▹▹▹▹Perhaps, in some idle way, they were similar in that fashion. Too often the world presented something that seemed so perfect on the outside, yet the deeper you delved the more you discovered that it was dark and empty. Would it be enough to think that Atticus' life would have been far different, if he, as a young man, had been like Vagabond and joined a gang? If he had not left home and took his own path? Perhaps it was a consideration. They were both fighters, and Kit did not frequently- or rather at all- speak of anything in his past here in his time in the Ascendants; but on the other hand, no one had asked. They, too, had taken him at face value. But Atticus was no fool. There was nothing about Vagabond that was going to be sweet and shy like so many others here, there was nothing about that mask, or the way he held himself, that said Atticus was going to just send him on his way and continue home for lunch.
It was not Vagabond's intimidating vibe that put Kit on the defensive; it could be argued that he himself held some level of intimidation within his stark golden eyes that contrasted firecly with the melanistic patterns of his pelt, standing tall and sturdy as if nothing would knock him down. But the stranger was not a figure that he was wanting to see. He knew what this would mean, as much as his mind tried to conjure up the other possibilities, to prepare him, but there was no look upon that man that said this wasn't going to end without a fight. When the stranger started to speak, Atticus took a slow breath in to completely steady himself as that voice began to molt with every word, every syllable and slight change of breath that passed Vagabond's lips, a slow growl rumbling in his throat as he shifted his feet forward slightly, preparing himself either to lunge or for the brunt of an attack. The logical answer would be that Vagabond, given his words and his apperance would be the first to strike, in which his only option would be to try and strike him directly. The knives would be an issue, Atticus knew, but they were only (for the most part) good at a range. Close combat with small knives meant Atticus, at least, could pull it from his grasp.
When the creature lunged forward, his shoulders tensed as he waited, exhaling slowly as the creature charged, waiting as long as he could before he would swiftly pull himself out of the way of his path, bracing himself quickly on his back paws once he had secured the turn in an attempt to lunge right back into Vagabond's side and roll him over instead. The blades had not been forgotten, but the idea that Vagabond had supernatural abilities, a rare fact when Atticus had grown, but seemingly less so here, had not crossed his mind in full in the few seconds he had to consider. He lunged as a blade flew free from Vagabond's sash, his eyes registering the blade as his momentum carried out his previously intended actions of lunging into the creature that dared to attack, not having enough time to shift his body before the blade sunk into his back leg, making him growl in pain and snarl. His original intent to sink his claws into the man was forgotten as he instead attempted to sink his teeth into Vagabond's shoulder, not only to serve as a counter for the pain coursing through his leg that threatened to change his balance, but also to hopefully cause more damage and return the favor. Even as he made his attempt, the faint traces of the Rosebloods upon the creature's fur, such a faint trace of their allies would only made his grip tighten, anger coursing through him.
It was not Vagabond's intimidating vibe that put Kit on the defensive; it could be argued that he himself held some level of intimidation within his stark golden eyes that contrasted firecly with the melanistic patterns of his pelt, standing tall and sturdy as if nothing would knock him down. But the stranger was not a figure that he was wanting to see. He knew what this would mean, as much as his mind tried to conjure up the other possibilities, to prepare him, but there was no look upon that man that said this wasn't going to end without a fight. When the stranger started to speak, Atticus took a slow breath in to completely steady himself as that voice began to molt with every word, every syllable and slight change of breath that passed Vagabond's lips, a slow growl rumbling in his throat as he shifted his feet forward slightly, preparing himself either to lunge or for the brunt of an attack. The logical answer would be that Vagabond, given his words and his apperance would be the first to strike, in which his only option would be to try and strike him directly. The knives would be an issue, Atticus knew, but they were only (for the most part) good at a range. Close combat with small knives meant Atticus, at least, could pull it from his grasp.
When the creature lunged forward, his shoulders tensed as he waited, exhaling slowly as the creature charged, waiting as long as he could before he would swiftly pull himself out of the way of his path, bracing himself quickly on his back paws once he had secured the turn in an attempt to lunge right back into Vagabond's side and roll him over instead. The blades had not been forgotten, but the idea that Vagabond had supernatural abilities, a rare fact when Atticus had grown, but seemingly less so here, had not crossed his mind in full in the few seconds he had to consider. He lunged as a blade flew free from Vagabond's sash, his eyes registering the blade as his momentum carried out his previously intended actions of lunging into the creature that dared to attack, not having enough time to shift his body before the blade sunk into his back leg, making him growl in pain and snarl. His original intent to sink his claws into the man was forgotten as he instead attempted to sink his teeth into Vagabond's shoulder, not only to serve as a counter for the pain coursing through his leg that threatened to change his balance, but also to hopefully cause more damage and return the favor. Even as he made his attempt, the faint traces of the Rosebloods upon the creature's fur, such a faint trace of their allies would only made his grip tighten, anger coursing through him.