if i'm a danger to myself
Just think what I could do to you
Despite how fast the Black Rose mage was moving, Marschal had somehow been detained by three of the stable-hands. He didn't know how fast they could move, but somehow they had managed to keep up with the pace that he was making. On top of that, the flesh-eating mares were getting restless, and he really didn't want to have to handle them and these guys. So, he let go of the horses for now, which he ended up being lucky about, as they had stuck close to where he was. In fact, they had stayed right where he had left them as he rushed the three grooms that were coming at him. First, he would dart to the left, overtaking one of the grooms in a single hit, taking him to the ground. Once there, Marschal would land a heavy blow to the man's face, knocking out a few teeth from the impact.
Unfortunately, the other two grooms had surrounded him now, and were grappling at his arms to pull him off the man. He was far stronger than them though, and yanked them to the ground with him, continuing to punch the first groom. Fist after fist would land on the other man's face, first causing him to spit out a few more teeth, then breaking his nose. A light was in Marschal's eyes, one filled with complete malevolence, as he struck out at the assailant beneath him. Marschy was not going to let this man go until he had completely and utterly mutilated the man and left him for dead. Of course, he had been fortunate enough already that these grooms had been stupid enough to not grab any weapons against him. They were easy to take out as well, so he thought that using his magic would be the last thing he needed to do.
Standing to his feet, the attacker on the ground bloody, broken, and probably dead for all Marschal knew, he dusted himself free of the blood. His eyes would shoot toward the other two grooms, a sly grin spreading across his face as he stared at the two of them. Pupils dilated, the Black Rose mage truly looked like a demonic creature from the very depths of the fiery Hell. Curling his fingers into the shape of a claw, Marschal would launch himself at one of the two remaining grooms, clawing at his face. Nails would dig into the skin of the man, who, at the time, had grabbed a stick to fend off his attacker with. Where flesh was torn from meat, the stick would be rammed into the gut of Marschy, causing him to falter in his step. He would take a step backward, pulling himself off of the stick, which had left a decent hole in the side of his abdomen.
Anger flowed through him, not because he was angry at himself for not killing the man on sight, but because he had managed to get hurt. Looking up from his wound, the deranged man would let out a menacing roar from the bowels of his throat. He would rush the groom and tackle him to the ground, raising a hand up and slamming his claws into the man's chest. His claws would pierce the skin of the stable-hand, digging deep into the meat that guarded the rib cage and heart. Viciously, he would press deeper into the man's chest, deep enough that his claws scraped at the man's beating heart. Marschal would press harder and his claws would wrap around the groom's heart, and he would pull it out violently. The man beneath him would cough up blood, and his eyes would roll into the back of his head, signifying that he head died.
The smile on Marschal's face would spread wider and he would laugh maniacally before looking to the heart in his blood-covered hand. His tongue would run over his lips and he would bring the heart up to his mouth, biting down into the thick meat. Blood oozed down his chin, and he would chew on the bite until he swallowed it, licking his lips for a second time. Then his eyes would shift to to the remaining groom, who stood there in a stance like he had just been petrified. However, the man soon looked down at his own shaking legs, and the wet spot in his pants that had not been there earlier. Marschal stood to his feet, dropping the heart to the ground and wiping his face, which only smeared blood over it. He would slowly walk toward the man at first, like he was talking prey, eyeing him with a clever look to his eyes.
His ears would perk forward, pupils still dilated, and as he neared the groom, he would launch himself at him. While the groom tried to run, Marschal was faster, and he would tackle the man to the ground and sink his fangs into the man's neck. With a good grip on the skin, he would tear it from its place, blood spurting from the punctured jugular vein. Hands pressed to the neck of the injured groom, where he dug his claws into the back of the man's neck. Marschal would drag him to his feet by his neck, and toss him aside, throwing him up against the trunk of a tree. He would advance on the groom, who was now too far injured to move and fight back from the suddenly dark mage. To which, the mage would lower himself down and pounce on the groom, gripping his head in his hands and twisting his neck.
A loud snap would follow with the action, and the groom's body would go limp in the hands of the once good mage. Marschal would pull his hands away and let the body drop full to the ground, licking the blood from his hands. The Black Rose mage would get back to his feet and solemnly walk over to the mares, grabbing up their reins. They could smell the blood that was all over Marschal, and they would reach out to him, try to nip him, but he would swat them away. With the three nuisances taken care off, he would start up his trek back to the man's house that had wanted the mares. After all, he would get these horses to the man, whether it meant he would be killed, himself, or have to kill. Clearly, he was ready to kill, though he had spared the lives of those guards when he was first getting the mares.
[1098 words; counts as five posts]