Michel had not been there to hear the insults or to witness the beginning of the struggle. It was no surprise that they would use words to attack Zevran first, reluctant to start a fight here. Though they were not so circumspect as to care about what they were doing and where and that was good, it meant they were young, and foolish, and Michel liked young and foolish. It made for swift tempers and easy mistakes...not that Chevalier's were prone to making many mistakes in battle, but in social situations? They were targets.
That did not stop Michel from goin slightly rigid upon walking in on four Chevalier holding Zevran at knife point. He had to stop himself from seeing red, from going to his sword automatically and cutting them down one by one...or all at once, he wasn't picky. He was older than they were, he had seen more battle, had more experience, perfected his and other techniques over the years, and bested Gaspard while he was being hexed by magic. Four neophytes would be nothing to him despite the fact that they were fellow Chevalier.
"If you desire to keep that hand, you will withdraw the knife and let him go," he never faltered in being as absolutely serene as he could possibly be. The untouched surface of a frozen lake, they took his serenity as a kind of weakness, perhaps even as a lack of certitude instead of the danger that it really was. Michel had always made it a point to appear benign, friendly, most of the time he was genuinely, sometimes it was a form of tolerance. There was none of that now.
Whatever this man was underneath his unaffected expression, it was no longer Michel. There was a hidden dive for blood and there was concentration, but there might have been a touch of madness in there as well.
no subject
That did not stop Michel from goin slightly rigid upon walking in on four Chevalier holding Zevran at knife point. He had to stop himself from seeing red, from going to his sword automatically and cutting them down one by one...or all at once, he wasn't picky. He was older than they were, he had seen more battle, had more experience, perfected his and other techniques over the years, and bested Gaspard while he was being hexed by magic. Four neophytes would be nothing to him despite the fact that they were fellow Chevalier.
"If you desire to keep that hand, you will withdraw the knife and let him go," he never faltered in being as absolutely serene as he could possibly be. The untouched surface of a frozen lake, they took his serenity as a kind of weakness, perhaps even as a lack of certitude instead of the danger that it really was. Michel had always made it a point to appear benign, friendly, most of the time he was genuinely, sometimes it was a form of tolerance. There was none of that now.
Whatever this man was underneath his unaffected expression, it was no longer Michel. There was a hidden dive for blood and there was concentration, but there might have been a touch of madness in there as well.