#waloedrex

Part 2 of the little thread doodles. Part 1.

This time featuring:

@waloed-steed 's Sleipnir from X

He wasn't one to make eye contact, usually. So, having stared down the man and subsequently receive the man's intimidating stare right back at him made his hairs stand and he almost ran to shelter -- except, he reminded himself his Mother was nowhere near him. So, he tried to be brave about it.

The man crouches and speaks to him of a Master and, for a bit, Olivier is thoroughly confused. The King of Waloed had no master, right? He was a King, after all... Much less would he have a Master from Sanbreque, right? But that's when it dawns on him and the boy lets out a low gasp, excitement lurking about as he lifts his hand up towards the man -- a toy tightly held on it.

Oh shit, it's the king of Waloed. That's the thought that crosses Mid's mind as she sees him. She knows he's also the Dominant of Odin, but it doesn't impress her much, no matter what she heard about him before. She knows she just should focus on her work. He's an ally of Hugo Kupka, right ? She doesn't know much about politics, but she's pretty sure she's right. Maybe it's natural he's around, and she shouldn't make a big deal of it.

But he's walking in her direction... why ? Does he just want to see the ship ? It's not even ready, and he surely has his own ship. She's not working for anyone, anyway. She's just doing what Cid and her had always wanted.

She offers him a polite smile as he walks by, without saying a word. Hopefully, it's enough.

His gaze wavered under the unyielding scrutiny of Barnabas' stare. The touch against his jaw, his skin, his scar, came unexpected, following after movements quicker and more powerful than the stories told the king was wont to be. This contact, too, was akin to a fight at first, an attack. Clive's body hadn't forgotten the last they clashed and so he flinched back only to be caught immediately by a calloused hand.

Yet, once Barnabas forced him to meet his gaze, Clive could not make himself struggle against his hold beyond an instinctive snarl making his lips twitch, feeling trapped within the darkness of the king's eyes akin to an animal in a cage. These same eyes, filled with wonder as they pinned him down were what kept him, more so than the hold of his hand, a hold which one could almost describe as gentle if it wasn't so unfathomable.

The words, in comparison stung like an open wound, worse than the scalpel that was used to cut his skin to rid him of this mark.

Abomination. Hissed at him one too many times in disdain as it was, the word should have lost its edge; its sharpness long ago. Yet, as any other blade, Odin's Dominant wore its edge with precision unmatched. Uttered like this, in this context with fascination, juxtaposed with the term perfection as Barnabas called it, it was too close to what he was first told when the Phoenix shunned him in favor of his little brother.

He was not what he was supposed to be.

Hurt flared up from deep within him, and when he breathed deeply next, his breath was warmer as it parted his lips, his eyes flickered in a golden hue, Ifrit rearing his head unchecked, and then... something else entirely.

Clive surged. A hand caught Barnabas' throat, turning them and shoving him back until he had the other Dominant pressed flush against a wall, teeth bared, eyes flashing bright with hunger. The need to simply give in and tear right into his throat so present he could barely breathe. A memory overcame him as he watched Barnabas' lips quirk up into a smile so triumphant, so similar to what he had seen on his own face in that distorted vision, that it pulled him back to himself.

Clive shut his eyes against Barnabas unyielding gaze in fear, of being seen, of being known in this way by anyone, most of all the king of Waloed.

He shook his head, or tried to, made difficult with Barnabas' hand once again holding firm. His eyes opened slowly, back to stark blue, his own hold long since loosened around the other man's throat, his hand now sliding limply down to the crook of his neck. Dazed, as if between dream and wakefulness Clive followed the motion, eyes and fingers drawn to the line on the other's chest as a compass is to true north.

The touch to it followed before there was even an attempt at a clear thought again. "Maybe they were right," The words wavered as he formed them, the hairs on the back of his neck raised with a feeling he couldn't quite place. There shouldn't be comfort in being seen by Barnabas, nor a sense of relief in admitting to any of this. This shouldn't feel akin to looking into a mirror either, and yet ...

"Maybe an abomination is all I am." He breathed between them, his voice still carrying a fraction of Ifrit's — ...no, of that hunger's — essence, slowly fading back to his own now roughened tone of voice. His hand found that of Barnabas, his own warm as he curled it around the back of it, pulling it away from his face ere he stepped back entirely.

"You're not going to get away with this!" Jill shouted, her hands grasping tightly to the metal bars. This cell may have entrapped her but she wouldn't sit there quietly! Not after what he did to Clive - or what he intended to do to the WORLD.

Oh, how her heart skips a beat upon hearing Barnabas' words, her breath catching in her lungs. A seldom occasion indeed, and Benedikta is well aware of its value. So much so that immediately, she decides to tread with more caution than usual lest she'll lose his approval. A soft thud echoes through the chambers as she kneels, bowing before her king in spite of his back remaining turned to her.