Oswald Connoly- Armory-> Training Hall

Immediately upon his return to Beacon, Oswald stepped off of the Bullhead, making his way to the Armory. His sword and scabbard were covered in blood, and he needed to make sure his armor hadn't been torn up by those damned bugs. He'd let his teammates know what he was doing, and promised to discuss the consequences of what had happened with them later. 

When he made it to the Armory, Oswald walked over to the cleaning cabinet, gathering an armful of supplies to clean the dried blood off of his precious weapon. Carefully getting to work, he tried to ignore the whispers he was hearing. Only some of them were being uttered by other people.

Despite his willingness and apparent eagerness to do so, Oswald did not enjoy killing other people. He did so out of a sense of justice, a way to promote a greater good. While it didn't stop him from wondering about the admittedly small number of people he'd killed, believing that his actions were just did help him to sleep at night.

As the last droplets of blood were removed from his gear, Oswald set about inspecting his armor. Overall, it was in good condition. Only some of the plates of his brigandine had been damaged, and the rest of his armor was thankfully intact. No more than a few dents here or there, which were easily dealt with. 

When he was finished, Oswald stood and stretched. His shirt had been torn in multiple places, he was rather sore from the stress and running he'd done, and he was feeling miserable overall, but he was still alive, and that was nice. 

After gathering his gear and cleaning up the mess he'd made, Oswald returned to his team's dorm and dropped off his armor and weapon, something he hadn't done very often. Normally he wore his equipment through the day, but for the moment, he needed the freedom of movement.

For a short while, he just wandered around the Academy grounds, before abruptly stopping and taking a deep breath. There it was. The overpowering need that had once driven him to gain fifty pounds and ensure he was accepted to Beacon. Quickly making his way to the training hall, Oswald set up the heaviest sandbag the Academy had.

For over an hour he punched it, his knuckles long ago having torn open, leaving bloody stains all over the bag. Self-flagellation in the pursuit of strength was an unhealthy habit he'd developed, but after a while, the pain stopped and all he could feel was rage. 

Rage at the world for constantly sending death and destruction to the good and the innocent.

Rage at the warmongers, the murderers and the torturers for needlessly hurting and killing their fellow men and women. 

But what Oswald felt most was rage at himself. Rage for failing to protect those he'd sworn to defend, the people he was molded to shield against the darkness. 

Letting out a feral growl, Oswald punched the bag one last time, sending it careening away, and turned before the heavy pendulum returned and crashed into his back. 

Barely catching himself as he slammed into the floor, Oswald looked at his knuckles. Raw, bloody and throbbing. As the emotions that once threatened to consume him faded into memory, Oswald felt his hands stinging quite a bit. With a slow breath, he winced as the skin repaired itself, urged on by his Aura. It was always interesting watching flesh knit itself together as if by some magical force. 

As he stood up and began to wipe down the bloody bag, Oswald thought about what he would spend his weekend doing. He just hoped it wasn't something completely absurd.