the army of one. [DAMIEN]

[Klaus Cither]

[atrb=style,width: 120px; height: 300px; background-color: #8f8498; border-radius: 60 0 0 0; vertical-align: top; border-right: 10px solid #363636;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image:url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v723/Inra/gig/gig3_zps29171f96.png); margin: 10 5 5 10; border-radius: 50; box-shadow: 2px 2px 0px #363636;][/style][STYLE=font-family: georgia; font-size: 22px; text-transform: lowercase; font-style: italic; color: #fff; padding: 10px; vertical-align: bottom; line-height: 18px; letter-spacing: -3px; text-shadow: 1px 1px 0px #363636; text-align: left;]_ a white out of emotion and i only got my brittle bones to break this f a l l. _[/style]

[atrb=cellpadding, 0, true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width: 300px; height: 150px; background-color: #eeeeee; border-radius: 0 0 60 0;][classy=scroll][STYLE=height: 200px; width: 270px; margin: 10; padding: 5px; font-family: tahoma; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; overflow: auto; background-color: #eeeeee; valign: top; color: #292929;]Morning came and went in the castle, a slow trot of activity that grew to a clumsy gallop after mid-noon. Two suns, Klaus mused to no one, and neither kept him awake at times like these. The courtyard had a steady reputation as comfortably boring, red brick circle between towering slate-gray fort walls and short-lived grassy perimeter, while he tried-and-failed to cleverly stand guard. Back-straight, with a dead expression that killed any good moods in an instant and reliably, he realized that he largely looked awkward and prided himself on being another of Skara's excellent guardsmen. Sometimes, the greatest indication of success is how laughable you appear to those with no knowledge of your military conventions. As a guideline, that could be pretty damned laughable. Sifting the stray bangs that tumbled into his eyes, his thoughts drifted in the way thoughts do when a man is left to watch for threats lurking behind shadows. Voices say that you come to expect little of the world, and that this afternoon will unfold like the next and the one after, but you are a soldier who should prepare for the worst. And, as a solider, when he had moments alone he pictured the curvy oranges and licking yellows of a good flame and came to believe the sparks began in his hands. Touch it enough, Klaus discovered, and the sensation numbs easy as the air on your skin. Again and again, until he had a web of red marks—light, and able to heal if he let them be—Faas taught him how to burn. When he trained him, it would be with the intention that Klaus should grow up and end lives. Pain made it true; more like the reality of the field or the hall where a fool tries to drive a sword through you. 'It needed to be done, I suppose . . .'

[/b] and Klaus leaned back, hands tucked safely in his sleeves, and thought that he trusted in fire all the same now.

Not for his mastery of it, but because it terrified him. Fire swells to storms and explosions if it can, raging onwards until it dies; fire does what it wants, and the fire shifter only gives it a direction. Grimacing, not sure what to do with himself now that he had no unruly Princes to chase around the city limits, Klaus snorted—perhaps half a sigh, if you listened well enough—before the heavy wooden doors shook from the other side of the courtyard. '. . . damn it,'[/b] the face was familiar, no age lines and with navy-blue at the man's strong jawline, and Klaus rather hoped he would cheerfully say that he walked through a wrong door and had some more productive matter to attend to. 'Not that he would be of much use except standing there, but: helps to dream.'[/b]

Unfortunately, Klaus realized that then they might have too much in common, and he offered a very strained, "Sir." Guardians had a code of conduct and Klaus followed it faithfully, bred to know and respond to what Royalty expected of him. Damien was his superior. He would address him. They were both born castle watchdogs, and he gritted his teeth—enough to see, but trying to swallow much more colorful greetings. (Never a good idea to make an ass of yourself. Klaus learned that first hand, but nobody needed to know how.)

Again, he felt the twinge of those burns on the back of his hand, and droned, “An honor.” It sounded like a poor-and-obvious lie, and Klaus thought over his options carefully. In the end, he settled on thanking himself for that with a very eloquent, '. . . shit.'[/b] [/style][/classy][STYLE=width: 270px; height: 50px; margin: 5 5 -10 10; padding: 5px; border: 1px dashed #8f8498; border-radius: 0 0 50 0; font-size: 8.5px; font-type: georgia; color: #000;]TAG! damien.
WORDS! 615.
NOTES! W-WELL. I FINISHED. /i'm sorry it's crappy |||OTL[/style]
[/td][/tr][/table][STYLE=padding: 3px; font-size: 10px; font-family: tahoma; color: #292929; text-align: center;]TEMPLATE BY PEBBLE OF BTN[/style]

[newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width: 4px; background: transparent; direction:ltr;[/newclass][newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]background: #8f8498; border-radius: 2px;[/newclass][newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-corner]background: transparent;[/newclass]
[/center]

[Damien Bael]

[atrb=valign, top][STYLE= font-family: franklin gothic medium; font-size: 11px; line-height: 85%; text-align: center; color: #666;]❝ I NEVER KNEW DAYLIGHT COULD BE SO VIOLENT ❞[/style][STYLE= width: 250px; border-right: #373737 dashed 01px; border-left: #373737 dashed 01px; border-top: #373737 solid 10px; border-bottom: #373737 solid 10px; padding: 10px; background: #fafafa; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #6f6f6f; font-family: tahoma;]”Maa, maa ya shouldn't be too hard on yaself!” Damien drawled out to the soldier that he was walking beside, well one out of the two. Laughing Damien patted the metal covered shoulder, “She's just bein' shy! Go at it slow and she'll fall inta ya lap!” Usually such basic language was not spoken through Damien's lips, but hey, it helps with getting allies and making others relax when a 'high end noble' is speaking like they would. Ha, noble. Damien wasn't even close to one, he was born in poverty, trained to be a guardian, surviving from little amounts of food, cold filled nights and the feeling that everyone wanted your throat if he wasn't careful. Guardian training was literally one of the most brutal things he had ever experienced. Failure was not an option, hesitation brought starvation and beatings that he wasn't even spared from even when he became Lukas' Guardian. The only difference is that he had food and a warm bed. Laughing and chatting with the two of them, he eventually pushed open the door to the courtyard, mindlessly laughing at one of the jokes that the other men were telling (of their sexual escapades that were seriously more like a comedy sketch.), and he would've truthfully continued to the other end of the courtyard just listening to these two if it wasn't for the voice that spoke out. Wiping the tear away from his visible eye, he blinked before looking over towards the silver-haired male that...seemed to be constipated. “You alright lad?” Damien voiced in concern, “You seem like you're having some trouble.” Bathroom trouble but he wasn't going to voice that in public, that would be full out rude. Looking back to the guards, he gave them a grin, “Seems like I need ta talk ta the lad, we'll continue later, aye?” He told the others who nodded their heads with a small chuckles and left with a 'See ya soon sir!' At least they were rather polite bastards he couldn't help but think with a grin. Turning back to the silver-haired youth, he listened to the gritted out 'An honor' and really couldn't help but raise a brow at that, “You make it a habit to tell such piss poor lies?” Reaching inside his red sleeve he pulled out a rolled up smoke and placed it on his lips as he searched for a match, “You seem too wound up, is Prince Caeius alright?” He recognized the guardian that followed the young prince even though he truthfully didn't know his name, but he was glad that Caeius had a guardian. He was there when Caeius was growing up, helping him in various of small ways and even though he wasn't his child it didn't stop Damien from treating him like one. It was a shame that blood bonds ran so deeply into his core rather then emotional ones. Seeing as Lukas hated the boy and even strived to kill him just in infancy. It was the Queen that stopped him and bless her soul, she was truly a creature that he sometimes couldn't believe wanted him out of everyone in the castle...[/style][STYLE= font-family: franklin gothic medium; font-size: 10px; text-align: center; color: #373737;]MADE BY CYANIDE CANDY ✖[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:300px, btable][STYLE= color: #d5d5d5; font-family: franklin gothic medium, arial narrow; font-size: 10px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; background: #373737; padding: 05px; margin-top: 09px;]❝ tagged: KLAUS ❞[/style][STYLE= color: #d5d5d5; font-family: franklin gothic medium, arial narrow; font-size: 10px; text-align: center; margin-top: 05px; text-transform: uppercase; background: #373737; padding: 05px;]❝ 527 words ❞[/style][STYLE= margin-top: 05px; height: 100px; width: 100px; border-bottom-right-radius: 30px; border: #373737 solid 10px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v489/Tsagu/Icons/Damien/1012317-1.jpg);][/style][STYLE= color: #373737; font-size: 80px; margin-top: -43px; margin-left: -09px;]◤[/style]

[Klaus Cither]

[atrb=style,width: 120px; height: 300px; background-color: #8f8498; border-radius: 60 0 0 0; vertical-align: top; border-right: 10px solid #363636;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image:url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v723/Inra/gig/gig3_zps29171f96.png); margin: 10 5 5 10; border-radius: 50; box-shadow: 2px 2px 0px #363636;][/style][STYLE=font-family: georgia; font-size: 22px; text-transform: lowercase; font-style: italic; color: #fff; padding: 10px; vertical-align: bottom; line-height: 18px; letter-spacing: -3px; text-shadow: 1px 1px 0px #363636; text-align: left;]_ a white out of emotion and i only got my brittle bones to break this f a l l. _[/style]

[atrb=cellpadding, 0, true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width: 300px; height: 150px; background-color: #eeeeee; border-radius: 0 0 60 0;][classy=scroll][STYLE=height: 200px; width: 270px; margin: 10; padding: 5px; font-family: tahoma; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; overflow: auto; background-color: #eeeeee; valign: top; color: #292929;]'Caeius, eh.'

[/b] His Prince was many things, certainly, but not the reason why he looked at Damien and saw servitude. Ripped from his home at a young age. Left with Faas, who treated him as a thing best seen and not heard. Laughed at for having no blue blood background. Easily replaced by some other fool—even the Guardians who die are forgotten, tossed out and then the Royals go off to find someone else just good enough to kill.

He said it before and he said it again: life hadn't owed him anything, and he had no choice about who he was. Klaus barely considered himself unhappy these days, and still it rankled him. Guardianship became an old bruise that blackens and doesn't fade out. 'Don't you have,'[/b] and the words burned, alive and surging and furious in his throat, 'Any pride.'[/b] Biting it down, Klaus remembered that he had a position and a hierarchy to conform to. Pride barely matters in the grander scheme, but it left behind a—feeling. Not resentment, but something that settles in deep under your skin.

Years ago, he watched Damien ride horseback along the roads while the parades raged through the street; excited when Faas ruffled his hair and let him run around freely for an afternoon. Not tall growing up, he was short enough to get around the crowd's legs, and he found his way to the front to look—impressive, returning a war-hero and named a flame champion. When the festival ended and the world went back to thinking of their dreary tomorrows, Klaus began to believe that if there were men out there capable of forming flames into other things then perhaps he might be able to do it. One day, perhaps, and he grunted from the back of his throat.

'Hm . . . the drunk memories were probably better. That's not promising. . .'[/b] and his usually—and trusty, he believed in being unreadable behind palace walls—blank expression twitched, darker than he wanted it to be 'Don't bring him up . . . not from you.'[/b] The Princes and Princesses of Deflou Spero were etched in history as the sons and daughters of a tyrant that murdered thousands of his own in cold blood. Good, bad, but not forgotten, they will always live with that over their heads, and Damien would encourage it by standing back and looking for the knife above the King's shoulder.

Klaus let people call him what they wanted, but he was no idiot. Your actions are your words, and Damien could pretend to be a good man and still fail a hundred times over. He knew, Klaus thought, because they both would say the kingdom gave them an order and they followed. If they were Guardians, they would fight for their charge until they died—no matter how the bastards acted. '. . . it's not even him . . .'[/b] And he rapped a knuckle against the brick, leaning back until he could see the line of sky just over the fortress walls with his arms crossed.

Thinking back, Klaus wanted to be diplomatic. Instead, he smirked and snorted, "Do you find yourself—hmm—tired of idiots that stop and try and pick out problems you didn't advertise, sir."

. . . well. He tried to be diplomatic. Made a valiant attempt, that counted. Right now, he didn't feel like hearing it, and being thrown in a jail cell for a few hours would probably just end in hoping something interesting happens—like the ceiling disappearing, or a rambunctious thief dropping in to make a house call. (Hoping, at least.) Klaus thought of Damien as a hero, someone honorable who came from "ignoble beginnings" like his own, and watched that decay in front of him. '. . . hah, I'm a child, then. Fine.'[/b]

Struggling, it was hard to kindly keep quiet once he got going, "Or should I ask easier questions with less words for you, sir. My mistake, sir." [/style][/classy][STYLE=width: 270px; height: 70px; margin: 5 5 -10 10; padding: 5px; border: 1px dashed #8f8498; border-radius: 0 0 50 0; font-size: 8.5px; font-type: georgia; color: #000;]TAG! damien.
WORDS! 622.
NOTES! I AM SO SORRY. SCHOOL. I HAVE NO EXCUSES. |||OTL also they can fight right after this one . . . but it kinda makes me hope they can talk
a bit more in the future. /seems interesting [/style]
[/td][/tr][/table][STYLE=padding: 3px; font-size: 10px; font-family: tahoma; color: #292929; text-align: center;]TEMPLATE BY PEBBLE OF BTN[/style]

[newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width: 4px; background: transparent; direction:ltr;[/newclass][newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]background: #8f8498; border-radius: 2px;[/newclass][newclass=scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-corner]background: transparent;[/newclass]
[/center]