[Walking the old familiar campus of Garreg Mach changes something in Dimitri, as it always does when he returns here. Cold, ruthless killing takes on a new character, for once lit with a strangely passionate fury. He was happy here once, for a time; he had a professor who supported him, a house that looked up to him, a dream of restoring Duscur to prosperity and acquitting them of their alleged crimes. The future was never bright and sunny, but it was a distant star to follow — a hope, a belief, a wish for better.
Look at it now. Crawling with bandits and blackguards like a corpse attracting flies. And with each one he kills, the more he hates them, the more he wants them to suffer for ever daring to set foot here, where part of him still believes that Byleth might return someday, while part of him still pretends she lives at all.
The first two, he kills with his lance; it breaks in the third, from being thrown too hard, but it's all the more satisfying to switch to close combat and simply brutalize the renegades with his hands. There are so many ways to kill men with just his hands and the strength afforded by his Crest; he can rip their limbs from their bodies, he can crush their throats and let them die strangling. He can cave their faces in. He can drive his fist through their hearts. After a while, all notions of strategy are gone. He simply kills, anything he finds, anything that moves, anything that breathes.
Soon enough, there are no others left, and he is bloodstained up to his elbows, stains of it in streaks across his face, rivulets of it running like raindrops down his armor. He is filthy with it, run red like the grass in the glade, and he stands across from Adrian, dripping with it, and takes silent stock of how his companion fared.]
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Look at it now. Crawling with bandits and blackguards like a corpse attracting flies. And with each one he kills, the more he hates them, the more he wants them to suffer for ever daring to set foot here, where part of him still believes that Byleth might return someday, while part of him still pretends she lives at all.
The first two, he kills with his lance; it breaks in the third, from being thrown too hard, but it's all the more satisfying to switch to close combat and simply brutalize the renegades with his hands. There are so many ways to kill men with just his hands and the strength afforded by his Crest; he can rip their limbs from their bodies, he can crush their throats and let them die strangling. He can cave their faces in. He can drive his fist through their hearts. After a while, all notions of strategy are gone. He simply kills, anything he finds, anything that moves, anything that breathes.
Soon enough, there are no others left, and he is bloodstained up to his elbows, stains of it in streaks across his face, rivulets of it running like raindrops down his armor. He is filthy with it, run red like the grass in the glade, and he stands across from Adrian, dripping with it, and takes silent stock of how his companion fared.]