He had no intention of admitting the atmosphere was comfortable, but it had been eons since he’d last relaxed. The battlefield had been a harmonizing sort of reverence for him, sharp, keen, blunt, straight to the point, strike here, strike there, demolish and devastate, violence and acrimony a healthy singe in his nefarious blood. Amidst war-torn lands, however, one could never breathe easy; it was one volley, one assault, one siege after the other, kill or be killed, destroy or be destroyed. Once he’d returned, the beast had expected beast, a moment in time with family, with friends, where he wasn’t entirely heathen, fiend, or demon, but he’d been too late. Not since –
His thoughts wandered dangerously close to brooding again, thoughts of gentle, humming rain, and he took up the knife once more to slice the pulp from the gourd with brutal efficiency. The warrior didn’t even notice the leatherworker watching him – wouldn’t have expected it – because most of the world had spent their time avoiding him, one look at his intimidating figure, at his imposing strides, at the barbarity lining his bones, and they were gone, vanished. Except-
Nope. He wasn’t going there today. It was slaughtering and devouring pumpkins.
The sound of the oven granted a newfound interest, and before he could glance any further at the confines coming out of the wondrous invention, for his intention was to finish cutting the goop away, he heard a gasp of pain. He was utterly familiar with the sound, sometimes one’s last breath, sometimes the shock of agony as they were lanced through the stomach, as they sank to the ground – and he wheeled around automatically, swift and sudden for a man of his stature. His gaze was narrowed, and he’d already taken a few steps in the direction of the noise, eyes widened at the slightest sense of alarm, expecting something menacing and devastating. It’d been the baker, but at her laughter in spite of the tears, the nuance of trepidation and apprehension coiled away from his frame, and the notion of a frown appeared across his lips. Now he just looked foolish; expecting ruin and damage when she’d simply hadn’t allowed them to cool off properly, tempted by the scents, by the smells, by the promise of relish.
To make up for the obvious blunder, he turned back to his piles of pulp, and the empty gourds, placing the carcasses on another tray. Idiot, he wanted to mutter to himself (loss had done a great many things to his mind, and sometimes they manifested in those ridiculous moments, strangled him whole, a noose binding him to purgatory), pretending to lose himself back in the task at hand, and not at the cooling scones, at the sensation of pain.
