Nash’s insult, being the lesser of two affronts, was temporarily ignored in favor of the greater offense: White’s.
The alchemist did not reply with a retort of his own. He took a brusque step towards the seething young man, and, still without the faintest trace of irritation on his immovable face, replied, instead, with his fist.
It was bad enough that the old bastard was strong, but even worse was that his gloves had capped his hard knuckles with brass. The strike was as brief, harsh and sudden as the throw had been: probably unanticipated, but likely not undeserved.
Unfortunately, the abuse did not stop there. If White wasn’t able to recover quickly enough, Hilarius would follow up that blow to the face with one to the gut, delivered via the sharp-edged heel of a heavy boot.
Oh, fuck all, if it couldnt get any worse! One moment White was on his feet; the next, a fist of holy righteousness was smashing into his face. This fist must have been holier than most - because he could feel the brass, the fist, and the terrible force behind it. It felt like he'd stuck his head in front of a speeding train.. but it didn't stop there.
He went reeling, but had hardly enough time to voice his displeasure before the violence returned. White's reflexes had it all wrong; his arms rose to protect his face, leaving his stomach open for the second blow. This time, he found the air forced from his body in the form of fashionable damnation: a boot. It sent him back, his knees buckled. He hacked and retched loudly, but his onslaught of insults was nowhere to be found.
Fuck. Fuck. He could taste the metallic hint of blood, his face and gut hurt like hell, and any pride he'd attempted to muster up after being felled by Nash's flying body was obliterated by now. His wheezing body was already breakable enough without Hilarius' aid, damnit!
Fucking old man hit like a champion. If Hilarius was quite finished with administering his violent punishments, he would hear no more sass from the sickly lad, who had apparently opted to remain on his knees for the time being as he attempted to regain some sliver of either his breath, his mentality, or his pride. He spat blood, wiped it away with the sleeve at his wrist and glared intently at the ground. Okay, he'd be quiet. At least for now.
Nash had decided before White's beating was over that he was going to get the hell out of there. Hilarius beating on the sickly kid was bad enough as it was, and it was only made worse when... that thing showed up wanting to torture and kill them. He wasn't about to have any of that, so he quickly turned and ran for the door.
His speed was incredible, especially for someone who wore such bulky-looking robes and was as small as he was, and within milliseconds, his hand was on the doorknob, desperately twisting it.
He wasn't sure where he would go, but he was certain that anywhere would be better than here at the moment.











