![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
There are still blood stains drying on Tybalt's shirt when they get back from the battle. Remnants of the fight visible in a contrast to the invisible lingering touch of the battlefield that always left his blood racing, his reflexes quick and his adrenaline coursing. Whenever the battle ended he was left with the same feeling. Edgy and riled up, like he could keep going for days. His sword was clean now. He never left the battle field without wiping the blood off her blade, but the handle was still warm against his hand, even after he had tucked her away back into the sheath at his side.
He did not enjoy the killing. It was a side effect to the battle, but the fighting itself was a rush like no other and sometimes he thought he lived for it. It certainly seemed to be one of the only things he did well. Put a sword in his hands, or a pair of fists against his own, and you would not find a happier cat. He had followed Bran after the battle, like he nearly always did, an extra something to his step that wasn't a spring so much as an at-the-ready. the edge of the battle leaving him ready to spin and fight at the slightest potential, well after the battle was dead and done.
He did not enjoy the killing. It was a side effect to the battle, but the fighting itself was a rush like no other and sometimes he thought he lived for it. It certainly seemed to be one of the only things he did well. Put a sword in his hands, or a pair of fists against his own, and you would not find a happier cat. He had followed Bran after the battle, like he nearly always did, an extra something to his step that wasn't a spring so much as an at-the-ready. the edge of the battle leaving him ready to spin and fight at the slightest potential, well after the battle was dead and done.
