In Dire Straits - Restless [Ronove]

  It's not working. Intimidating the dwindling population of slaves, pinning down the bond he will always have a size and experience advantage over, weaving through the inner ring praying desperately the someone comes-- he's restless. Everyone with a spine is.

  The Fringe smells someone on the wind, and they reek of the Valley, but he'll take it anyway. Garrison trudges between hedges he knows religiously, from far too many days spent this way. Boredom eats at his brain like the irritation of being trapped within the dying Valley tenses his muscles until they tear, when he knows there are endless prospects just beyond their borders. Slaving Season is long overdue. A lot of things are.

  Heavily, he emerges from a break in the bushes, light eyes narrowing on yellow. "Jitte," he starts with a sneer, "or do you have some new title, like the Boshin?" In truth, the Officer has nothing against Ronove-- would likely be impressed by the boy's work ethic, if he knew him better. There's no better way to earn respect than a spar, in Oukoku-Kai.

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In truth there was an anxiousness that took root within the darkling male's very being, the vacuum of power hadn't be realized yet by anyone else, hopefully. His jaws were just waiting to rip a crown of thorns for himself. Crow might have been known as White Seour, but Ronove would go down in history of the valley as the ultimate rose.

It was enough to make his mouth water, tongue flicking over off-white fangs.

However distracted he might have been, driven by his plans, and all the opportunities that followed (you never really were yellow were you, Ron?) No, I'm all and none. Claws scraped the could dirt, and vision snapped upward to the creature that stalked toward him.

Sneer and words were noted with a cold indifference, golden gaze in a sea of inky black. Blinking, once, twice, three times. "Judge Pathos and Jitte." He corrected keenly, voice as smooth as silk. His tail giving an unimpressed flick. "The proper way to speak to someone of elevated status is to start with their highest rank." He didn't miss a beat in being condescending, muzzle wrinkling.

"I don't know who you are, and I honestly don't fucking care." That temper was flaring, poison in his words, falling out of his mouth like dripping venom from a pit viper. "You're in my way, and wasting my fucking time, idiot." A pause, before a rumbling storm. "So what DO YOU FUCKING WANT?" The last bit came out vicious, a roar, spittle flying from his mouth as fur stood on end. Just the barest flashes of his fangs, inhale/exhale.

  Lip curled away from the teeth on one side, he licks incisors, and spits on the dirt between them. "Think a little got in my mouth..." he mumbles, seating himself with knees splayed wide-- obviously not intending to move anytime soon. "And I didn't take you as a stickler for the law around here." Especially when there's no one left to enforce it.

  Garrison looks at Ronove for a moment-- just looks-- waiting to see if he either calms down or acts out. The Jitte's practically vibrating with rage. "Besides, what's the point of a Judge when there are no trials?" The Fringe raises one paw as a motion to let him finish, and a first line in case Ronove actually loses it. "Like I've got room to talk. What's an Officer without slaves?" A Slaver is even less.

  Leaning in, head down halfway, he implies, "Come on, Ronove. What's rank without a pack? What's a Jitte to do with nobody on the borders-- well, 'cept us." He smiles slightly, teeth too white, too close to his face, voice low. "And I want the same as you."

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The sleek little beast growled, black fur prickling this way and that as the officer took a seat. Settling from his previous outburst. Golden eyes trembled in their sockets, that twitch of irritation running down his spine, down down down. "I am when I'm the only one left to uphold them." He corrected again, shooting a warning glare that was sure to be ignored.

This one was preaching to the choir, and the choir didn't give a damn except for himself, head rose and a smile that could only be described as a glowering snarl. Teeth bright against dark features, and he'd be handsome, if only he didn't make those disgusting faces. "I'm an elite, a person of power, chosen by.... the scions." His voice did little to hide his disbelief in their gods, they weren't here to say otherwise.

Ronove's eyes were sharp, watching Garrison closely, bristling when he moved a certain way that the Judge didn't particularly care for. Talking of wanting the same things and he could almost laugh in the other's face, scoffing just the same. "You? You are nothing, a nobody." The beady eyed little male spoke, the wind whipping against his coat. "Speaking treason in front of your superior, careful. I can be your judge, jury, and executioner." He'd burn a hole right through Garrison.

"Besides, the pack looks to the High Priest for his blessing, any fool knows that." He'd seen what could happen when even a small fraction of people didn't like the ruling class, when Crow incited a mob and killed Lazaret. "You should aim lower, and hope that you're blessed in your next life with a better family name." With that the Judge would attempt to walk around the officer, steering clear of brushing fur with the other.