Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-24530992-20140813185952/@comment-24530992-20140814051049

(I have a sudden urge to write another slightly long post concerning Pierre once again, before going to sleep. This song helps a lot.

Kool post, Zoor. xD)

Pierre's stallion came to a slow, trotting along the dirt trail. He had no urge to arrive early, so he'd might as well take good looks of the scenery. What there was was nothing much- just large amounts of green coming from the abundant vegetation. He saw a deer, here or there, and maybe a few wild boars. Cyrodiil bored him, as there was no real rugged terrain like High Rock, where he could throw victims off of cliffs, or snap their spines on large boulders. Pierre sighed, yanking the reigns so the horse picked up the pace.

An eerie silence fell over him as he traveled, approaching a small lake located to his right. He jumped off of his horse, allowing for it to get a drink while he cleaned the dried blood of his previous victim off of his face. Pierre could've sword he heard rustling coming from the greens behind him, so he turned, only to find nothing but flowers and shrubs. He shrugged, scrubbing a dried blot which was stuck in his facial hair. The Stallion whinnyed, as if trying to catch the occupied Breton's attention. Pierre ignored the horse, thinking it was spooked by a garden snake or a mouse. A crow cawed suddenly, startling him slightly. He lowered his fingers from his chest as he was plucking crusted red pieces out of his hairs. Pierre took a long gander around the forest, turning back to the Stallion and mounting it.

After a long while of riding, Pierre had halted the horse, exhausted from going several days without any sleep or food, and the sun nearly fully under the Horizon. He dismounted his horse, beginning to search for dry twigs and leaves. As he was about to pick up a pile, a plump hare skittered infront of him, looking up at the Breton with its small, beady eyes. He stood silently, haunched over the creature, when suddenly, he grabbed it's furry head and twisted it, snapping it's head. Pierre piled the carcass onto the leaves and twigs, picking up a few stones as he arrived back at the stallion. He arranged the rocks into a circle, placing the leaves and twigs in the middle, with the exception of a few. He began rubbing two of them together, sparking a small campfire. His hand outstretched, grabbing the dead rabbit by it's furry rump and plopping it right infront of him. Pierre took the knife he had used earlier and began gutting the creature, scooping any innards out, as well as plucking the bones and removing the fur. He roasted it, wolfing down the tender leg meat in a matter of minutes, Once he had finished eating, he still didn't feel sated well enough. He headed for the forest again, keeping his dagger in hand.

He felt the strange presence once more, as he had felt at the lake earlier that day. Pierre scanned the area, looking for an unfortunate deer or bird he could feast on. Warm, moist puffs of air hit the back of his neck, sending goosebumps rolling down his skin. He turned, a masked man staring at him. Pierre jumped back, almost tripping over a tree root by his feet.

"You. Come with us." It ordered in a muffled, monotone voice.

"Who in Oblivion are you?" Pierre asked in response, gripping the leather hilt of the steel dagger.

"That is none of your business. Come, or we will have to use force."

Pierre didn't understand on what he meant by 'we'. There was only the two of them. That scenario quickly changed when thwo more walked from the bushes behind the masked man. They all wore black robes, all which were masked as well.

"I'm not moving a Gods damn muscle!" Pierre retorted.

"You have chose the wrong choice, Half-blood. It is time for you to meet your end."

Pierre growled in dismay, charging at the nearest 'cultist', swiping at their neck. The man easily evaded, punching Pierre in his shoulder. He was weak- but he was also quick. The Breton barely flinched at his small fist coming into contact with his muscular arm. He focused, scanning for weak spots in his armor. There was one below the base of the neck, a small dent in the breastplate, and one just below the naval area.

Pierre grinned slyly, shoving the cultist into a tree. As he preformed the action, one of his companions tried swinging at him from behind, which he quickly countered with a swift kick to the groin. He then turned back to the cultist, who had a few seconds to recover, but not many. He jabbed at the breastplate, but in the wrong spot, as it only made a small chink. The cultist delivered a strong hook to his jaw, but that didn't say much as it was only enough to make him double backwards onto the cultists he had minorly wounded by kicking. A faint crack was heard from under him, as well as a short, cut gasp. As Pierre forced himself off of the man, he took a quick glimpse down. The weight of the Ebony armor he was wearing, as well as the Breton's weight alone, caused the Cultist's ribs to crack. A large stream of blood was flowing from it's lips and onto it's armor and clothing, staining the cloth and soil beneath him red. Pierre ended his misery by delivering a strong kick to it's skull, sending the cultist backwards into the mud, the cracking of the skull echoing off of the trees.

He turned to the other cultist whom he had shoved into a tree. They had a steel sword drawn now, aimed at the neck of Pierre. He grinned, baring his reptilian looking teeth, as he ducked and jumped into the cultist. They both sailed into the ground, the cultist acting as a pillow. He had squeezed the air out of him, giving the Breton time to deliver several what would be deadly blows to it. He started off with a strong punch to the throat, then bringing the dagger up and into his collar bone. He pulled the dagger downwards towards his feet, leaving a line of open skin, tissue, and muscle behind it, as well as nearly a fountain of red fluids flowing from it. He had nearly cut him in half with a mere dagger, which he left in the skin.

The third, and final cultist, was a scrawny boy, the height telling he wasn't even in his twenties yet. Pierre had stood still, almost like a stone statue. The boy charged at the man, which was easily stopped when he grabbed his wrist with an extremely uncomfortable grip. He then used his other hand in an attempt to grab at the Breton's throat, which failed as well. Once he had hold of both wrists, Pierre jerked his head back, and then forwards, striking the boy in the face. A snap was heard, indicating that the nose was broken. He released his grip on the cultist's wrists, where he cupped his hands over his face, blood pouring from his nostrils. Once he had regained a strip of his composure, he landed a successful chop to Pierre's throat, making him choke. He gasped for air for a few moments, before countering the boy's attack with an uppercut. He fell backwards, unconcious. Pierre stood over the boy, then crouching. He grabbed a hold of his skin on his head, then tugging with an extreme force, ripping a chunk off. Pierre then began to pummel his skull, creating an unnecesary amount of gore, while he laughed maniacally. He had killed the boy, then returning to his 'camp site', satisfied.

(*Breathes heavily* How did I do?)