The Songbird and the Wolf

[ XXVIII ] The Last Straw

The sweet reunion does not last long, however. 

Their jailor rounds the corner, a rustle of wings, leather and thud of boots on the bare rock beneath them. His face contorts into a malicious smile, and he devours the distance in two short steps, eager to punish. 

He slams the hilt of his sword against the bars, the metallic rattling a jarring sound that echoes deep into his chest. 

His ears ringing from the violent, sudden sound. 

"That will be enough of that," the prison guards words are drip with fury, swinging the blade in a figure of eight that makes the air whistle. 

Exactly what conniving they might be able to do on either side of the rusted bars, in plain sight at that, Quinn isn't sure. 

But his legs are moving, placing him at the furthest side of the cell. 

The tense, broad line of his shoulders resting against the jagged rocks of the wall furthest from the bars, from the armed stranger. The window metres above his head, bathing his back and shoulders in the pale sunlight. 

His gaze does not peel from the jailer, watching his slightest movements with the caution of a cornered mouse. 

Astor and Maia also split, leaping away from the cells in an almost cartoonish reaction. They do so mostly for fear of meeting the other side of that blade. Their action is belated, whereas Quinn's is a near trained reaction. 

He'd moved like a well trained dog reacting to the jerk of a leash. 

Old habits die hard. 

The echo of orders against the sheer rock walls, suffocated him as much as fingers wrapping around his bare throat might have.

Chains he can feel winding around him, even now. 

Quinn can't peel his gaze from the stranger, studying him carefully. Taking a measure of everything he can get his eyes on, in case any slight part of it might help him get out of this alive.

But all he can notice that isn't otherwise immediately obvious, is a splash of black on the man's wrist. What had been carefully hidden by the cuffs of his uniform.

Carefully kept out of sight, until the stranger had got carried away with this show of power over his prisoners.

At first Quinn might have mistaken it for ink, accidentally staining the pale skin. It is untidy, hurriedly done, and for that reason it takes the Wolf longer than it ought to have done to realise it is more permanent than that. 

A tattoo, but before Quinn can figure out of what, the stranger is speaking again.

"I didn't think Court Aquila even knew how to follow orders," the smirk is a thing that consumes the strangers features, rattling the blade a second time, this one mostly for fun. Revelling in how the imprisoned trio flinch away from the sound. 

Despite her exhausted state, Maia looks ready to rip the jailer's throat clean out. 

Astor looks tempted to join her, clenching and unclenching his fists, the furious tremble to his frame very barely perceptible.  

The jailer considers the trio with wicked eyes, lit a dangerous medley of amusement and malice.

He withdraws the blade again, allowing the weapon to slice against the bars - the metal singing as it does. He twirls it at his fingertips, putting on a show to the delight of only himself, before re-sheathing the blade at his hip once more. 

The hilt hitting the leather of the sheathe with a hollow thud.

If anything, he doubts this is anything more than some false bravado out of boredom.