Scent of blood in the air - thick.
The swords' blade struck a tong with that of the thief's, its naked, polished metal catching the glimmer of torchlight - long shadows flicker against the high stone walls of Château de Fontaine. In its thin luminosity, Lord Aclehard Fontaine thought the crook more a phantom - deep carvings of penumbra press between skin creases, sunken eyes giving the appearance of a gaunt ghoul. There is a glint in those dark eyes - wicked; the intent, sharp blade meeting the nobelman's, left in roughen knapsack tossed to the side. The drawstring was tied tightly, the ends of the fraying rope laying in the inch-deep fluids that almost slither down the dirtied cobblestones - languid in nature whilst steel clash and bells toll with fervency. Men rage in uproarious cries - though articulation is lost to the Lord as he sends one of many thieves back, causing the fool to stumble back, his footing inexperienced but grip on dagger ever firm.
Lord Fontaine, a-rushed with hot-edged adrenaline - veins pulsing as the ocean's riptide - raises his sword, bucking the thief back further, causing the gutter rat to loosen his pitiful hand from his sword, losing it in the madness of the feud. A drummer's call - Fontaine's heart pounding within ribcage - sweat dabbing the deep fold of his brow. Raindrops plink down onto sword's tip, batting chapped caps of his fingers. Cold stings, like ice, as the wind picked up a howl. To see the knapsack of stolen heirlooms - that rush brings with it an angry flush, anger so vivid, the knuckles on which fastens around the hilt whiten.
Pity - there was none to be had of it. Fontaine thinks, with blazing bitterness, that to trespass into that of the God-given, to make off with that of his familial divine right - fitting it is then to be put to the sword. As he advanced on the stubborn degenerate, who clutched up his dagger from his waistband, the Lord of the house thinks, in addition, that it also only right that the heathens be made a spectacle of even in death. A dutiful sentiment - responsibility he could not forgo - darting forward to meet that of the trespasser.
Blood - the way of repentance.
The sword and his hand - that which to deliver retribution.