Another thing to note: the kid knows his way around a horse. So he's not a city boy, huh? Midnighter can count on one hand how many rural people he's run into. This is interesting. This is new. Curiosity continues to build.
Another thing to note: grimly philosophical. Cares about animals. Midnighter builds the profile in his head without meaning to; it's a great way to distract from how the computer always estimates the kill scenarios of everyone he fucking meets.
He watches the kid race for a split second before following, wondering where, precisely, this is all leading. But it's not a highly advantageous situation, down there. He follows close behind, if only to guarantee the kid doesn't get himself killed. Midnighter doesn't care a ton about animals-- doesn't like them, doesn't hate them, he mostly finds them gross-- but people are another matter entirely.
So it's with an ease that comes with hundreds of kills that he swings his sword, slicing through weak points in armor, soft underbellies and exposed necks. It's hot, and these crusaders will take any excuse to cool down, pulling off straps and hot metal. At night, the freeze sets in, and the metal becomes cold and clanking. These men aren't made for battles like this. They don't know the truth; their lives will be lived out for someone else's war. They're cannon fodder as much as the horses, as much as the kid and Midnighter himself.
It makes him angry, so he takes it out on a crusader leaping up to take the kid's horse. Midnighter chops off his hand with two deft moves of his scimitar, and the horse screams as blood goes everywhere.
"Hope you didn't like that shirt, kid," Midnighter says, riding past.
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Another thing to note: grimly philosophical. Cares about animals. Midnighter builds the profile in his head without meaning to; it's a great way to distract from how the computer always estimates the kill scenarios of everyone he fucking meets.
He watches the kid race for a split second before following, wondering where, precisely, this is all leading. But it's not a highly advantageous situation, down there. He follows close behind, if only to guarantee the kid doesn't get himself killed. Midnighter doesn't care a ton about animals-- doesn't like them, doesn't hate them, he mostly finds them gross-- but people are another matter entirely.
So it's with an ease that comes with hundreds of kills that he swings his sword, slicing through weak points in armor, soft underbellies and exposed necks. It's hot, and these crusaders will take any excuse to cool down, pulling off straps and hot metal. At night, the freeze sets in, and the metal becomes cold and clanking. These men aren't made for battles like this. They don't know the truth; their lives will be lived out for someone else's war. They're cannon fodder as much as the horses, as much as the kid and Midnighter himself.
It makes him angry, so he takes it out on a crusader leaping up to take the kid's horse. Midnighter chops off his hand with two deft moves of his scimitar, and the horse screams as blood goes everywhere.
"Hope you didn't like that shirt, kid," Midnighter says, riding past.