09-24-2018, 03:47 PM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 540px; min-height: 6px; font-family:times new roman; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color:; padding: 20px"]The insubordination should not come as a surprise to him, and yet, it does; by Stryker, of all members, someone who he had specifically entrusted into a position of worth. And he repays it with this. As soon as the male spotted the movement in the corner of his eye, he would set his fur alight, the prickling energy of the electricity lining his pelt aiming to zap Stryker in warning. Don't come further, it said. Nonetheless, the action did much to set a boiling in Esklav's belly, especially after being touched so carelessly (even if he could not feel the pressure, his own weight being shifted underneath the will of another was jaunting). His head was rotated slightly to the side, and even if he did not react other than the casual slip-on of his powers, it remained that way for but a moment before he fixed it. He remembered her, shoving him into corridors, slapping him when he displeased her. If he looked back, his growing irrationality would give him the picture of her, too, instead of Stryker.
But he looked back anyway, unfazed. He was made to do the bad things, the things his Father would rather not do, and he was perfectly alright with it. If he was to kill someone, he would do it without a shred of hesitance. He was the perfect machine. He took... pride in it.
"Tell me, Stryker ― for the safety of this one dog, you would risk an empty belly? Or, perhaps the next time you pull a pathetic takeover such as your last one, and your wounds grow from the scrawny little Snowbounders clawing at you in retaliation, you would much rather chance infection because the last herb was wasted on someone who might not even last long in the desert?" his tone was even, and his figure remained as perfectly still as ever - even if the dreadfully mundane parts in him would so like to throw the slaver to Blacktide and watch him get eaten alive. A small slip in his drinking water, and a child would be born in that fat gut of his ... "My word is final. I'll have none of your whining, and if you seek to touch me again there will be worse consequences than a mere tap on the shoulder. Is that clear, Stryker?"
But he looked back anyway, unfazed. He was made to do the bad things, the things his Father would rather not do, and he was perfectly alright with it. If he was to kill someone, he would do it without a shred of hesitance. He was the perfect machine. He took... pride in it.
"Tell me, Stryker ― for the safety of this one dog, you would risk an empty belly? Or, perhaps the next time you pull a pathetic takeover such as your last one, and your wounds grow from the scrawny little Snowbounders clawing at you in retaliation, you would much rather chance infection because the last herb was wasted on someone who might not even last long in the desert?" his tone was even, and his figure remained as perfectly still as ever - even if the dreadfully mundane parts in him would so like to throw the slaver to Blacktide and watch him get eaten alive. A small slip in his drinking water, and a child would be born in that fat gut of his ... "My word is final. I'll have none of your whining, and if you seek to touch me again there will be worse consequences than a mere tap on the shoulder. Is that clear, Stryker?"