(Untitled)

[neveranyeasier]

There's a man working at the punching bag, every hit sounding a loud bang. He's working fast; he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, doesn't seem to want to do anything but act (doesn't seem to want to stop to think).

Mahone almost hadn't believed his son was dead.

He almost hadn't believed his son was dead until he'd begged and begged and Lang had finally

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[leadinghome]

Connor can hear that from a good distance away: the beating of the punching bag, and the man's anger, radiating and echoing over the area.

Curiosity brings him over to investigate.

[neveranyeasier]

He knows someone's there.

(His training's too good for him not to notice.)

He doesn't stop, though. Won't stop, rather.

He doesn't have reason to, yet.

[leadinghome]

None at all: Connor is just watching, puzzled, curious, feeling the anger radiate from the man in waves.

It feels different, feels like whatever is making him angry is justified, so even if disturbing, it does not sting his senses like wanton hatred and anger do.

He waits.

[leadinghome]

[???]

[winter_arrows]

Skaði loiters nearby, watching, mug of beer in hand.

She knows the frame of mind, or at least she thinks she does.

[neveranyeasier]

It's the fact that she doesn't move on that causes Mahone to stop. He pauses in his barrage, breathing still fast when he glances over.

"Can I help you?"

[winter_arrows]

"Possibly," she says. "But don't let me distract you--if you're in the mood to keep going, keep going. I'd hate to be a disturbance."

She takes a sip of beer, contemplative.