The hatchet comes up and Charles steps forwards, and it's clear as day that he's about to attack. He reacts on instinct, hand shooting back into his pocket and drawing the glass. It's a long shard, about half as long as his forearm, and it's stained a dull red colour with old blood. The leather of his glove helps to protect his palm somewhat from cutting himself, usually he would wield this with his metal hand, but it still digs in through the material.
He doesn't move beyond that, though, glass held ready at his side.]
He knew things about me that he shouldn't have.
[It's not an excuse, it's an explanation. And it's all the explanation he's giving.]
no subject
The hatchet comes up and Charles steps forwards, and it's clear as day that he's about to attack. He reacts on instinct, hand shooting back into his pocket and drawing the glass. It's a long shard, about half as long as his forearm, and it's stained a dull red colour with old blood. The leather of his glove helps to protect his palm somewhat from cutting himself, usually he would wield this with his metal hand, but it still digs in through the material.
He doesn't move beyond that, though, glass held ready at his side.]
He knew things about me that he shouldn't have.
[It's not an excuse, it's an explanation. And it's all the explanation he's giving.]
You don't want to do this.