A heart-shaped tree standing in between human nature, and the nature we see
Koa stops. How couldn't he, when Octavius' insults are slung like buckshot, peppering his stiff shoulders with too many indignities for any man to ignore? And Octavius isn't wrong: he does want to fight, wants nothing more than to turn around and throw the other boy into the dirt, to crush that smug smile under his boot until all that comes out of his pretty mouth are please for a mercy he doesn't deserve. It frightens the Dragoon, how furious he is, how violent his urges.
It exhilarates him, too.
His fists clutch tight at his side, knuckles white, nails biting mercilessly into calloused palms. He doesn't turn back, not until the hand lands heavy on his shoulder, until it's pulling him back to face the object of all his burning rage. And then? Honestly, who could even blame him? Koa did everything right, after all. He disengaged. He tried to leave. It's like Octavius wanted to be punched.
And who is he, fresh as he is, to deny a brother in arms?
He doesn't hear the rest of what Octavius has to say. All he hears is the rushing in his ears, and then the quiet, clear, hyper-focus that comes during a bout in the ring. Remember: Koa is a boxer, and while he may be lacking with a sword, when it comes to landing a punch? There, the young man shines. There's a reason The Warrior is a known name in underground fight rings. There's a reason his knuckles tend to be bloodied more often than his face. With a fluidity impressive in such a large frame the young man spins around, his arm traveling in the trajectory of his turn, a perfect extension of his mind, controlled and precise.
When it hits Octavius' waiting jaw? Ah, there's nothing more satisfying than that.
Koa's face is eerily calm as he steps toward Octavius again. He rolls his head, cracking his neck- then strikes out with another pair of punches, this one a calculated pair of jabs, one to the stomach, one to the head. There is no mercy in his violence, no sportsmanship. Octavius wanted to see what the boy was capable of? Koa will oblidge.
It exhilarates him, too.
His fists clutch tight at his side, knuckles white, nails biting mercilessly into calloused palms. He doesn't turn back, not until the hand lands heavy on his shoulder, until it's pulling him back to face the object of all his burning rage. And then? Honestly, who could even blame him? Koa did everything right, after all. He disengaged. He tried to leave. It's like Octavius wanted to be punched.
And who is he, fresh as he is, to deny a brother in arms?
He doesn't hear the rest of what Octavius has to say. All he hears is the rushing in his ears, and then the quiet, clear, hyper-focus that comes during a bout in the ring. Remember: Koa is a boxer, and while he may be lacking with a sword, when it comes to landing a punch? There, the young man shines. There's a reason The Warrior is a known name in underground fight rings. There's a reason his knuckles tend to be bloodied more often than his face. With a fluidity impressive in such a large frame the young man spins around, his arm traveling in the trajectory of his turn, a perfect extension of his mind, controlled and precise.
When it hits Octavius' waiting jaw? Ah, there's nothing more satisfying than that.
Koa's face is eerily calm as he steps toward Octavius again. He rolls his head, cracking his neck- then strikes out with another pair of punches, this one a calculated pair of jabs, one to the stomach, one to the head. There is no mercy in his violence, no sportsmanship. Octavius wanted to see what the boy was capable of? Koa will oblidge.
Koa
