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09-08-2016, 11:28 AM
i never said i'd stay to the end
Whether she acknowledges it on her own or Hobgoblin does it for her, Volterra’s set attention is enough to get a thin stream of acceptance going. Chances are it is directly from Hobgoblin. Her eyes are downcast and shut, head hung low while the Rougarou’s jaws remain clenched shut and gaze hard, staring straight into the man’s direction, studying for something. Any weakness of her’s is his, and while it doesn’t affect him on such a heavy scale as it does her, there is the thought that she had previously thrown herself into the fray for him, and nonetheless for something that has both mortally wounded them in their bodies and their heads, selfishlessly risking her life for him.
The upwards tilt of his exposed skull is all that anyone other than himself can make out as a symbol of respect.
Yet disgust sinks into her with the same feeling that one could imagine comes when a cactus is purposely rubbed against their hide. The lack of skin makes it difficult for him to obviously express his rare feelings of protection over her, but it projects to her well, gives her a warning that she isn’t sure is needed or not. He’s moving towards her, muzzle extended. Cera’s loving comfort has made her surprisingly more acceptable to such gestures at the presence of trust, and who is she to not say that there has steadily been the growth of trust between the two of them? They are not exactly close enough to consider one another friends, or are they?
The pressure is warm. It urges her to give up her feelings of distress as she subconsciously leans into it, looking, even searching out more of a touch, a sweeping wing that he doesn’t have thrown over her smaller body, the pull of a hug that seems out of character for him. Even this comes as out of character. She has never imagined him to be compassionate, with the exclusion that he had saved her life under the reason that she was raising his children.
Regardless, she melts into his words and touch.
But not all good things last. She should be one to know as this is how her entire life has gone, and the expression that he had offered her is short-lived, drawn away at the mention of her new leadership. Hobgoblin has already pushed himself far enough away to not be aware to the surprise in chest, the rise of unsteadiness that he might have acted upon, emphasis on might, the worry that creeps in at the stray thought that Volterra may take advantage of her emotional weakness and her own loose trust in him to take her down and make a chance at his goals that she had so carelessly taken when he had wanted it so badly. He has been so kind to her in the past, but ambition is a brutal master that commands its slave to take and act upon every given chance to achieve the end goal.
She is nearly hesitant to answer, but there is he with a slap to the face that he’ll never know he gave, trailed by the agony of guilt because here he is trying to be kind, giving her advice, congratulating her, telling her how wonderful it must be to have a god bestow upon her the rank of Sultana while she frets over the idea that he might try to take her throne from her.
In the end, he is enough to crack a smile across her lips. Happiness buds a small flower in her chest. Yes, she tells herself with a pitiful amount of confidence that she has managed to conjure up, I can do this, except it’s a lot bigger with more ranks. I can do this…
None of it is set in stone. She is too frail a beast at the moment to believe such things. Time will have tell for her.
“Thank you, for all that. You make it seem a lot simpler like that.” Hurried, low words gathered up into one another that make a desperate leap towards sincerity together, trying to prove that she means in it in complete truth.
And as if his words of kindness wasn’t enough, Volterra comes to offer her around another thing. It catches her off guard almost as much as it did for him upon learning of her promotion, except instead of swift action and vibrant displays, she is slow, pulling herself up and stitching up so that she can drive out some sort of seriousness as her face gathers into confusion. Why? She begs herself to ask it. Hobgoblin pushes his head into her own, curiosity driven.
“I thought you hated herds. Why?” Brave, even if just for once. Asking what she’s terrified to face. “Why would you so suddenly decide to join, especially under me?” She is a blade taken to herself, looking to bring wound without physically having to do it to herself.
Without a doubt, she begs for more.
“If you really mean it, the Gladiator position is open. You won’t be a lead, but you’ll be right below me, training the soldiers and giving commands to them. You can have it, a key, a home, any else you want with it, if you mean.”
Stupid
when both us knew how the end always is
you were angels,
so much more than everything
:: please tag me
:: minor force and power play allowed
