Christoph Valvogt had just finished the damnable report he was working on, his mood having sunk from the inevitable reaction of Lawtait. A drink after this, perhaps..something. Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as a voice rattled his office door. A scowl passed over his lips as his eyes narrowed, cursing himself for forgetting the Justicar's fondness of Lawtait. Who would have thought she'd go to him? The rather colourful language sanding the surface from his door inclined him to think she had, however. Straightening his doublet and wiping the ink from his fingers, he rose from his chair and calmly opened the door. Flat eyes pinned on the massive man, irritation at the interuption palpable. "Can I help you?" The steward asked without inflection.
Morcant didn't bother saying 'hello'. Neither did he really concern himself with a suitable answer to 'can I help you?'. Instead, he continued walking, much like Christoph was simply another piece of air, and raised one of his overlarge, brutish hands. Curled into a fist, his knuckles drove directly in the direction of the Steward's face. No harbouring of anything that might possibly say 'talking is the best solution'; he wasn't here to talk. "Yew know why I'm 'ere, shitstain," he growled, apparently not caring much for moderating his language. "Fuckin' think yer can do as yer likes wid whoever, ruinin' people who ain't never deserved ruinin'. I'll fuckin' ruin yew, y'cackfaced liddle twat'ammer!" The last word was delivered as rather more a bellow than a growl, and was punctuated with another heavy whack in the vicinity of his target. 'Oops' for bad memory.
Christoph Valvogt wasn't entirely surprised when the fist flew at his face, the reflexive duck quick, but not enough to keep the massive knuckles from jarring his skull with a sickening crunch...and to send the steward toppling to the side, blinded for a moment by the blow. Crouching, yes, crouching seemed like a good idea, the justicar much taller than him, arm lifted to protect his head as he hissed. "I didn't ruin her, you bloody bastard! I hardly touched her so I wouldn't!" The strike to his head had slurred his voice, but fury still lit through it. Tempting to throw a blow at the bigger man, but the steward knew it'd be as effective as punching a wall.
Morcant bent to drag to Steward up by the front of his tunic, slamming him into the wall, and holding him up so that his feet dangled into the air. He was slow, and pretty stupid at times, but he was also built like a freight train, and every one of those metal muscles were presently tensed rather tightly. "Yew fuckin' broke 'er 'eart!" he roared back at him, momentarily lifting him back off the wall - only to ram him back into it again. "Turnin' up in a good fuckin' mood? I swear ter yer mother's wizard-sleeve cunt, if I find yew breathin' near 'er I'll nail yer t'the chapel bell by yer fuckin' bollocks an' tell the monks ter play the damn weddin' songs! Bloomin' cock-jockeyin' pansy." And with that, he promptly turned, and whammed the Steward into the floorboards. Apparently he was irritated.
Christoph Valvogt glared viciously, teeth bared as the Justicar lifted him, meat-handed brute. First blow he deserved, but he'd not let himself die because the man was throwing a bloody temper tantrum over Lawtait crying. "GUARDS!!!" The steward roared in a voice that always seemed at odds with his wiry frame. With the castle on such high alert these day, they were on constant patrol, his yell sure to bring them..or the sounds of confrontation. The second call for them ended in a dizzying smack as his spine and skull met the wall, breath knocked from him. Hands shot out to catch himself as the floor loomed up to meet him, head barely missing crunching into that too. Blood oozed from his scalp, pain through his back and ribs, wrists too.
Morcant wasn't about to stop his onslaught without a fight with said guards. They were used to him by now; he lost his temper, they piled on, and usually got a few black eyes in the process, and eventually pried him off his target. In this case, it'd take eight of them. A few kicks and punches to the Steward's ribs later, the Executioner was hauled off him, with much shouting involved. Mention of 'cooling off' was made, and they began to haul him off in the direction of his habitual home, the Tower, to be kept until something could be done with him. Whatever that something was.
Sun Apr 19, 2009 4:49 pm