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Description
When they come for him, Leon fights, but only because he doesn’t need to be dragged to know where he’s being taken. This isn’t new to him, and he’s going to take it with the same amount of dignity he always does. He shrugs off their hands, or tries to, insisting he can walk to his fate without their help. Will this slight be enough to send him to his sixth life? He has to wonder, ears flat against his head more in angry defiance than fear. He is never afraid of what the beast will do to him, even if it means death. It was worth it. He knows it was worth it to see Tosha like that, to feel the energy of the crowd cheering for him and only him. If he dies today, he can die with those fluid, powerful movements playing through his mind. If he dies, at least he’ll have seen the warrior be all that he can be.

But when he finds the other Proto beside him in the punishment hall, his rage simmers, boils over, teeth bared and eyes blazing. They have to restrain him, then, and probably for the best, because he wants nothing more than to lunge, to fight, to take all the punishment himself. Toshakovka won, he pleased the whole crowd, he doesn’t deserve this for being the warrior he should be! Deep down he knows, though, he brought this upon them both, guilt roiling in the pit of his stomach. His punishment he can shrug off, he doesn’t care, he isn’t afraid, but to be responsible for the punishment of another? He bites his tongue, fists clenching as he stares down his subjugator all the same. Rhyvaen can’t afford to put either of them out of commission. Not his rising star of a warrior, and not his best smith. It can’t be enough yet, he thinks, it can’t.

In the privacy of his own quarters, Rhyvaen is allowed to seethe a little more, aloud, storming in and immediately lifting and tossing the nearest decorative plants across the massive room, quickly followed by, “Clean that up!” his voice a sharp snap like the crack of a whip while slaves scramble to follow orders without getting too close or too far into his field of view. Oh but he wants to rip the skin off of someone, and he knows precisely who. He just has to wait, which is done with an icy calm after that short outburst, sitting in a chair still as stone.

When the two offenders are finally brought in, eagerness that has been building within the pit of his stomach and into his chest like a sadistic excitement, finally shows within the malicious spark behind cold eyes. If he weren’t so fucking livid, Leonidas’s reaction would have a wicked grin finally replacing his scowl. Unfortunately for them, he’s too angry for that little display. And yet, this still has him feeling quite a bit better already, standing and slowly approaching the two of them. He’s had the beast’s armor stripped from him along with everything else besides his -now scrubbed clean of paint- collar, leaving him bare and forced to his knees.

Lavender energy flows over the palm of his hand, twisting into the shape of a long knife, slender and curved as he stops to stand beside Toshakovka, both of them facing Leonidas. Free hand lashing out to grip thick white hair and yank Tosha’s head back, Rhyvaen’s eyes don’t leave Leon’s. So many ideas, but first, he wants to see Leon’s reaction.

But there’s an idea. “Beg.” Because that would be a sufficient start he thinks, blade reaching to curve around Tosha’s exposed throat just above the collar.

All the while, Toshakovka is staring at Leon as well, eyes intense. Don’t do it. He doesn’t care what Rhyvaen might do, he’s not about to have everything Leonidas has said to him mean nothing. He doesn’t want Leon to bow down for his sake. Ever. Don’t do it.

As imposing as Rhyvaen is on the approach, as sinister as that blade is in his hand, the fire in Leon’s eyes doesn’t falter. Despite the exposure of the body forced in front of him, he never so much as gives the asshole the satisfaction of a glance at Tosha once his eyes are locked. Kill me you fucking prick is like a dare in those eyes, but as their jailor yanks back the warrior’s head and places that wicked blade at his throat, the myriad reasons why nearly come tumbling off his tongue.

But there’s Tosha, inner fire still blazing, and as he breaks his gaze and his eyes flicker briefly to vivid blue, all the platitudes die on his lips. Jaw set, defiant golden eyes stare Rhyvaen down yet again. You won’t do it, he’s too valuable, you won’t waste him. Slowly he grits his teeth together, swallowing down any notion of giving the beast what he wants as the words become a mantra to drown out his fears. He won’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t.

The proud blacksmith says nothing.

There it is, he can see it on the tip of Leonidas’s tongue, but- Rhyvaen straightens the slightest bit in the split moment that Leon’s eyes drop from his to Tosha’s, and he’s glancing down to see the beast’s intense glare, then back to Leon. Nothing. Nothing. All from a stare!

It’s such a sharp jolt of rage that smacks into him that Rhyvaen is driving the blade into Toshakovka’s left eye before he even really registers it, barely hearing the shouted curse leave his lips and only just barely stopping himself in time to not pierce straight through the socket and kill the slave outright. But there’s blood and and that roar of pain from the man in his grip. Blood on his hand, on his face, eyes wide and filled with a brutal fire as he now shoves Tosha forward so that he has to brace himself with his hands, letting the blood spill freely from that now ruined eye. The blade swung and pointed at Leon now, upper lip quivering in a sneer, limbs shaking with anger. “I SAID BEG!” He yells, nearly screams, indignant now.

It’s in this state that the Master is incredibly dangerous, so unhinged as he is. Even as Tosha is gasping, gritting his teeth, and again shooting one blue eye Leon’s way. “How long do you think he will last in the arena, slave!? How long!? Should I start taking fingers!?”

The barest of winces makes Leon’s eyes twitch and sting, throat trying to close against a hard swallow. I promise. He fights back the want to break apart, knowing that he’s fueling the bastard’s rage all the more, they both are. Now, he isn’t sure if one of them might not die today, and he already is carrying the guilt of Tosha’s pain like a mantle wrapped stiffly round his shoulders and keeping them straight. If the warrior dies because of him... It’s tearing him up inside, the struggle in his gaze as his lip curls and his nails dig into his palms, in his body as his muscles tense and he jerks against the guards restraining him.

To beg would be to betray the man in front of him, to betray himself. He won’t ruin him. He won’t ruin him. He won’t ruin him. The mantra shifts, and he’s sure that Rhyvaen can hear his teeth grinding. Maybe the son of a bitch knows that his jaw is set both to keep himself from giving in and to keep himself from making it that much worse. If he opens his mouth now, they both might die.

Still nothing. Rhyvaen can see all that pain, that want to give in, that need, and yet he won’t just give him what he wants. Everything within the Highborn is screaming to kill them both, to stab the pitfighter until he succumbs to the wounds, to skin either of them alive while the other watches and yet. Stunned. He’s absolutely stunned with the amount of hatred and rage boiling within him, lips finally forcing themselves back into a snarl. A shaking, audible exhale follows, heavy and forced and so suddenly full of pleasure because he’s suddenly got it, and Rhyvaen is pulling himself together, tightening the threads and straightening once more as he releases his grip from Tosha almost too gently for the amount of murder that’s teaming within his limbs, his eyes. “Guards… Take him to the dungeon. I will see to him later.” He speaks with a near nonchalance even as the edge to his voice tells Leonidas that whatever it is he has planned is going to be horrific. “And call the Healer. They will be needed.”

It’s only after the guards leave with Toshakovka in tow that he squares himself off to his best Blacksmith, knife reshaping into a whip. “Remove your shirt, dog,” Oh yes, he’s going to allow Leon the chance to willingly obey and accept his punishment, because if he doesn’t…. Oh- well- Rhyvaen is certain the little shit can only imagine. “and face away from me.”

Leon is trembling both with restraint and with rage, and then, suddenly, he’s reeling from the abrupt switch. His blood turns to ice in his veins and yet... Just looking at Tosha, he knows that no matter what the beast does to him, that spark can’t be extinguished again, he has to know that. If even for a moment he lets himself falter in his belief that the warrior will come through, all his bravado will have been for naught, and he refuses to take his eyes off of the other Proto as he’s taken away... at least until the whip forms.

He hopes, but doesn’t truly believe that Rhyvaen will take it all out on him and be sated, and yet now that it’s been decided it’s all he can do not to actively provoke the bastard. Golden eyes stare hard for a long moment after the order comes, but not at his punisher, no. He fixates on Tosha’s blood on the floor, long enough to make the son of a bitch think that he won’t give in before his gaze finally shoots up, and if one were to look hard enough his grimace might almost be mistaken for a grin.

Not today, motherfucker, he thinks, sure to stare the beast down as he shucks off his shirt and still manages to make obeying an order look like defiance. You won’t break him, and you won’t break me.

He’s sure to put himself between the slaver and that pool of blood, and he’s damn sure not to tuck his tail.

Description
When they come for him, Leon fights, but only because he doesn’t need to be dragged to know where he’s being taken. This isn’t new to him, and he’s going to take it with the same amount of dignity he always does. He shrugs off their hands, or tries to, insisting he can walk to his fate without their help. Will this slight be enough to send him to his sixth life? He has to wonder, ears flat against his head more in angry defiance than fear. He is never afraid of what the beast will do to him, even if it means death. It was worth it. He knows it was worth it to see Tosha like that, to feel the energy of the crowd cheering for him and only him. If he dies today, he can die with those fluid, powerful movements playing through his mind. If he dies, at least he’ll have seen the warrior be all that he can be.

But when he finds the other Proto beside him in the punishment hall, his rage simmers, boils over, teeth bared and eyes blazing. They have to restrain him, then, and probably for the best, because he wants nothing more than to lunge, to fight, to take all the punishment himself. Toshakovka won, he pleased the whole crowd, he doesn’t deserve this for being the warrior he should be! Deep down he knows, though, he brought this upon them both, guilt roiling in the pit of his stomach. His punishment he can shrug off, he doesn’t care, he isn’t afraid, but to be responsible for the punishment of another? He bites his tongue, fists clenching as he stares down his subjugator all the same. Rhyvaen can’t afford to put either of them out of commission. Not his rising star of a warrior, and not his best smith. It can’t be enough yet, he thinks, it can’t.

In the privacy of his own quarters, Rhyvaen is allowed to seethe a little more, aloud, storming in and immediately lifting and tossing the nearest decorative plants across the massive room, quickly followed by, “Clean that up!” his voice a sharp snap like the crack of a whip while slaves scramble to follow orders without getting too close or too far into his field of view. Oh but he wants to rip the skin off of someone, and he knows precisely who. He just has to wait, which is done with an icy calm after that short outburst, sitting in a chair still as stone.

When the two offenders are finally brought in, eagerness that has been building within the pit of his stomach and into his chest like a sadistic excitement, finally shows within the malicious spark behind cold eyes. If he weren’t so fucking livid, Leonidas’s reaction would have a wicked grin finally replacing his scowl. Unfortunately for them, he’s too angry for that little display. And yet, this still has him feeling quite a bit better already, standing and slowly approaching the two of them. He’s had the beast’s armor stripped from him along with everything else besides his -now scrubbed clean of paint- collar, leaving him bare and forced to his knees.

Lavender energy flows over the palm of his hand, twisting into the shape of a long knife, slender and curved as he stops to stand beside Toshakovka, both of them facing Leonidas. Free hand lashing out to grip thick white hair and yank Tosha’s head back, Rhyvaen’s eyes don’t leave Leon’s. So many ideas, but first, he wants to see Leon’s reaction.

But there’s an idea. “Beg.” Because that would be a sufficient start he thinks, blade reaching to curve around Tosha’s exposed throat just above the collar.

All the while, Toshakovka is staring at Leon as well, eyes intense. Don’t do it. He doesn’t care what Rhyvaen might do, he’s not about to have everything Leonidas has said to him mean nothing. He doesn’t want Leon to bow down for his sake. Ever. Don’t do it.

As imposing as Rhyvaen is on the approach, as sinister as that blade is in his hand, the fire in Leon’s eyes doesn’t falter. Despite the exposure of the body forced in front of him, he never so much as gives the asshole the satisfaction of a glance at Tosha once his eyes are locked. Kill me you fucking prick is like a dare in those eyes, but as their jailor yanks back the warrior’s head and places that wicked blade at his throat, the myriad reasons why nearly come tumbling off his tongue.

But there’s Tosha, inner fire still blazing, and as he breaks his gaze and his eyes flicker briefly to vivid blue, all the platitudes die on his lips. Jaw set, defiant golden eyes stare Rhyvaen down yet again. You won’t do it, he’s too valuable, you won’t waste him. Slowly he grits his teeth together, swallowing down any notion of giving the beast what he wants as the words become a mantra to drown out his fears. He won’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t.

The proud blacksmith says nothing.

There it is, he can see it on the tip of Leonidas’s tongue, but- Rhyvaen straightens the slightest bit in the split moment that Leon’s eyes drop from his to Tosha’s, and he’s glancing down to see the beast’s intense glare, then back to Leon. Nothing. Nothing. All from a stare!

It’s such a sharp jolt of rage that smacks into him that Rhyvaen is driving the blade into Toshakovka’s left eye before he even really registers it, barely hearing the shouted curse leave his lips and only just barely stopping himself in time to not pierce straight through the socket and kill the slave outright. But there’s blood and and that roar of pain from the man in his grip. Blood on his hand, on his face, eyes wide and filled with a brutal fire as he now shoves Tosha forward so that he has to brace himself with his hands, letting the blood spill freely from that now ruined eye. The blade swung and pointed at Leon now, upper lip quivering in a sneer, limbs shaking with anger. “I SAID BEG!” He yells, nearly screams, indignant now.

It’s in this state that the Master is incredibly dangerous, so unhinged as he is. Even as Tosha is gasping, gritting his teeth, and again shooting one blue eye Leon’s way. “How long do you think he will last in the arena, slave!? How long!? Should I start taking fingers!?”

The barest of winces makes Leon’s eyes twitch and sting, throat trying to close against a hard swallow. I promise. He fights back the want to break apart, knowing that he’s fueling the bastard’s rage all the more, they both are. Now, he isn’t sure if one of them might not die today, and he already is carrying the guilt of Tosha’s pain like a mantle wrapped stiffly round his shoulders and keeping them straight. If the warrior dies because of him... It’s tearing him up inside, the struggle in his gaze as his lip curls and his nails dig into his palms, in his body as his muscles tense and he jerks against the guards restraining him.

To beg would be to betray the man in front of him, to betray himself. He won’t ruin him. He won’t ruin him. He won’t ruin him. The mantra shifts, and he’s sure that Rhyvaen can hear his teeth grinding. Maybe the son of a bitch knows that his jaw is set both to keep himself from giving in and to keep himself from making it that much worse. If he opens his mouth now, they both might die.

Still nothing. Rhyvaen can see all that pain, that want to give in, that need, and yet he won’t just give him what he wants. Everything within the Highborn is screaming to kill them both, to stab the pitfighter until he succumbs to the wounds, to skin either of them alive while the other watches and yet. Stunned. He’s absolutely stunned with the amount of hatred and rage boiling within him, lips finally forcing themselves back into a snarl. A shaking, audible exhale follows, heavy and forced and so suddenly full of pleasure because he’s suddenly got it, and Rhyvaen is pulling himself together, tightening the threads and straightening once more as he releases his grip from Tosha almost too gently for the amount of murder that’s teaming within his limbs, his eyes. “Guards… Take him to the dungeon. I will see to him later.” He speaks with a near nonchalance even as the edge to his voice tells Leonidas that whatever it is he has planned is going to be horrific. “And call the Healer. They will be needed.”

It’s only after the guards leave with Toshakovka in tow that he squares himself off to his best Blacksmith, knife reshaping into a whip. “Remove your shirt, dog,” Oh yes, he’s going to allow Leon the chance to willingly obey and accept his punishment, because if he doesn’t…. Oh- well- Rhyvaen is certain the little shit can only imagine. “and face away from me.”

Leon is trembling both with restraint and with rage, and then, suddenly, he’s reeling from the abrupt switch. His blood turns to ice in his veins and yet... Just looking at Tosha, he knows that no matter what the beast does to him, that spark can’t be extinguished again, he has to know that. If even for a moment he lets himself falter in his belief that the warrior will come through, all his bravado will have been for naught, and he refuses to take his eyes off of the other Proto as he’s taken away... at least until the whip forms.

He hopes, but doesn’t truly believe that Rhyvaen will take it all out on him and be sated, and yet now that it’s been decided it’s all he can do not to actively provoke the bastard. Golden eyes stare hard for a long moment after the order comes, but not at his punisher, no. He fixates on Tosha’s blood on the floor, long enough to make the son of a bitch think that he won’t give in before his gaze finally shoots up, and if one were to look hard enough his grimace might almost be mistaken for a grin.

Not today, motherfucker, he thinks, sure to stare the beast down as he shucks off his shirt and still manages to make obeying an order look like defiance. You won’t break him, and you won’t break me.

He’s sure to put himself between the slaver and that pool of blood, and he’s damn sure not to tuck his tail.