Wikus certainly did not expect any resistance, even less one of this magnitude. He often didn’t care to protect himself as he believed those motions to be useless – after all, getting hit fueled his rage, and his rage fueled his attacks. Just by the cross, which Wikus’ face received cleanly and powerfully, he felt his consciousness leaving him. Not blacking out and taking a nap, but rather shaking his thoughts so hard they simply left somewhere, his eyes losing detail of the world and his body apparently befalling into a dream-like state in which everything he did felt unreal. Nevertheless, this was something he believed he was partially used to, thus his intention to tackle did not waver. Next came the knee, which landed on his armored torso, not being even strong enough to take his breath away. The leather was designed to mostly protect against scratches and bites, yet the blunt force trauma would be well effective if the boy had used some better form of execution. For now, however, the boy was condemned to be tackled.
Falling right on the boy’s torso was somewhat satisfactory, yet the blow of the elbow was somewhat unexpected. Obviously, his head was as tough as a rock, and probably as empty as one due to the abuse given to it. Wikus was used to beatings from a young age, having various gaps in his smile to prove it, yet nevertheless one couldn’t get used to the pain. Furthermore, the pain was only secondary, as the worst of it all was the rekindling of that strange state of half-consciousness and dream-like mind dwelling. It was so disorientating that he truly wondered where he was for a brief moment, unaware of the rage felt moments ago. Instead of doing anything, he simply rested on top of the man’s torso, head hanging from the side below the boy’s arm, wondering if he was there to fall asleep or merely rest before starting his day again. He had to clean the horses, grab the hyenas, mount the slaves, shovel the snow, make the fire, and cook the potatoes… His deluded thoughts finally left him, instead bringing some enlighten as to what he was actually doing.
Raising his head as if suddenly awoken in the middle of the night, his hands would reach up to the boy’s shoulders and would pull him closer to his face, his torso raising above as if he was about to strangle said boy right there while he straddled him. His features, however, did not show any hint of the previously displayed fury. At most, it displayed a certain discomfort due to the pain his jaw was suddenly feeling. For a tick, he simply watched down at the scarred boy, seriously considering if he was to hurt him like the situation demanded. It would have been fairly easy, too – by just grabbing him by the hairs he could slam his head against the soil and once in a while connect it against his own. Now, however, his rage had left and had simply left him deserted in a situation that he simply didn’t know how to treat. Without his rage, Wikus was nothing. Given that the boy didn’t seem in disposition to keep fighting, as that was what Wikus read in his still body, the Whiteblood chose to ignore his instinct and test the boy.
Said test was very plain, consisting of merely bringing a hand to his jaw, opening his mouth and lightly checking in if it hurt as much as he believed. It did hurt, letting a small moan of pain escape him as he moved his jaw around to test the damage. Even his eyes closed as he experienced the pain that was apparently extending to his nose. Was it hit too? Touching his nostril, he found no sign of blood but he did find some more pain. How hard was he hit? Once again, he’d focus his eyes on the boy below him. Certainly, the fight was over. Wikus, away from the rage that had fueled the conflict, now saw a disfigured boy that he would have killed after saving him in the first place. The conflicting ideas were obvious now, and in a way it was thanks to this boy and its stone-hard fists. Maybe he even felt a bit thankful. It was obvious the boy hadn’t suffer any big damage, at least in this fight. The worst he had taken was the feeling of being a fish out of water, yet that would wane with time. Sighing, Wikus would break the straddle and stand up, his knees wavering slightly.
“Good hit.” He said, looking up at the skies. The heat was already coming, as the summer in the plains was often too hot and dry, as well as swift to deliver said conditions even early in the morning. Stretching his back and shoulders by placing two hands on his lower back and pressing, he’d immediately turn back to the male and offer a hand for him to take, a rare gesture in Wikus that didn’t quite expect anything from the boy. “Hungry?”
Falling right on the boy’s torso was somewhat satisfactory, yet the blow of the elbow was somewhat unexpected. Obviously, his head was as tough as a rock, and probably as empty as one due to the abuse given to it. Wikus was used to beatings from a young age, having various gaps in his smile to prove it, yet nevertheless one couldn’t get used to the pain. Furthermore, the pain was only secondary, as the worst of it all was the rekindling of that strange state of half-consciousness and dream-like mind dwelling. It was so disorientating that he truly wondered where he was for a brief moment, unaware of the rage felt moments ago. Instead of doing anything, he simply rested on top of the man’s torso, head hanging from the side below the boy’s arm, wondering if he was there to fall asleep or merely rest before starting his day again. He had to clean the horses, grab the hyenas, mount the slaves, shovel the snow, make the fire, and cook the potatoes… His deluded thoughts finally left him, instead bringing some enlighten as to what he was actually doing.
Raising his head as if suddenly awoken in the middle of the night, his hands would reach up to the boy’s shoulders and would pull him closer to his face, his torso raising above as if he was about to strangle said boy right there while he straddled him. His features, however, did not show any hint of the previously displayed fury. At most, it displayed a certain discomfort due to the pain his jaw was suddenly feeling. For a tick, he simply watched down at the scarred boy, seriously considering if he was to hurt him like the situation demanded. It would have been fairly easy, too – by just grabbing him by the hairs he could slam his head against the soil and once in a while connect it against his own. Now, however, his rage had left and had simply left him deserted in a situation that he simply didn’t know how to treat. Without his rage, Wikus was nothing. Given that the boy didn’t seem in disposition to keep fighting, as that was what Wikus read in his still body, the Whiteblood chose to ignore his instinct and test the boy.
Said test was very plain, consisting of merely bringing a hand to his jaw, opening his mouth and lightly checking in if it hurt as much as he believed. It did hurt, letting a small moan of pain escape him as he moved his jaw around to test the damage. Even his eyes closed as he experienced the pain that was apparently extending to his nose. Was it hit too? Touching his nostril, he found no sign of blood but he did find some more pain. How hard was he hit? Once again, he’d focus his eyes on the boy below him. Certainly, the fight was over. Wikus, away from the rage that had fueled the conflict, now saw a disfigured boy that he would have killed after saving him in the first place. The conflicting ideas were obvious now, and in a way it was thanks to this boy and its stone-hard fists. Maybe he even felt a bit thankful. It was obvious the boy hadn’t suffer any big damage, at least in this fight. The worst he had taken was the feeling of being a fish out of water, yet that would wane with time. Sighing, Wikus would break the straddle and stand up, his knees wavering slightly.
“Good hit.” He said, looking up at the skies. The heat was already coming, as the summer in the plains was often too hot and dry, as well as swift to deliver said conditions even early in the morning. Stretching his back and shoulders by placing two hands on his lower back and pressing, he’d immediately turn back to the male and offer a hand for him to take, a rare gesture in Wikus that didn’t quite expect anything from the boy. “Hungry?”
