Post by Cat on Sept 9, 2017 16:16:58 GMT
He huffed. It was not a noise of fatigue, not the sound of effort exerted or breath recaptured; what it was, was more a scoff, as though its owner contracted a bother - a pesky notion that irked his very soul. The huff was gruff, guttural and almost rolling with disdain, but the fluid ease with which the white man moved somehow stole the edges from the caustic sound and buffed them smooth. The face he wore was pretty, surprisingly unmarred despite the permanent scowl seemed to wear. If ever it was told that that face had lightened or lifted it was likely a fable - a bedtime story told to children in order to sate them to sleep, quieting their fear of the Big Bad Wolf long enough to give them rest; after all, come morning, another day would start below his eagle eyes.
The starkness of his pelt was almost blinding against the backdrop of browns and greys of a springtime mountainside; what little greenery dared try to sprout between the cracks or blanket crags with lichen only added to the contrasting accent. It did not paint him purely, however, for achromatic war paint shielded his aquamarine eyes and muddied his appearance into something darker. His ire left him quiet as a clam for once, his focus obvious in the furrow of his brow and the grit of alabaster teeth set pretty as pearls in that dark mouth. Despite his clearly well-fed appearance - a tank, body of a barrel, bite like a shotgun, black hide and white fur thick as a polar bear's - the man was no hunter, did not stalk or negotiate planning. He moved when and where he wanted, demanding the mountainside to shift and settle to his whim and will. Pebbles scattered from the reverberations of his footfalls, paw pads hardened over years of travel buffing the relatively unworn cobblestone impassively.
This was not home, but it would do; his home was on the battlefield or in the arena anyhow, and a mountain was a mountain. All belonged to Legion as far as he was concerned, as did all below it, and its inhabitants. Wasn't his fault they slept tightly in their dens, unaware of this fact. A new land, a new era of exploration and takeover. A new generation to raise the right way. The multitude of failures seen in his lifetime thusfar was atrocious, and though few escaped with their lives, even that amount was too many. Which returns us to his hefty huff.
" We'll stop here. If there's a caravan or contubernia I'd much rather see them all together than have to sit and wait for stragglers to make it up the rest of the mountain or die trying."
Not that he cared for anyone's survival, clearly. If his tone did not prove this, it was heavily reinforced by a thunderous voice, like flint struck to make a spark, with a hint of snark thrown in for good measure. He did not intend to have his time wasted, especially when there was so much to set up and take care of, with little to no help. God damn it, how did he get saddled with this duty anyway? Oh, right. Mom and Dad retired, shit collapsed, killed Big Bro, thus the line went to him.
After a stern look to his son, a if you join in, you die sort of look - you know, the usual - Manillus let out a powerful howl, a call to arms bugle if ever this mountain had heard one. Its echo felt almost stronger, and it rang out in summoning fashion for as long as his massive lungs would sustain it. If any Legionaries had gotten wind of the news of an outpost, had caught his familiar scent, or were within some miles' range to hear his howl, they would appear. He was confident. What he was not confident about, however, was the worth of said Legionaries, or Caesar forbid the dumbass profligates that might come to answer his call. Because that would be just what he needed right now.
The starkness of his pelt was almost blinding against the backdrop of browns and greys of a springtime mountainside; what little greenery dared try to sprout between the cracks or blanket crags with lichen only added to the contrasting accent. It did not paint him purely, however, for achromatic war paint shielded his aquamarine eyes and muddied his appearance into something darker. His ire left him quiet as a clam for once, his focus obvious in the furrow of his brow and the grit of alabaster teeth set pretty as pearls in that dark mouth. Despite his clearly well-fed appearance - a tank, body of a barrel, bite like a shotgun, black hide and white fur thick as a polar bear's - the man was no hunter, did not stalk or negotiate planning. He moved when and where he wanted, demanding the mountainside to shift and settle to his whim and will. Pebbles scattered from the reverberations of his footfalls, paw pads hardened over years of travel buffing the relatively unworn cobblestone impassively.
This was not home, but it would do; his home was on the battlefield or in the arena anyhow, and a mountain was a mountain. All belonged to Legion as far as he was concerned, as did all below it, and its inhabitants. Wasn't his fault they slept tightly in their dens, unaware of this fact. A new land, a new era of exploration and takeover. A new generation to raise the right way. The multitude of failures seen in his lifetime thusfar was atrocious, and though few escaped with their lives, even that amount was too many. Which returns us to his hefty huff.
" We'll stop here. If there's a caravan or contubernia I'd much rather see them all together than have to sit and wait for stragglers to make it up the rest of the mountain or die trying."
Not that he cared for anyone's survival, clearly. If his tone did not prove this, it was heavily reinforced by a thunderous voice, like flint struck to make a spark, with a hint of snark thrown in for good measure. He did not intend to have his time wasted, especially when there was so much to set up and take care of, with little to no help. God damn it, how did he get saddled with this duty anyway? Oh, right. Mom and Dad retired, shit collapsed, killed Big Bro, thus the line went to him.
After a stern look to his son, a if you join in, you die sort of look - you know, the usual - Manillus let out a powerful howl, a call to arms bugle if ever this mountain had heard one. Its echo felt almost stronger, and it rang out in summoning fashion for as long as his massive lungs would sustain it. If any Legionaries had gotten wind of the news of an outpost, had caught his familiar scent, or were within some miles' range to hear his howl, they would appear. He was confident. What he was not confident about, however, was the worth of said Legionaries, or Caesar forbid the dumbass profligates that might come to answer his call. Because that would be just what he needed right now.
The boy - and he was just a boy, really, at least in the eyes of the profligates and the more experienced - trailed a safe few yards behind his burly father, dutifully falling in line. Despite the soldierly march, he did not submit to following with his nose dipped to the ground; no, high alert kept ears pricked and eyes peeled to each and every minute detail of their surroundings. It seemed the sun had set on his very pelt, as though Helios and Selene had clashed their chariots with the strength of the celestial bodies they hauled and from the wreckage he was born. He was leaner, sleeker than his father, with lankier legs stuffed into panzer paws and a slender muzzle set back into broad cheeks; indeed he was a boy saddled as a man, early adolescence imbuing him with an over-inflated ego sparked to fuel his youthful ambition.
It was clear the boy would not speak, for though he duly noted Manillus' every move, seemed to react to it as soon as it occurred if not half a second sooner, the young blood Legionary knew better than to make so much as a peep. It was unnecessary. Yes, he had learned well, been taught well; after Janus' death, he was doubled down on. The sight of his brother torn asunder just abreast, the way his trachea was ripped from his throat to silence his choking gurgling - these were memories that felt a lifetime ago. It was just one month. Sol practically hit a brick wall he halted so quick in his tracks, built up momentum causing his silken fur to rush forward when the rest of his mass did not. He stood statuesque, unflinching under the icicle stab of his Centurion's pointed gaze, and silent as the stones did his harken the summoning howl. His want to join in was great, but not wanting to receive the consequence - especially in front of any to-be company - the boy kept his smart mouth shut. Instead, he would turn his back to his father and face the mouth of their freshly-trodden pathway, expectantly awaiting newcomers. Or oldcomers. Or, really, whoever. He had no idea what to expect; unlike his father, this was an entirely new experience. He was born and raised in one place, with one group; this outpost business, branching off and regrouping with unknown Legionaries was baffling, worrisome, and exciting all at once.
A quiet, subtle shake would resettle his scattered fur, and naturally the boy square off his stance, rolled back slender shoulders, and stood at attention with head held high and mighty. He looked very much like the adult he would one day become, but any weatherworn warrior would be able to spot the differences.
It was clear the boy would not speak, for though he duly noted Manillus' every move, seemed to react to it as soon as it occurred if not half a second sooner, the young blood Legionary knew better than to make so much as a peep. It was unnecessary. Yes, he had learned well, been taught well; after Janus' death, he was doubled down on. The sight of his brother torn asunder just abreast, the way his trachea was ripped from his throat to silence his choking gurgling - these were memories that felt a lifetime ago. It was just one month. Sol practically hit a brick wall he halted so quick in his tracks, built up momentum causing his silken fur to rush forward when the rest of his mass did not. He stood statuesque, unflinching under the icicle stab of his Centurion's pointed gaze, and silent as the stones did his harken the summoning howl. His want to join in was great, but not wanting to receive the consequence - especially in front of any to-be company - the boy kept his smart mouth shut. Instead, he would turn his back to his father and face the mouth of their freshly-trodden pathway, expectantly awaiting newcomers. Or oldcomers. Or, really, whoever. He had no idea what to expect; unlike his father, this was an entirely new experience. He was born and raised in one place, with one group; this outpost business, branching off and regrouping with unknown Legionaries was baffling, worrisome, and exciting all at once.
A quiet, subtle shake would resettle his scattered fur, and naturally the boy square off his stance, rolled back slender shoulders, and stood at attention with head held high and mighty. He looked very much like the adult he would one day become, but any weatherworn warrior would be able to spot the differences.