#exmercenary

Ah, so it spoke. Grimmjow wasn’t impressed. But what was this shit about ‘hunting grounds’? And if he has the time to make sense of it, will he care? There were more than enough souls to chow down on here, and he’s pretty sure his claim was staked first.

Nothing surpassed the comfort of lounging enclosed by the four walls of her home while the elements went to war. The rain of a picture-perfect early autumn day drummed against the windows, sharp wind whistling and joining in on its song, and it had Casca bound to the couch since noon. A situation tremendously downgraded by the absence of her mate, whose co-worker’s drinking habits left Guts no choice but to help out at the Mine instead of spending it tangled between the sheets with her. To make a point of her steadily increasing boredom, Casca folded a leg over the back of the sofa and caved to a hearty sigh. Only her fingers kept busy as they zapped through every existing channel, a frequent repeat of the same old procedure whilst hoping for a higher force to hear her plea and change the program. So much for ‘Netflix and Chill’. 

Little did she know that an angel with a personal mission was long assigned to her, trotting his way into her life on a total of four paws, and all four of them at least the size of her fists. With the occasional allowance for privacy whenever she went to the loo, Puck didn’t leave Casca’s side if it could be avoided. Today, Casca couldn’t help but feel sorry for him (and herself, too). His muzzle didn’t leave the cushion of his furry forelegs since she had first stolen a peek. But, Puck was a dog - and dogs found delight in the little blessings life offered. And because he was a large hound, too, bred for hunting prey in challenging climates, it didn’t take much for him to grow utterly fed up of sharing Casca’s attention with a bunch of box-trapped puppies when so much fun could be had outside. 

Ten minutes into ‘The wonderful world of puppies’ and he gave her that look. 

Granted, Casca didn’t initially see much of that look. All paired with persuasive, ‘please look at me because you didn’t pay attention to me in the last minute’-eyes, Puck kept his intentions well concealed - after all, it was part of his new game. The first time she separated from the on-screen pups, Puck still looked like he hadn’t moved an inch in the last hour. Thud, thud, thud. His tail drummed rhythmically, swished across dull carpet floor. Forth, back, up and down until his human mum went back to the show. Blissfully ignorant, just as he had hoped. For now. 

Five minutes later, and thanks to the irritation of feeling closely observed, Puck enjoyed Casca’s undivided gaze once more. She eyes him suspiciously, but his attempts to keep up the oblivious act were award-winning nonetheless. “Don’t act like you can’t see me”; her melodic cooing results in another excited tail-thumping. Dogs loved to play games, yes they did, but trying to feign control when hearing their favourite humans voice? Impossible! His delight was far too great.

Casca followed his gaze until it met - oh, what a surprise - the corridor with his leash dangling from a coat hanger. Seems like Puck and her had shared the very same idea of passing some time together, even if it still rained like mad. This dog didn’t care about the weather. Casca cared, but she was bored out of her own skin - enough to think about donning a rain coat and go for a quick run with Guts’ best buddy. When Puck whined very much in the manner of the television puppies, his persuasive eyes were but a final means to an already won point. Just in case Casca changed her mind. Not that anyone would, face to face with the deepest, brownest, most loyal pair of dog eyes they had ever seen. Only a very cruel and heartless, perhaps even sociopathic monster would reject the plead of a dog in need; a dog who loved this human just as much as he loved his master. And Casca was neither a monster, nor was she a sociopath. She loved this four-legged angel as much as she would love her closest family.

When she sat up, the hound jumped to his enormous paws too. His plan had worked, yes? It must have done so, because the next thing he saw was the leash in Casca’s hands! Lucky for his colour-blind eyes, he didn’t have to see the ridiculous pink of her coat; but, even if he did, his love was unconditional. Her fingers felt so nice in his coat. Casca loved the softness of it, despite its brittle look. Well, what time was there left to waste? 

“-- you.”

She’s gotten older. A little taller, much thinner-- the baby fat didn’t stand much of a chance against the stress. Dressed in plain, albeit fine clothes, the kind a noblewoman might wear while hunting. She’s still got those big grey eyes, just as furious at the sight of him as the last time he saw her.

Perhaps his life had be spared because he had left, but what now? Death might as well be more kind compared to this. Orphaned, alone and afraid. The mutilated bodies of his parents are fresh on his mind at the moment. His father, butchered in the field, his mother ravaged before her death. Their son? Tied up behind a bandit ridden horse to an uncertain fate.

Each step feels heavy and by now the cold, hard ground had left his small feet numb and tingly. It takes him quite a bit to remain upright because of the distance walked, the tug on his bound wrists remind him to keep up. Looking down at his wrists, it appears as though the skin had been rubbed raw and blistered, his chapped lips draw into a tight line as a whimper escaped him.  

The look of one of the bandits causes his breath to catch in his throat, his face to become pale as he is reminded of the hard kick to the side he had received earlier.  Oh no... oh god no. The group of bandits comes to a halt once they hear of a commotion at the rear.  “Hey! What’s going on back there!?” One of the members shouted, the reins of his horse is tightened to turn the beast of burden towards the back to investigate.

“Nothin’, just this kid whining again. Unf!” He struck the boy across the face, causing the child to topple over and curl up with his hands on the right side of his cheek. Because his hands are guarding his face, the boot of the bandit plants itself right in the boys gut, forcing most of the air out of him.  The bandit soon sneers in disgust. “Aw, shit. Kid’s gone and pissed himself!” Another kick. Again, and again.  By now it appears that the bandits have decided to settle for the night, ignoring the brutality of one man towards the little boy.

“Alright, knock it off. He’s no good to us if ya kill him.” A voice spoke, sounding much more superior to the abuser who spat upon the boy and stormed off huffing. “Dirty little...” Grumble grumble. The rope is untied from the horse and dropped onto the ground before the horse is lead off to the rest of its kind. Untacked and left to feed and drink. Nikolai is given a bit of relief for the time being, retching momentarily, shifty so that he is settled on his rear and holding his arms close to his stomach. He is hurting, keeping sobs as quiet as he can from the ears of the bandits.

A little bit passes by and Nikolai finds himself away from the warm glow of the campfire. The stake in the ground connected to the rope deters him from any hope of running off coupled with the beating he received earlier, his cheek now hot and bruised. He is curled up on the cold ground, shivering silently as tears well in his eyes.  His thoughts drown out the laughter of the bandits, who share tales of the women they bed and the future that lay ahead. 

“Ahh...were you here this whole time?” Ozen looked toward a shoulder, a wide, crescent grin stretched taut over blood-soaked cheeks. In her hand was a severed arm, one that had once belonged to the twitching fiend by her feet. She cast it a glance, and stomped its head to a splatter. Tossed the arm behind her, she turned, and peered at the newcomer with a slow tilt of head.

       “Pretty bold calling me odd-looking, especially when carrying that slab of metal around.” 

Tsumugu remarked, his arms crossed as he scanned the other up and down. The mohawked male had heard quite a lot of stories regarding that man. The Black Swordsman, his lover calls him, a man capable to kill an entire fleet with just one swing of his sword, pretty impressive stuff if not exactly that tactful. The man had always been the type to prefer guile over brawl, which is one of the reasons he’s so contrarian to using an armor, preferring to have just a shoulder plate.

this settles it. Guts must adopt