Torrent of Rage. [private]

[Riley Chaeffeur]

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FORCED FIGHTER FIGHTING TO LIVE EVERYWHERE ARE THE WOLVES. THEY WATCH YOU AS YOU ROUND CORNERS, FANGS DRIPPING WITH DROOL IN PREPARATION FOR THE HUNT. YOU BETTER BE PREPARED TO FIGHT OR THEY'LL SWALLOW YOU WHOLE.

710 WORDS @nuka TAGGED n/a NOTES

[attr="class","rileytalk"]Battle crashed around him in a dissonant symphony. Weapons clashed, the sound of soft tings from some ringing similar to delicate bells. Coppery scents of blood burned into his nose. Red markers of where injuries occurred dotted across the shimmering white snow. In his steady hand resided an axe, head sheening with blood across the metalic surface. Beads of the red liquid of life trickled down the surface, dripping onto tampered snow beside the unfortunate sap to meet its edge. The man was bashed in, face unrecognizable and body painted with lethal blows. The man's TRS outfit was reduced to ruins, though, a simple glance would allow others to assume the axe wielder's position if his appearance failed to provide insight. Stationed on the Assembly's soldier's face was a porcelain white mask, eerily sparing a slim, curved smile and two small holes for eyes. Bloody Smiler. It represented an outcast, many believing the mask matched his countenance as he mercilessly slew others. Their assumptions summoned the meaningless title. Yet, beneath the obscuring smile was a warring mixture of anger and neutrality. Tugged down the sinister path via the binds of an agreement, options were limited and humanity was discarded. Any traces of the young man before his leave to England faded in the sands of time. The blood coating his hands thicker than honey as the days ticked on. The Executioner of Butcher Field gained the narrow luck of returning to the area around his home city, around where Anastasia once... lived... A demise was spoken through his father's lips and a loss suffocatingly devastating. He remembered how he almost could not breathe when the person he valued was proven dead. Over those years, the son of an abusive, manipulative father walked the trailing red steps to the pedestalled goal... Those steps brought the son, Riley Chaeffeur, to the instance of hovering over a recently killed TRS hunter. Emotions pushed away and lashing out whenever possible, the armoured heart of a determined younger man shattered into the wounded, volatile monster he became. His green eyes swept around him, feet backpedalling. Sensations of pain pulsated in his left shoulder, another to his right ride join by a minimal tinge of bruises and scrapes. The Assembly of Phantom's standing on the battlefield was questionable at best. A hunter wounded would be capable of retreat, an evident observation. There, it appeared their injuries were treated entirely allowing for another push. The Terror Response Syndicate knew the proper pushing would lead to their victory... unless the rails for the combat train were mysteriously removed. Quietly, Riley stepped back, holding tight to the axe's handle as he disappeared from the outskirts of the playing orchestra. Similar thoughts unearthed as they regularly accomplished with his strategical leaves from the battlefield. The chatter in his head of returning, of allowing the mission to be botched chirped but were subsequently drowned out by the growling tone saying it's too late for that. Years in the Assembly, the thought boiled his blood. A pawn to his father, but without a means of escape, let alone a reason, the unktehi was imprisoned by his choices. Abandoning his torturous contract meant imprisonment and eventually death... why not one day have it served on a battlefield?! Bash in a few more skulls?! Inside Riley's mind, nothing fucking mattered anymore. Already, he failed in protecting Anastasia, the person he wanted to gift the world if it brought her happiness. He was singled out, left stranded in the raging sea of choices without the options, means, or motivation to escape the reddening waters. Impossible would be the opportunities for regular life as his sins were displayed on an open theatre and battleground was the stage. While he exited stage left, he knew the play would continue as the participants prayed for their heads would not be toppling next. The sounds of struggle grew distant as Riley's feet crunched on the recent snow fall, slow, but audible. His emerald green hues analyzed his surroundings, observing details and searching for the powered tracks to the Syndicate's battle strategy. Already he knew, once he located them, the broken man known under the absurd moniker Bloody Smiler would strike them down as expected of the monster he became.

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