pegunicent

Liam listened to Alberic's stumbling, halting apology and knew it would not reach where it was intended. Estinien was beyond reason, beyond the cold ground of logic, trapped in white hot rage and betrayal. A good man Alberic may be but he was a piss father. This whole mess could have been avoided if Alberic had even once in the last two decades simply girded his loins and faced his own weaknesses.

Instead he'd basically served his adopted son up on a gilded tray for the vengeful wyrm gnawing away at his heart and mind, and it was up to Liam to stop the dragoon from exploding or being devoured or whatever else might happen with that much tainted Mist flooding his lanky form.

Since words weren't going to do anything, Liam settled for the swift and brutal approach. He shoved his spear into Alberic's hands and leapt, throwing his whole body weight behind the punch that cracked three of his knuckles and broke two fingers on Estinien's helm. He followed up the gasping stagger with a spin kick, armored heel solidly denting the drachen mail chest piece over the elezen's sternum. Ten yalms away the boy's body caught up in the snow and Liam pounced, ripping off the horned helm to shove that broken and elegant nose straight into the ground.

Red eyes blazed wyrm fire at him and he leaned in to snarl back. “Get. Out.”

Whatever a 'dragon soul' was supposed to feel like, all Liam felt was pissed. Distantly he knew the raging Mist from Nidhogg was roiling against his own, but he'd never attuned his senses in the way of magery and oft ignored his own less than mundane instincts. Slowly the snarling beneath him tapered off while his own continued, until dark blue eyes replaced the maddened red wide with shock and no little wonder.

Once he was sure all hell was not going to break loose, he stood up, flexed his hand with a hiss, and started stalking back for his bloody spear.

“Wait... what... are you?”

Estinien may be the greatest dragoon alive but in that moment all Liam could hear was a broken child, alone and afraid and his old heart tried to break all over again. Glowering at Alberic, the source of this whole mess, he snatched his weapon and forced his legs to keep going.

“Old. Too damned swiving old.” He growled, feeling every one of his 277 turns.