♛ ; in the company of beasts
There was a common understanding among the members of Sabertooth. One unspoken yet followed with an unrivaled fierceness.
When Jiemma spoke, you listened.
When Jiemma called --
It was unnecessary as his soldiers knew to report any changes directly to him. There was no such thing as a request made. His men knew to announce jobs, plans, and any other such intended activity that would be made while bearing their symbol of Pride.
They were a unit, one that functioned and thrived due to a common understanding and cooperation.
After a period of lengthened silence, he found himself doing exactly that. Much to his obvious irritation, his injured hand flexing over the arm of his chair, sending a jolt of sharp pain up him arm, he called.
While not in the business of rewriting past decisions of a previous master (not if he saw a general improvement to the guild he valued so far above others), he would not hesitate to correct any err made upon his guild and remind his soldiers who yet held the crown.
Yukino never presented herself despite a requested audience. A fact equal to grave insult.
Practicing a patience not often needed, Jiemma Orland waited. A hand draped over the various cushions of his seat while the other periodically flexed, opening and closing as the time passed. The day weighed on in silence and his anger festered, the rage so deliberately bottled now fermented into a toxin.
He inhaled air, exhaled fury by the time he stood. The door to his office resounded with a thunderous clap as it closed behind him. Movements less human, instead resembling some animal of prey. Regret would flow in pools of red for any disrespect made under this roof, he’d see to it.
A hard fist descended upon the fine wood of her bedroom door, nearly knocking the door off its hinges with a single knock. No answer. Not from within the small space inhabited by the Celestial Mage (a magic that yet offended and caused for an unhealthy rise in him).
Despite the contained silence behind the door he’d seized, much to his building fury, there was barely discernible sound that kept him from storming the recesses of her rooms, drawing his attention to the right.
“You dare hide from me, girl?
Have you learned nothing, at all?
Or do you intend to disrespect me
under MY roof? Show yourself, trash.
You will not be given the luxury of
being commanded twice.”
The mage stood so still she was hard to discern from the other select furnishings of the darkened hallway. But he knew she was there, his predatory gaze falling deftly upon her shoulders. She could not hide from him, not under his roof.
She had the good sense to turn however slowly in his direction. The glacial movements stirred the anger he housed, feeling as though she dared add to the insult at hand.
“Ahh, Master Jiemma-- I--”
“You yet dare offend me with your senseless babble?” His words were a broken roar, throat vibrating with vigor.
“Forgive me, Master Jiemma, I--”
“Do you intend to flee like scum?” he asked then, making note of her continued stay in the veil of darkness.
With a reluctance that was palpable the mage stepped forth, slowly, as if that pace was to grant her any security. There was none. Not under the judgement of Jiemma’s piercing gaze.
His mouth parted to belt out a roar that equaled the might of GODS, only to have those very words robbed from his lip. Taken as few things before had. The sight before him had stayed the violent lashes of his rage, kept them from descending violently upon the small woman in the form of verbal onslaught.
“Was there a job I was not informed of?” he asked pointedly, jaw set as he registered the varying shades of red that covered her small face, blotched over upper cheek and jaw. More of the same coloration retreating under the cuff of her robe. He suspected there were more still, her choice of clothing made to cover what was able.
Injuries were not an uncommon sight for a mage of Saber. Every single body within these walls was a weapon, forged from element, destined for war and victory. Bruises were no offense to him, but a sign of the struggle waged upon steel limbs. A victory hard earned is one deserved. And a victory no less.
When one stood Victor there was no need to hide and quiver, but stood as though displaying badges upon worthy skin. A Victory is to be presented at large, in every fashion.
This particular pattern, along with the brief moment of unguarded vulnerability and panic displayed upon her features before her guard was thrown up, gave him a particular sense of unease. Before him he saw the familiar faces of his mother and wife, brandishing similar punishment of the skin.
As the warrior made from his father’s own design, he was quick to recognize the signs of battle, of war. As the monster of his father’s own blood, he knew the difference between wars waged upon the skin.
“Yes, it was last minute-- I was called in by the Kingdom and--”
It was a single moment of hesitation that cut through the lie, the rest of the words falling away into the space between them.
Quick though he was to judge weakness and deception as presented before him, he did not know this woman for a liar. Perhaps at times naive and over confident as some of the youth within these walls, but not a liar. Not the girl who had summoned Ophiuchus, wielding the beast in a manner he had not seen in so many years before. One that even, if he dared admit it, exceeded the bond between his late wife and the beast of that forsaken gate.
“ENOUGH!” He commanded, the single word slicing through hers, silencing her with swift delivery. “Remove yourself from my sight, girl. This is the only time my call goes unanswered, understood? Regardless of state or health, I expect you to crawl from your grave to answer. Now, GO!”
He had to have a word with his son.
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