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Archibald stood coldly over the corpse of the dead mare. Her horn was plastered with blood, and blood littered the ground around her. It was apparent, to him, that she had attempted to fight back, fight against this creature of darkness that had taken her life. Golden eyes stared down at her, taking into account her features. The Dauntless was no stranger to death, having dealt is fair share of the devil's hand. Archibald was a dealer of simple deeds, the bringer of death and justice and war, but not in this moment. In this moment, he was the protector of the realm. With his comrades in mystery, Archibald would discover who was bringing such havoc to these lands and bring them to justice--be it answering to the gods, or death. Whatever was crawling in these lands, with bloodthirsty lips and malicious hands, was a threat to his family, and no one harmed his family and stepped away unharmed. Ricochet felt the fire of that anger upon his hide, and it was only a whisper of the true danger Archibald was when provoked. |
I've been known for my hate,
but I'm a dealer of simple choices;
for me it's never too late.
please tag me