@zhisi asked: " henry, keep your wits about you. " (samuel.) / 'AND WEAPONS DON'T WEEP' STARTERS: still accepting.
"Like hell I will!" he explodes, a fearsome tremble taking across the floor. "I'll gut them," he threatens. I'll butcher them and slaughter!
Aye! Like pickings for the trough-feed! Or like hen to the axe!
Except... Except, fists trembling at his sides, eyes wobbling in the leering glow of the lone, lit candle, he would but reckon, bet his groschen, that that wish seemed his. Ah. Jaw tightening, Henry, aware, affronted as though struck, as though clouted hard across the head, turns from his brother, that foul and lingering phantom of that Istvan yet there. Still, he couldn't deny his anger, could he?, or of those memories of his father yet seared in his mind. How terrible had been the hour. And how terrible had been the image as they tore at his corpse. How devilish those miners that had fell on the tavern... And how wretched their singing as they stomped him in the streets.
How dare they. Those preachers that incited them... He'd butcher God's flock.
"I have to." Haven't I? It never quite stops for him. His sword hangs like a gable upon his belt, like a bloody anchor within his scabbard, and -- Henry turns around, dripping wet, and frowns hard, the thunder beyond booming above the roof. "I owe it to him."