[Anyone who has seen Wolfwood around COST quarters has plenty of reasons to expect he won’t last the week. The guy’s posture is terrible, shoulders pulled forward like he’s protecting his stomach and his back constantly curved even with the weight of what looks like a six foot tall cross resting against his shoulders, his manners are terrible - he’s barely said five words since getting here, seems pretty content to ignore anyone who tries to speak with him - and isn’t the least bit concerned with appearances if his constant bedhead is anything to go by.
Still, when it comes down to the opening ceremony, it seems he’s gotten his act together - mostly. The hair is still a problem, but he’s courteous if not a little forceful in his smiles, all sharp teeth and his spine is straight as they bow together in unison. Seems like someone was paying attention after all.
He seems almost pleased with himself, right up until the uthcki and hhcho are led up on stage where they had been standing moments ago, and devoured as some kind of spectacle. Wolfwood’s expression is an empty one, the only noticeable sign of his discomfort in the way his fists tighten in the hold of the cross still leaning against his back.]
Fucking animals. [He hisses under his breath, unable to keep the disgust and horror from his voice, but just quiet enough that anyone standing next to him can hear. Do shut him up, before he causes a scene.]
they’re watching me watch them watch me right now | the stadium i.
[The Stadium’s got a certain air to it, a current of direct, measured and precise violence that Wolfwood could’ve felt at home in, once. Before… Well, before a lot. It’s a good a time as any to assess opponents and allies alike, to get an idea for just what exactly he’s gotten himself into. He splays himself out over a stadium seat, long legs stretching out into the seat in front of him as he tries to get comfortable for the next showing. That damn cross is still with him, so maybe it’s time to ask him about it? Or maybe you just want to sit next to a familiar face, one that doesn’t look like it’s going to eat you for some unknown slight.]
if you could compact your conscience | the stadium ii.
[When it’s time for his own match, there’s a nervous energy surrounding Wolfwood that’s only apparent by the ring of cigarette butts decorating the floor by his feet. The cross is free of it’s wrappings now, his hold on it more possessive than is strictly necessary as his name is called and he takes his first steps into the arena.
He can’t say how grateful he is that his opponent isn’t one of the eight legged freaks, but what looks like a human - however modified. The battle starts, Imset whips out those electric blades - and Wolfwood can’t resist a laugh. Knives to a gun fight, in his opinion, never was the smartest idea. But in that same breath of laughter, she charges at him, swiping both scimitars at him with a deadly quick precision that he just narrowly blocks with the hard casing of the Punisher.
All right, less funny now.
He creates some distance between the two of them, putting all his weight into pushing her back and knocking her on her ass before swinging his giant gun around like it’s a paper weight, and opening up with a few controlled bursts of machine gun fire. No reason to drag this out, the fight proceeds with a few narrow misses on Imset’s part and Wolfwood wearing her down, taking aim at sensitive joints and nonlethal areas - aiming to intentionally maim and injure, but not kill. When it’s all over, she lets him demask her and he finds himself standing in front of the crowd, blocking their view as they shout for more blood. And it’s tempting, in this moment, to end the threat. Succumb to old habits, and flex his fingers on the trigger.
It would be easier.
But instead he walks away, once again swinging the Punisher over his shoulder.
Once he’s outside of the arena, back among the surviving COST agents, he’s immediately sucking down another of those cigarettes and beginning the arduous task of rewrapping his gun.]
Not as bad as I thought. Guns not a big thing with these Regency folks?
[The remark is casual, light. A deflector if anything ever was.]
Nicholas D. Wolfwood | ota
[Anyone who has seen Wolfwood around COST quarters has plenty of reasons to expect he won’t last the week. The guy’s posture is terrible, shoulders pulled forward like he’s protecting his stomach and his back constantly curved even with the weight of what looks like a six foot tall cross resting against his shoulders, his manners are terrible - he’s barely said five words since getting here, seems pretty content to ignore anyone who tries to speak with him - and isn’t the least bit concerned with appearances if his constant bedhead is anything to go by.
Still, when it comes down to the opening ceremony, it seems he’s gotten his act together - mostly. The hair is still a problem, but he’s courteous if not a little forceful in his smiles, all sharp teeth and his spine is straight as they bow together in unison. Seems like someone was paying attention after all.
He seems almost pleased with himself, right up until the uthcki and hhcho are led up on stage where they had been standing moments ago, and devoured as some kind of spectacle. Wolfwood’s expression is an empty one, the only noticeable sign of his discomfort in the way his fists tighten in the hold of the cross still leaning against his back.]
Fucking animals. [He hisses under his breath, unable to keep the disgust and horror from his voice, but just quiet enough that anyone standing next to him can hear. Do shut him up, before he causes a scene.]
they’re watching me watch them watch me right now | the stadium i.
[The Stadium’s got a certain air to it, a current of direct, measured and precise violence that Wolfwood could’ve felt at home in, once. Before… Well, before a lot. It’s a good a time as any to assess opponents and allies alike, to get an idea for just what exactly he’s gotten himself into. He splays himself out over a stadium seat, long legs stretching out into the seat in front of him as he tries to get comfortable for the next showing. That damn cross is still with him, so maybe it’s time to ask him about it? Or maybe you just want to sit next to a familiar face, one that doesn’t look like it’s going to eat you for some unknown slight.]
if you could compact your conscience | the stadium ii.
[When it’s time for his own match, there’s a nervous energy surrounding Wolfwood that’s only apparent by the ring of cigarette butts decorating the floor by his feet. The cross is free of it’s wrappings now, his hold on it more possessive than is strictly necessary as his name is called and he takes his first steps into the arena.
He can’t say how grateful he is that his opponent isn’t one of the eight legged freaks, but what looks like a human - however modified. The battle starts, Imset whips out those electric blades - and Wolfwood can’t resist a laugh. Knives to a gun fight, in his opinion, never was the smartest idea. But in that same breath of laughter, she charges at him, swiping both scimitars at him with a deadly quick precision that he just narrowly blocks with the hard casing of the Punisher.
All right, less funny now.
He creates some distance between the two of them, putting all his weight into pushing her back and knocking her on her ass before swinging his giant gun around like it’s a paper weight, and opening up with a few controlled bursts of machine gun fire. No reason to drag this out, the fight proceeds with a few narrow misses on Imset’s part and Wolfwood wearing her down, taking aim at sensitive joints and nonlethal areas - aiming to intentionally maim and injure, but not kill. When it’s all over, she lets him demask her and he finds himself standing in front of the crowd, blocking their view as they shout for more blood. And it’s tempting, in this moment, to end the threat. Succumb to old habits, and flex his fingers on the trigger.
It would be easier.
But instead he walks away, once again swinging the Punisher over his shoulder.
Once he’s outside of the arena, back among the surviving COST agents, he’s immediately sucking down another of those cigarettes and beginning the arduous task of rewrapping his gun.]
Not as bad as I thought. Guns not a big thing with these Regency folks?
[The remark is casual, light. A deflector if anything ever was.]