and chuckling; ”You’ve been practicing, Morris.” He jested with one of them, a younger man who grinned with the pride of the compliment well earnt, and rubbed at a slice on his thigh. It was nothing more than a paper-cut, slender and light, a glancing wound that would not trouble Stephane, but he brushed the blood away and felt it sting with freshness.
~~
Benoit Deveraux
Today, in an attempt to break the tightness he felt and under the guise of refreshing his sword arm in preparation for the tourney ahead, Stephane was sparing with several of his close guards. He, like the others of royal stature, had a usual body of men who were his personal escort. Often, Stephane would ditch them to see to his own affairs, but when riding through the streets there were seven men who always took his side. Today, three of them had drawn the short straw and were taking a beating.
A monster with a sword, he was cold and calculating in every move. His mind seemed to act outside of his body as he span to meet steal on steal. These were no practice blades and the men he opposed knew better than to hold back for Stephane had no qualms in wounding them. Rallied against three of them, the men had been bursting in their battle for several long, hard minutes, before the Prince finally called hold. All four of them, when weapon was dropped from the kiss of its brothers and sheathed, seemed to double over, breathless and chuckling; ”You’ve been practicing, Morris.” He jested with one of them, a younger man who grinned with the pride of the compliment well earnt, and rubbed at a slice on his thigh. It was nothing more than a paper-cut, slender and light, a glancing wound that would not trouble Stephane, but he brushed the blood away and felt it sting with freshness.
~~
Benoit Deveraux