Heroes, Blood and Wine | Warning: Dark & Violent Themes

[Arthur]

Frost 15 Year 4622, A.o.I

Arthur laid back against a stone wall, ready to welcome the onslaught of pain that punched him square in the face. Incited by a simple action in a back alley, bolstered by the belief that kindness triumphed over the men that turned their bodies into weapons, ready to incite pain. Men that took hope from faces almost about to drown and aspired to trample it into the dirt. That somehow thought it was gratifying to take the safety of a dame and place it jeopardy because greed thought it would cool.

His fist swung at them through the air, in hope of landing a target. It did. Knuckles to beaten bone, a scream followed the sound a resonant crack.

Boom, boom, boom.

The sound of his heartbeat rung like a bell warning him he was in danger, he knew. Blurry eyed and wild, he starred back at the low life’s petty snarling visage and laughed. Snarkface didn't like that.

“No!” the faint shrill cries echoed over the horizon of his thoughts, it was the woman behind him. Everything had happened so quick, he didn’t even know who she was, or what she looked like. Whatever the case, he couldn’t look back now.

How had he gotten here? The thought ran through Arthur’s head as another fist dug into his rib cage, followed by blood, laughter, the taste of old wine and vomit. “More wine!” he cheered and dropped to the dirt floor with a smile “A man… should die with more… wine.” He looked down at himself, for a beaten man he didn't look half bad, the white of his plain cotton shirt was only a little bloodied and the dark leathers of his breeches had held well. Maybe someone would even weep at his funeral.

A kick hit the side of his thigh and he groaned, by the gods did it hurt. He couldn’t tell if he was trying to laugh or trying to cry. He didn’t think he would die in a place like this, filled with drunks, screaming and the aroma of piss. The kicks kept on coming over and over again.

“Sorry…” he muttered, turning his head to look at the woman he had failed to save. It was a shame, she was a pretty little thing with a white dress, long hair and no diamond ring.

[Ford Edevane]

It had been a happy day, really. Something ford had been looking forward to for so long, was finally beginning to take shape. Ford had been looking forward to the occasion for as long as he could remember. The paper for the down payment he had put towards the item was being folded and stuffed into a pocket, a smile as wide and bright as the sun came across his bearded features. Brown leather booted feet had been bringing him along his merry way until he heard something that sounded off. There were sounds of impact and noises of pain that followed suit. Slowing to a halt, the blue-eyed Griscian lifted his gaze to tilt his head as there was another hit, and someone talking.

Ford had not been born in Radenor, but he had been around them long enough to know, you reap what you sew. Slowly, steps were taken backward, and he paused, turning his head in time to see the kick to the thigh, the deep-blue gaze took in the situation. One man was most definitely outmatched in terms of physical prowess, the unarmed combat happening before him was one-sided. Another issue Ford seemed to have, he could not leave well enough alone, he had a kindness in him that wasn’t prevalent in Atharen. Allowing a growl to rumble deep in his throat as he resigned himself to getting involved, the near seven-foot-tall blonde began walking towards the altercation. Coming close enough, he chose to speak out, rather than approach and lead with violence.

“Surely there is a better way to solve an issue between gentlemen?” The muscular man glanced from the man who was assaulting the other, and the other who was clearly in worse shape than the assaulter. Turning his head, he looked over his shoulder to look to the woman who seemed fraught with the situation that was unfolding before her.
Lifting a hand, he placed one on the assailer’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly while he tilted his head in the other’s direction, looking to the one who had been apologizing. “Whatever happened, the man has clearly learned his lesson. He has even apologized. Perhaps it is time for you both to go your own separate way and this madame can go about the rest of her day with a smile on her face, rather than grimacing or leaving with tears streaking her face.

Looking to the assailer, the kinder blue-eyes leveled on him without needing to really say anything else. It was up to the men to choose if they wanted to continue beating one another senseless, go their separate ways, or involved Ford in making the decision for them. The man looked like he had just come from having business somewhere nearby. A deep blue collared shirt was pulled across his muscular form, buttoned down the middle with the sleeves pulled up just over his forearm, at the elbow, which caused the open cuff of his shirt to stretch over his bicep. The shirt was tucked into a pair of dark brown trousers and his hair had grown a bit longer, but it was still finger-combed into looking presentable.

[Arthur]

“Surely there is a better way to solve an issue between gentlemen?” a tall, bold, muscular figure with sapphire blue eyes approached the scene.

“Apparently not,” Arthur retorted to the heroic stranger with laughter through his bloodied lips. He could feel the snot and blood down his face, everything hurt. The beaten archer lifted his head to set eyes on the man. There was strength in the stranger that Arthur only wished he had.

“Looks like I bought enough time though,” he murmured and surrendered against the hard wall.

“Shut up scum,” a portly man with dirtied brown slacks, a shirt too short for his size spat in Arthur’s direction.

The haze caused Arthur to continue to laugh, “What a joke.”

Their leader on other hand was preoccupied by the tough squeeze of the well-built man that loomed over him. The leader was bigger than the other assailant with stocky proportions, a thick stinking brown beard, one white eye and an unsavoury complexion.

There was a brief pause to assess the stranger’s presence “ ‘ew the fuck ya think ya are?” A swirl of spit came spewing from his grotesque mouth in the directory of Ford’s foot followed by an attempt free of his grip.

“maybe we needa teach ‘im a lesson to eh?” the voice of the scrawnier individual at the back cackled and moved toward the stranger to approach from behind with a cracked bottle.

“You’re rubbish teachers” Arthur interjected, lifting a leg in hopes to at least help trip at least one asshole. Pangs of sharp pain entered his ribs as he shifted and scrunched his face, he couldn’t manage much more.

[Ford Edevane]

The resulting actions in Ford attempting to interrupt and quell the situation politely was met instantly with responses that he knew were bound to happen. The leader, who happened to be the one Ford had placed his hand upon, seemed to feel it was perfectly okay to ignore all forms of polite conversation, etiquette, and mannerisms and not only insulted him but spat at his feet. Taking in a deep breath, the barreled chest inflated, the material of his shirt straining just in the slightest before the blonde let it out slowly through his slightly parted lips.

Smiling at the man who spat at him, the deeper blue gaze remained kind as he responded to him with the questions that were offered in his direction. “My name is Ford, and with all due respect. I think the man you are trying to teach a lesson to has learned his lesson. He is beaten, bleeding, and in need of attention. Regarding a lesson you can teach me, I am more than prepared to sit down and discuss with the three of you to figure out how best to move forward from this.” The smile remained, and for a brief moment, his gaze slid from the leader to the one who was using the wall as a crutch. Taking the split-second to assess the man’s stature, Ford’s head dipped a bit to the side as his eyes slid to the corner of his gaze to look over his shoulder, acknowledging the one approaching from behind him.

There were four things Ford excelled at in his life thus far on Atharen. He was an unbelievably kind and polite person. Unless someone gave him a reason not to trust or dislike them, he would never have a negative word to say against them. He was loyal. He had proved his loyalty to the one person it mattered most to over and over again and would continue to do so until the end of time. Ford excelled in watching, studying, and assessing people in social situations. It was both his life’s work and a guilty pleasure of his. Finally, Ford excelled at unarmed combat. Fists, grappling, mixed forms of fighting, it was his choice to hone his body before trying to hone any craft that his body could not handle.

With the one busy with Arthur for the time being, the Griscian’s head lifted to level with the one who seemed to be their leader. An unnatural strength flowed in Ford’s veins, something that many would think took years of hard work, but it had not. He had already been muscular before, and with help, he had achieved a level otherwise unattainable. From that point, he honed his body’s abilities even further to the point they were at in the present day. So as his hand tightened with an unnatural strength to the man’s shoulder, the muscles along his forearm flexed. His bicep tightened against the material of his shirt as he attempted to forcefully pull the ‘leader’ from in front of him, sidestepping to aim the lunge of the other’s body in the direction of the one with the broken bottle.

Using the momentum from his turn as his hand released the other, his unoccupied fist swung upwards towards the one who had been giving his attention to Arthur, attempting to collide his fist against the underside of the other’s right side of his jawline. If Arthur fell, at least he could land on his backside for the time being while Ford was finishing up with the excess company.