[ There's no joy in this. Not that Fenris finds much joy in most things, but his orders to chain a bunch of pitiful criminals to stakes and let them melt into boiling goo are certainly towards the bottom of the 'things that might ever possibly make me happy' list. Some of these people are petty thieves, stealing to survive. Some of them are murderers; some worse than that. And some of them are simply defiant.
Fenris does not hesitate as he secures the locks. No one tries to fight him, though one woman--marked as a member of the rebellion--spits in his face. He does not strike her; does not even move to wipe his face. He simply stares at her, his dark green eyes bright, the circuits in his skin gleaming. Unnervingly silent.
After what feels like hours, he's nearly finished with the last of them. A few whimper; others cry or wail. He goes on as though unaffected.
If he sees anyone approaching, whether to lollygag or interfere, he turns to them. ]
Move along. This has nothing to do with you.
ii.
[ Chaos breeds opportunity. Or just opportunists. The recent confluence of rebel attacks, the unfortunate weather, and the sudden influx of cheap identities has made the populace intractable. Fenris doesn't like needless violence, but he's hardly above it, either. He tries to discourage any funny ideas through sheer intimidation: he is not a tall man, but he is wiry and taut, and he has the look of a coiled snake. His carved skin and pointed ears set him apart, and when he's put on ID check duty, most people try to avoid his line. But he drags them over, anyway.
If there's dissension or if someone tries to resist once their ID is found false, he grabs their wrist. Maybe you overhear the sound of bone fracturing; maybe you want to step in.
Or maybe it's you he's got cornered. ]
You, there. Let me see your ID.
LEITH;
iii.
[ Towards the end of this increasingly long week, Fenris arrives at the Blessed Branches hotel. He has to keep the surrogate safe, and that's what he means to do. It's one of the few orders he'd take even if he wasn't in thrall to the Company; killing pregnant women will not stand, and he means to protect the surrogate with his life.
For the present, he's out in the lounge, drink in hand. Ice clinks against his glass as he sits on one of the red velvet couches, his back straight, his expression alert. He's looking for familiar faces--or for unsavory strangers. If he sees someone skulking about, or looking like they might be here for something other than a luxurious weekend getaway, he'll approach. ]
Mind yourself.
WILDCARD;
iv.
[ Let me know if none of these suit, or if you have somewhere else in mind--Fenris can move about pretty freely! I'm happy to write more specific starters, also. ]
fenris | ota
i.
[ There's no joy in this. Not that Fenris finds much joy in most things, but his orders to chain a bunch of pitiful criminals to stakes and let them melt into boiling goo are certainly towards the bottom of the 'things that might ever possibly make me happy' list. Some of these people are petty thieves, stealing to survive. Some of them are murderers; some worse than that. And some of them are simply defiant.
Fenris does not hesitate as he secures the locks. No one tries to fight him, though one woman--marked as a member of the rebellion--spits in his face. He does not strike her; does not even move to wipe his face. He simply stares at her, his dark green eyes bright, the circuits in his skin gleaming. Unnervingly silent.
After what feels like hours, he's nearly finished with the last of them. A few whimper; others cry or wail. He goes on as though unaffected.
If he sees anyone approaching, whether to lollygag or interfere, he turns to them. ]
Move along. This has nothing to do with you.
ii.
[ Chaos breeds opportunity. Or just opportunists. The recent confluence of rebel attacks, the unfortunate weather, and the sudden influx of cheap identities has made the populace intractable. Fenris doesn't like needless violence, but he's hardly above it, either. He tries to discourage any funny ideas through sheer intimidation: he is not a tall man, but he is wiry and taut, and he has the look of a coiled snake. His carved skin and pointed ears set him apart, and when he's put on ID check duty, most people try to avoid his line. But he drags them over, anyway.
If there's dissension or if someone tries to resist once their ID is found false, he grabs their wrist. Maybe you overhear the sound of bone fracturing; maybe you want to step in.
Or maybe it's you he's got cornered. ]
You, there. Let me see your ID.
LEITH;
iii.
[ Towards the end of this increasingly long week, Fenris arrives at the Blessed Branches hotel. He has to keep the surrogate safe, and that's what he means to do. It's one of the few orders he'd take even if he wasn't in thrall to the Company; killing pregnant women will not stand, and he means to protect the surrogate with his life.
For the present, he's out in the lounge, drink in hand. Ice clinks against his glass as he sits on one of the red velvet couches, his back straight, his expression alert. He's looking for familiar faces--or for unsavory strangers. If he sees someone skulking about, or looking like they might be here for something other than a luxurious weekend getaway, he'll approach. ]
Mind yourself.
WILDCARD;
iv.
[ Let me know if none of these suit, or if you have somewhere else in mind--Fenris can move about pretty freely! I'm happy to write more specific starters, also. ]