He lied to me.
A sharp pain flared instantly within Berrod's thighs. He barely managed to avoid flinching if only by clutching the material of his slops. A green stare affixed onto the face of the Midlander who sat at the table across from him in the Agency's common room.Â
Osric Melkire was unassuming enough -- he bore no ill will, no threat; the man was simply coming clean; trying to make things right and find a way forward. Berrod found it refreshing, but...
...he lied to me.
Within each of his thighs emerged a dull thud, akin to a macabre heartbeat. It pumped rage throughout his very soul, and beckoned every muscle in his body to act. It shocked him; he didn't expect to be that angry over what he had just heard. The fury seeped into his actual physical heart and from there the heat of his anger spread through his veins.Â
He lied. No good. Kill him. Betrayer. Kill him. Kill him NOW.
Berrod bit down on the inside of his cheek and further squeezed at his slops. He became aware of the other man's heartbeat -- his lungs, the juice that had settled in his stomach, already slowly draining. The blood that ran through his veins stood out as clear as a red, rushing brook. The urge to spill it was intoxicating.
Spill it. Soak the walls in it. Soak yourself in it. Drink it. Lick it off the floor. Every drop.
Yes. The Highlander agreed that he should do it. One fast move. Melkire was fast too, but Berrod was stronger, he had to be. Finish Melkire in a second, then deal with Polly and Wicard, who had both been tending to their stations at the bar and leve counter. Yes. In just three ticks...two...one...
He suddenly wrenched his head upward to pop his neck; the shock of the sudden sensation snapped him out of what had been very close to attempted murder. With a ragged exhale, he managed to express himself. That in itself made the anger ebb considerably. "You lied t'me."
It felt good to make that accusation, to say it; to have the words flow from his throat. It also gave the other man the opportunity to defend himself, to also express himself. Battle through words at the worst. No need to kill. No need to sup on the blood of his student and friend.Â
Not today.
So it was that Vitala quieted, and the beat from his thighs stilled. Anger did not win. Not this time.
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