As Malachai had walked from the Hallows lands to the boneyard his anger had solidified, crystallizing into a boulder that sat heavy in his chest. He'd given everything for Grimshaw, had uprooted his whole life for him! Had stayed awake night after night to make sure Grimshaw fell asleep soundly and avoided the nightmares that had once plagued him, had been there through every single injury that had threatened his life. He'd forgiven Grimshaw for the whole fucking thing with Artorias for fuck's sakes, that was how much Malachai had wanted to be with him, had been willing too bend for him. And. Not. Even. A. Goodbye! So yeah he was fucking pissed. He hated feeling like it was his fault, hated to think that everything he'd done hadn't been enough, not even remotely enough. He wanted to yell, wanted to tear into something! He had never been particularly good at processing his emotions, he really only knew one thing well, and that was to fight. So that was what he would do. It was all in a bid to even begin to deal with all the pain and hurt and anger. He tipped his head back, a call summoning anyone who might want to rise to meet him, his aggression was in his voice, he would not be going easy on anyone, he didn't have the emotional control to do so right now. "speak"

Beating the Pirates had woken something up inside him. In his chest, in his lungs. In a part of his brain that Tate didn't really know he had. It's something he doesn't really want to admit or talk about or think about and yet... it calls to him. A siren song. Draws him in, dangerous and brilliant and... whatever else he was. Though he was typically the more relaxed, the more laid back of his siblings (call him lazy, it's usually true), being able to properly maim someone? Yeah, there was something in Tate's system that was awake now. Alive now. As alive as he is.

Maybe that's why he's so close to the Boneyard. Maybe that's why he's waiting for a call. No, he wouldn't start fights. It seemed that starting fights was still not quite in his nature. Not yet. He'd still need to be pushed farther for that. No, he wouldn't start fights, but Tate would certainly rise to the occasion.

And rise he did. With a long, lazy lope, he arrives to greet the challenger. The almost-adult looks the man up and down, taking him in. Making no secret that he's both checking out and sizing up his opponent. There is barely-controlled violence on the table. There is anger here, and something else. "A'ight," his tone of voice lazy, his posture anything but. "Hit me." A brilliant grin, he lowers his head and steps right the hell up.

"Potato"