[ Despite his years working on dismantling these underground fighting rings— or perhaps because of his years— Neuvillette doesn't often venture in with the frontlines when the Maison Gardiennage start filing into the cells. He is aware of the horrors the handlers inflict on their fighters and the fear that permeates the cells, and the fights that break out. There are people trained in handling this, with better social skills than Neuvillette, better equipped to soothe the fears and break up the fights. But that night is different: one of the deputies is out sick, and something deep inside the man tugs at his gut, in a way he'd normally dismiss but feels familiar.
The cells are just as familiar, the the chaos the same. He ventures in once the handlers have mostly been subdued, the guards reassuring him the violence was contained out of some sense of loyalty and worry, as though they've forgotten his strength. And they are mostly good, handling the fighters with an admirable restraint, well-aware of why such men might lash out. Everyone fans out, knowing their jobs, and Neuvillette follows.
Meeting Wriothesley in each lifetime has always been something new, something unexpected, but the warning signs are always there. A tug in his gut, a sense of renewal on the air. He doesn't always pay attention to it, often too lost in thouht or too busy working to focus, so it's always a shock. And this is no less a shock than usual.
He peeks into the cage, a frown twisting his lips, ready to turn the fighter over to the hands of another guard. His lips part, orders on the tip of the tongue, and then it hits him: Wriothesley's scent. Beneath the squalor of the cells, the ripe, unwashed odors of the fighters and slaves, and the permeating fear, Neuvillette can smell him. He looks mostly the same, beneath his lank hair and the muzzle around his face. Neuvillette can feel his breath catch in his throat, his heart stopping for a second. Of all the places to meet his soulmate, this is not one he would wish on the man. ]
I will handle this one, [ he instructs the guards, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. They protest, of course; no one wants their benefactor to be injured on the job. But he's firm and steady in his dismissal, and eventually they leave him alone. He crosses to Wriothesley's side, studying his face. There's something wrong, though Neuvillette can't tell what. ]
We're not here to harm you, your— [ He catches himself, stopping before he can call Wriothesley "Your Grace." Hardly the title to use in the moment. ] We are setting you free.
sorry for my delay!!
The cells are just as familiar, the the chaos the same. He ventures in once the handlers have mostly been subdued, the guards reassuring him the violence was contained out of some sense of loyalty and worry, as though they've forgotten his strength. And they are mostly good, handling the fighters with an admirable restraint, well-aware of why such men might lash out. Everyone fans out, knowing their jobs, and Neuvillette follows.
Meeting Wriothesley in each lifetime has always been something new, something unexpected, but the warning signs are always there. A tug in his gut, a sense of renewal on the air. He doesn't always pay attention to it, often too lost in thouht or too busy working to focus, so it's always a shock. And this is no less a shock than usual.
He peeks into the cage, a frown twisting his lips, ready to turn the fighter over to the hands of another guard. His lips part, orders on the tip of the tongue, and then it hits him: Wriothesley's scent. Beneath the squalor of the cells, the ripe, unwashed odors of the fighters and slaves, and the permeating fear, Neuvillette can smell him. He looks mostly the same, beneath his lank hair and the muzzle around his face. Neuvillette can feel his breath catch in his throat, his heart stopping for a second. Of all the places to meet his soulmate, this is not one he would wish on the man. ]
I will handle this one, [ he instructs the guards, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. They protest, of course; no one wants their benefactor to be injured on the job. But he's firm and steady in his dismissal, and eventually they leave him alone. He crosses to Wriothesley's side, studying his face. There's something wrong, though Neuvillette can't tell what. ]
We're not here to harm you, your— [ He catches himself, stopping before he can call Wriothesley "Your Grace." Hardly the title to use in the moment. ] We are setting you free.