i, uh...can't really "swap out" my weapons. given that they are my hands. which are attached to my body. and i need them.
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Ox takes a moment to stretch. "Pull a muscle and you're dead in the water." Maybe it seemed comical to others, but it was all but practical in his eyes. Many nights - some drunken - he'd get straight to fighting, shadow sparring, or any other kind of demanding physical activity and by morning he could barely move. He recalled receiving counsil from one of the priests that raised him in Iomedae's temple, saying that a good deal of stretching serves to prepare the muscles for great physical exertion. So it was a practise he worked into his routine. No, he wouldn't just start stretching in the middle of a tavern brawl...not again, anyway. He would stretch before leaving the temple. When he'd finally felt that his body was ready to partake in the coming festivities, he joined the conversation.
Something was off about Prophet. Ox could feel it in his bones, under his skin, like a ghost passing through him. But what? He couldn't see anything overtly wrong, and he didn't hear anything him say anything off, and so he did his best to shake the feeling. He managed. He cleared his throat and stood elbow-to-elbow with Prophet. "F*ckin' right, that is." He nodded to emphasize and punctuate his speech. "Spent many a year killin'em f*ckin' savages. After spendin' too much time wif 'em - and I do mean too-f*cking-much - you figure 'em out a bit, don't ya?" He tapped his head. "I say we greet 'em warmly and wif a cuppa', eh? And then make 'em eat their own f*ckin' teef, the C*NTS!" If you're starting to get the feeling that Ox hates bandits... You're right.
that's gucci fam
With his characteristic slow, methodical traipse, Ox found himself circling Eran. "Put me where y'need me, mate, but remember: I kill fings wif my 'ands. Put me far from the action and it don't turn out well for no one but them bandits, the c*nts." He shook his head. And then nodded. "My 'ands been clean too long, lad." He stopped before the Aasimar and locked eyes with him. "Change that."
we hold your electricity in our thoughts
Ox soaked in the conversation, quietly beating himself up for not having anything to contribute to the planning. He knew one thing and one thing only, and that was punching something until it was dead. No ambushes, no traps, no ruses; only a brute nature and the brute force that comes with it. But he couldn't help but feel for Svetlana. She was clearly shaken up a great deal by the whole incident and was having trouble dealing with it. So Ox called on more memories of his late wife Amrunelandra: the way she would always flock to anyone in need of aid, no matter the circumstance. She was the kindest soul he'd ever known, but now she was nothing at all. He shook his head as if to dispel the thought on his way to Svetlana. He placed his hand on her shoulder gently and addressed her with a confident yet sympathetic tone, "Only dead that'll need buryin' t'mara, m'dear, are those filt'y f*ckin' animals. I laid my life on the line 'unrid times by now for good folk like youse and I ain't been done yet...and that ain't about to change." He nodded his head and turned away from Svetlana as all the confidence in his body seemed to evaporate - not because he didn't believe they'd slay the bandits-- he did, but because kindness wasn't his strong suit. It was an odd mix he felt swirling inside of him; the lost confidence but found pride. Pride in himself for finally being decent. Pride he thought his wife would have of him for finally being decent. A pride most reinventing, especially for a man like Ox. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Right. Let's 'ave a look, then." And with his departing words, Ox would join Theodore beyond the gate.
Ox returned Prophet's gesture and raised his waterskin in kind before taking a swig from it. He folded his arms against his chest thereafter and fell to thought. Happs, what a nasty c*nt he is. He stroked his beard rhythmically and took a slow stride, circling the group slowly, eyes glued to the floor. Weren't much room for tactics in them slums. He shook his head. Catsgrave ain't the place for witty plays. Hit and run, breach and clear, tag and bag. Ain't much more to it. He finally stopped and addressed the group. "Right. I've- I 'aven't got much to, eh, uh...help with the 'ole 'intelligent' fing...right? So, I mean, I don't know what's what with all that. Fact is I don't know much, yeah, but what I do know is- what I do know, right? Is that the only difference between a bandit and a bird is the noise they make when you snap their f*ckin' neck." He nodded to emphasize his statement. "Don't matter to me how justice finds 'em, long as she finds 'em swift-like."
Ox continued pacing as he listened to Annika speak. He stared in her eyes, finding a respect in her resilience; her attitude. With a shrug, he said, "Fairs." Had she backed down, his opinion of her would have suffered greatly, and with it his opinion of all Elves. A twisted mind, had he, broken and contorted by tragedy and drink. He took another swig from his Oldlaw Whiskey.
Ox stared at the side of Theodore's face after he'd diverted his attention and turned his back to the others. He'd originally planned on deliberating on the exchange, but it seems he hadn't lowered his voice enough. The others heard him. He turns back to face the group. "Elven ancestry." He shook his head. "Unpleasant. Yeah, alright, sure, but you see, the fing with that is, right? The fing with that is, yeah, is that pleasantries and niceties don't kill f*ckin' bandits. Forgive me, mate, but if I'm not the nicest c*nt in the room, but it might be that 'manners' wasn't given a f*ckin' chapter in the 'andbook I was 'anded." He began to pace, not shying away from any who wanted to make eye contact. He finally gave thought to his words and actions and fell back to memories of those he's loved and lost - some Elven. He nodded his head in agreement with his own thoughts. "Right." He stopped suddenly and faced those he's offended and used his hands to give emphasis to his speech. "I'm not smart. No secret, yeah? That much I'd 'ope is f*ckin' obvious. Not so good wif people neither." He paused. "So, yeah. F*ckin' alright, then. Sorry. Alright? Are the scrapes and bruises all gone now? Can we talk business, then?" He began pacing again, almost making an effort not to leave too much space between he and Theodore. Something about him, he thought, it's off. But it's not bad. He loosened one of his waterskins - one that contained Oldlaw Whiskey - and took a swig.
[OOC Note: in my rp I specified *speaking quietly* to Theodore. Just want to know how everyone was able to hear me without rolling listen checks. I did that specifically so Jon would hear me, not everyone else.]
Ox takes the ragtag group of "adventurers" into view once more; giving each and every one of them the once-over. Dirty f*cking elves, he thinks. But his thoughts immediately invoke a sense of shame; "dirty f*cking elves?", he continues in thought, what about your dirty f*cking elf wife, and your dirty f*cking elf son? He shakes his head as if his feelings of self-loathing will be lost as he does. He doesn't see much promise in any of those around him - save for one. The one with manners. Worse than Elves are nobles, and worse than them are Elven nobles. But this one was different: Ox has yet to find himself overcome by the need to ruthlessly crush his teeth... And that was rare. He made his way over to the nobleman and brushed elbows with Theodore and took his usual stance; bulky arms folded across his bulkier chest, slouched over - once more drawing comparisons to an ape. He spoke quietly, "Somefing about you, mate. Don't sit right wi'me." He shakes his head. "You 'aven't told no one 'fetch me a pot to piss in,' or 'wash my boots,' and that- that just, it's not- it ain't right. F*cking Elves, and noble ones, too..." He turns and looks up Theodore - the Half-Elf who stands a few fingers taller - and holds unwavering eye contact. "These your true colours, mate, or you reckon I'm in for a rude f*cking surprise down the road?"
Ox never thought much of himself. That's not to say he was without confidence - he wasn't - but he didn't understand what people found so intimidating about him. He surmised that it may, indeed, be his size, though he wasn't a very large man by any means. Slightly taller than the average human man, and heavier, too, but he was not huge by any stretch of the imagination. Mayhaps, he figured, that it was his violent indulgences, his aggression, his outbursts of anger. Perhaps not so physical as it mental. But right now he looked a little different; he was shaking with adrenaline, teeming with rage. Ox, despite his anger, spoke calmly. "Anymore words come pourin' outta' your fvckin' mouth, mate, I'm gonna pull back my right hand here, yeah, and I'm gonna knock out every one'a your fvckin' teeth. How'sat, then, yeah?" And then he snapped. "RIGHT!" But just as quickly as he lost his cool, he regained it and turned to the group in the home. What a motley group that stood before him, he thought. "You remember me, yeah? Ox, mate, how's it? Sorry 'bout all that, it's just the fvckin' CVNT WON'T SHUT 'IS FVCKIN' MOUTH. Lovely, though, innit? The weather'n all that." |