StormWolf
Elder Member
Location: The Bishop Estate, The Baronās Office
Interactions: Open
Mentions: Open
Roland MacCann
There are alway the stubborn hopes that people cling to, despite being constantly let down or disappointed. That yonder-star wish that never gets fulfilled. Ever since Roland started his tenure as the Vanguard drill master, that wish - that hope - was that they would mature into a proper unit of soldiers. A proper, well-oiled machine.
Once again, Roland was disappointed in spades.
Perhaps not entirely, though. They proved capable of a multi-pronged attack against a single target position. It just so happened that said target was Isolde and himself, particularly their interlocked fingers. Every single barb and jab eroded the smile that Roland had walked in wearing. The summer-cerulean of his eyes returning to their usual stormy-sea hue beneath that familiar, sullen brow. Isoldeās answer to the Scotās jibe was not lost on him, but at that point Roland had already started to withdraw within himself. Still, there was something real in how she squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture. Roland couldnāt blame her, he supposed. She had more at risk and more to lose if things went a particular way. Her manner of thinking had merit. Still, the steel and resolve sheād shown in private withered before her peers.
āPerish the thought that someone might actually enjoy my company,ā Roland said in an ironclad deadpan, casting a sidelong leer at the gaggle of the other Vanguard. In truth, should he have expected anything less? With Valentin making a spectacle on the floor, Roland thought that, yes, perhaps he should. Rolandās lip curled ever so faintly. The muddy Mississippi was less of a mess than that French waif.
āDonāt yāall worry. Iāve taken note of conduct and taken your words under advisement.ā Roland said with one of his there-and-gone smiles that promised every little jeer would have someone raked across the coals. The Baron and the Witchfinder-General had made a mistake. One of Rolandās sisters would have been a better hand with this merry band of petulant children.
As if on queue, that was when the Baron Bishop made his entrance. Isolde released Rolandās hand, which was perhaps for the best, as the soldier snapped to attention out of habit. The Baron, insofar as Roland knew, held no military rank, but he was the head of thisā¦ project. It wasnāt until the Baronās dismissal of her and his wholesale greeting of the rest of the room that Roland went at ease, hands moving to rest on the laddered back of the chair. It was common fare to let the man in charge run his mouth as much as he liked, especially when man was paying for room, board, meals, and supplies that were so luxurious.
Mention of rushed deployment creased Rolandās brow. He understood the fluid nature of the front, in that it was either stalemate or a constantly swerving, sinuous line. When the Baron addressed Roland directly, he couldnāt particularly lie. A salve for one's own pride didnāt matter if they were thrown into the meat-grinder before they were ready,
āRome wasnāt built in a day, sir. Theyāre not ready for real action, by my count. A few more weeks might change by tune, but-ā Roland was interrupted by the Baronās insistence to ask rhetorical questions. Why waste everyoneās time in the asking, then? So, Roland listened, furrowed brow quirking at the ritual. Blood-bonding based of old Celtic practicesā¦ Roland couldnāt imagine that the Witchfinder-General, with his puritanical orthodox beliefs, could be all too thrilled
Further explanation carved dark lines into Rolandās visage in a mercurial cascade. Surprise, confusion, consternation, rage. Rolandās hands grasped at the back of the chair with an audible chorus of knuckles popping under pressure.
Big press; a public spectacle for a pagan wedding ritual under the moonlit sky, within a chapel. Matches made at the Baronās behest.
Something ice-cold built up in Rolandās gut, coursing into his veins as he forced his breathing to remain steady. Too steady, to the point of laborious. Had he been played for a fool? Some bit of sport or practice for the blushing bride-to-be? Cold rage and burning embarrassment - shame, even - built up a sort of vitriolic steam inside of the soldier to the point where he felt he might explode.
Instead, something just in him just broke. Something intangible, hardly seen by the eye. A shrug of the shoulders, and Roland feltā¦ not a thing. Receding fully into himself, struck in the jugular when he let his guard down, just once. It would surely have been simpler if the landmine had taken Rolandās leg, and spared him the Witchfinder-Generalās consideration.
āIt seems,ā Roland said vacantly, peering into some middle space miles away, āthat the Vanguard have much to consider. Iāll leave yāall to it. Congratulations on this auspicious day.ā Roland forced his hands open with a creak of strained joints. He didnāt offer a bow or a salute. There was simply a low, āMiss Bishop,ā from behind the chair, and Roland made his leave.
He needed to get out of that room before he shot someone. Roland eased the door open to slip into the hall, fighting every urge to slam it shut. He wasnāt going to give any of them the fucking satisfaction, and he couldnāt care less about how any of them felt about their match. Why give more than you receive, after all? It was a Vanguard matter, after all, and the line had been drawn just as to what that meant.
The door closed with a click, and he was gone.
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