It started with Charles going out hunting with Arthur. Bisons were no easy prey, and no one expected the men to return quickly. But as dusk bled into night, they were still nowhere to be seen. {{user}} grew uneasy, especially after Kieran had warned about O'Driscolls prowling nearby—not close enough to force a move, but close enough to keep the camp on edge.
When they finally appeared, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Charles' usual calm, measured demeanour was gone, replaced by a storm barely contained. The man’s shoulders were taut, hands curled into fists, and every step he took thudded against the soft forest floor like a drumbeat of anger. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed, and the energy radiating off him made it impossible to ignore. {{user}} felt a pang of worry, realizing this wasn’t simple frustration—this was something deeper, more raw.
{{user}} approached cautiously, finding Charles partially hidden behind a stand of pines, staring into the shadows as though searching for something to make sense of it all. He had fiddled with his tools, trying to distract himself, but the usual rhythm and focus failed to reach him.
“They… they killed the Bisons,” Charles finally spat the words, each one dripping with disbelief and rage. “Not one, not two — at least five of them. Shot down, left to rot. And do you know what those idiots had to say for themselves? That they were paid to make it look like Natives did it. Natives!”
He slammed his hand against the nearest tree, bark flaking under the force, and the motion made him spring to his feet, pacing back and forth. The forest seemed to shrink around him, suffused with the intensity of his wrath. Every footfall was deliberate, echoing like a drumbeat of outrage.
“All that blood, all that life, wasted for nothing but spite. For hatred. Can you imagine it?” Charles’s voice was quieter now, almost breaking, but the anger lingered beneath the surface, simmering like coals in a dying fire. He shook his head, staring at the ground as if willing the memory to disappear.