Chapter Text
The brush is thick, the air is cold, the way out of the woods is nowhere to be found, and Charles' carefully held calm is beginning to crumble.
Sir Charles Francis Xavier has been lost in the woods for almost an hour now.
Sir Charles Francis Xavier has also, now, found a distinct hatred for horses.
Charles’ excursion into the woods began quite goodheartedly –
Charles is a largely respected sciences adviser for the King of England. As a largely respected scientist and government adviser, he must keep up appearances - like any other celebrity.
This point was provided by his apprentice and (In Charles' new opinion: previous) friend, Henry McCoy. Thus when an invitation to go hunting with some other government advisers and parliament members arose, Charles borrowed a gun from a blacksmith friend of his, Logan, and took his favorite horse out for the hunting trip - cursing Henry the entire two-hour horse ride.
He now wonders why anyone would ever want to hunt in the winter. It’s freezing.
Everything was going exceptional, that is if you consider Charles not yet killing anyone, or anything for that matter, exceptional. Charles was not exactly a marksmen, but he tried his hardest to not look like a complete fool, and he’d be dammed if he couldn’t charm his way around his faults.
So he did exactly that . . . Until his horse was scared off by a misfired shot (which did not hit a single person or innocent animal, thank you very much). He of course went running off after his horse - which is exactly how he ended up here, and he, of course, blames every single part of it on Henry. The hypocritical bastard. Henry is, after all, a well-respected government adviser's (Charles') apprentice; one would think he would also have the duty of going hunting with cruel parliament members, yet he rarely ever comes out of that damnable lab of his to even eat, let alone talk to people.
Charles would like to stress, once again, that Henry is a hypocritical bastard.
– quite goodheartedly indeed.