☘ 015; [phone/action]
[The phrase 'Cú Chulainn killed his best friend' was fact. It had always been and would always be fact. It was the one deplorable act of his life for which Lancer would show no remorse. Connla? Sure, deep down he regretted what happened with Connla. Even if his own survival had meant his son's death, there were moments Lancer wished he had just kept his mouth shut in the first place.]
[But Ferdiad had been a necessity. Out for the blood of the hound he'd called 'brother', and challenging Lancer at the one time when he was contracted to accept. Did the reasoning matter? He had killed the one person he'd called a friend, that was how that day ended. Circumstances were irrelevant when placed next to just how much pain that had caused him.]
[Here in Mayfield, he had done it again. Delivering a swift death to Rin in order to end her suffering after drinking the milk had been one thing. He had been prepared for the worst case scenario that entire week.]
[But Diarmuid? No. Lancer wasn't ready for that. It hurt less without the sting of betrayal that Ferdiad had inflicted on him, yes. But it still hurt. Diarmuid was someone who respected him without question, looked up to and even admired Culann's Hound, and he couldn't save him.]
[And then there was his droned former Master--he still couldn't get the sight of her disembodied arm or the sounds of her screaming out of his head. The less he thought of her, the better.]
[What kind of knight couldn't protect anyone? What kind of hero could only end the suffering of those he cared for with death?]
[A; action; Olney's Tavern]
[It was probably safe to say Lancer wasn't feeling so great. Not that it was remotely easy to tell. He stood inside the magecraft-reinforced building with a glass of who the hell knew what in his hand. Blood was splattered all over the clothes he was wearing, but he seemed utterly unconcerned with that. On the scale of 'problems I have today', bloodstained clothes were pretty much dead last.]
[B; phone]
Hey. Listen, if anyone needs shelter around here the tavern's pretty well protected. if you don't want to be out there on your own, speak up and I'll bring you here myself.
[...it had been a day, right? Lancer knew through experience that anybody killed would ordinarily have woken up at midnight.]
Anybody seen that other guy calling himself Lancer? Black hair, gold eyes, too damn nice for his own good?
[C; action; around Mayfield]
[He couldn't just stay hidden the whole time. Soon enough the Servant in bloodstained civilian clothes was back out among the undead and with a horse at his side. Liath Macha would be more than valuable here, having been the horse to kill over fifty men at his dying master's side. Not to mention he could carry notably more than Lancer himself could, if someone needed that.]
[Lancer spoke a few short words in the archaic language his current partner would understand--something to the effect of 'let's go'--and the two were off sprinting through the city, cutting down whatever shuffling undead stood in their path.]
[But Ferdiad had been a necessity. Out for the blood of the hound he'd called 'brother', and challenging Lancer at the one time when he was contracted to accept. Did the reasoning matter? He had killed the one person he'd called a friend, that was how that day ended. Circumstances were irrelevant when placed next to just how much pain that had caused him.]
[Here in Mayfield, he had done it again. Delivering a swift death to Rin in order to end her suffering after drinking the milk had been one thing. He had been prepared for the worst case scenario that entire week.]
[But Diarmuid? No. Lancer wasn't ready for that. It hurt less without the sting of betrayal that Ferdiad had inflicted on him, yes. But it still hurt. Diarmuid was someone who respected him without question, looked up to and even admired Culann's Hound, and he couldn't save him.]
[And then there was his droned former Master--he still couldn't get the sight of her disembodied arm or the sounds of her screaming out of his head. The less he thought of her, the better.]
[What kind of knight couldn't protect anyone? What kind of hero could only end the suffering of those he cared for with death?]
[A; action; Olney's Tavern]
[It was probably safe to say Lancer wasn't feeling so great. Not that it was remotely easy to tell. He stood inside the magecraft-reinforced building with a glass of who the hell knew what in his hand. Blood was splattered all over the clothes he was wearing, but he seemed utterly unconcerned with that. On the scale of 'problems I have today', bloodstained clothes were pretty much dead last.]
[B; phone]
Hey. Listen, if anyone needs shelter around here the tavern's pretty well protected. if you don't want to be out there on your own, speak up and I'll bring you here myself.
[...it had been a day, right? Lancer knew through experience that anybody killed would ordinarily have woken up at midnight.]
Anybody seen that other guy calling himself Lancer? Black hair, gold eyes, too damn nice for his own good?
[C; action; around Mayfield]
[He couldn't just stay hidden the whole time. Soon enough the Servant in bloodstained civilian clothes was back out among the undead and with a horse at his side. Liath Macha would be more than valuable here, having been the horse to kill over fifty men at his dying master's side. Not to mention he could carry notably more than Lancer himself could, if someone needed that.]
[Lancer spoke a few short words in the archaic language his current partner would understand--something to the effect of 'let's go'--and the two were off sprinting through the city, cutting down whatever shuffling undead stood in their path.]