@mindsmade
It takes an unholy measure of self-restraint for him not to scoff in the face of the man he once revered. Krem succeeds through gritting teeth and a momentary aversion of his eyes, albeit only barely. His silence doesn’t extend past the initial two seconds, however, for a cord has been struck. ❛ You know what’s nothing short of disappointing, Your Imperial Majesty? ❜
He’s no longer afraid. What now does he have to lose? There’s nothing in the Imperium for him any longer, thus nothing to lose. But what of his freedom? Of course it’s put at risk by thinking himself an equal in this conversation, but he has the Chargers at his back — and they, in turn, have the Inquisition’s favour. So, no, he doesn’t waver, doesn’t run. Not this time, not again.
❛ That I, as someone born and raised in the Tevinter Imperium, find myself safer in the company of said qunari than I do in my own HOME. Not even serving faithfully amongst my own peers at the time could guarantee the sense of belonging I found here, in this foreign land, with these foreign people. ❜ His face remains steely but his voice quavers slightly. The venom dripping from his every word seems immune to the slight buckling of his knees, fortunately. He takes a step forward, his toes now undoubtedly meeting the invisible border surrounding the Archon ( he can only hope he didn’t overstep it already ). ❛ I would’ve died for the Imperium, for you, but the acceptance of my dedication was apparently conditional –––– and that’s the only real disappointment I find worth considering. ❜
When the young man takes a step forward, so does Radonis’ guard captain, and not bare-handed. The sword hangs mid-air, marking the limit of personal space, not so much of Radonis himself, but that of the crown that he wears --- which is, incidentally, a space significantly larger than that of a normal man.
As for Radonis, he fixes Cremisius with a stare and raises his right hand. A gesture halfway between many things: a sign for the guards to take care of a guest who abused of hospitality; or a sign to step back; or even, if he wished so, a summon of magic. For a moment, he considers. Then he straightens his index and, with a flick of it, hints that his captain moves back to his position; Tertius does not sheathe the sword, but obeys.
He lets silence stretch on for a few seconds. That the heaviness of it may sink in. (Radonis is well aware that some people like to say that his moods are volatile --- it isn’t quite so, of course. Anger is a thing to use, and goes in stages. Perhaps they do not understand the efficiency of threatening someone he’ll be willing to take tea with not half an hour later; the efficiency of reminding one’s guest that the power to set the atmosphere lies with him.)
« You ostensibly saved my life once, legionary », he says then, « and with how my path and duties brought me elsewhere later on, I never truly had the chance to reward you properly for that. So be aware--- », a pause, his words spoken slowly--- « that it isn’t for the Inquisition, and certainly not for your Qunari captain, that I give your life back to you now. My memory is neither short nor defective, and there are no conditions for that. Something for which you ought to be grateful. »
