Armande stifled the slight chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. Phillip was always prickly, a trait that had never really bothered him before. Protocol mattered, especially when dealing with subordinates. It needed to be drilled into them until respect rolled off the tongue without thought. As for the mind, well, there was some truth that repeated affirmations played a psychological effect. Call someone "Lord" or "Master", "Holy Father" or "Regus"- even "Sir"- and a part of the brain began to associate the person with that position, making them more than merely human, but rather an idea. But only a fool conflated that with true respect or loyalty.
And yet now...it felt petty and childish. A a true dominant engendered respect and deference through sheer force of will, freely given, not demanded.
Especially all the more so when dealing with equals or...he turned his head back to the room the Eyes slept in, thinking of them all together as the hand of Fate in the world...when dealing with superiors. The chuckle seemed to evaporate in his throat. He merely raised an eyebrow a fraction, ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Election by a body- an election he had ensured, no less- did not impress him in the slightest. He ignored the attempted correction.
He folded his hands and adopted a friendly if distant manner. "The dead do indeed speak, Patricus,"- the most he was willing to give. " Indeed, Fate is at work in this world. The troubles we face go beyond mere monsters and abominations. It is not just the dead that speak. Fate has made her"- the pronoun seemed appropriate for the moment- " will known."
He leaned forward, the sapphire blue of his eyes burning with icy intensity. "A pillar, with four faces- a bull, a lion, an eagle...and a man." That last was said with an emphasis that screamed "you". His eyes burned with the fire of this singular moment in time. "The prophecies come to fruition. The four of use are called to the garden to find the reality. You have been called."
And yet now...it felt petty and childish. A a true dominant engendered respect and deference through sheer force of will, freely given, not demanded.
Especially all the more so when dealing with equals or...he turned his head back to the room the Eyes slept in, thinking of them all together as the hand of Fate in the world...when dealing with superiors. The chuckle seemed to evaporate in his throat. He merely raised an eyebrow a fraction, ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Election by a body- an election he had ensured, no less- did not impress him in the slightest. He ignored the attempted correction.
He folded his hands and adopted a friendly if distant manner. "The dead do indeed speak, Patricus,"- the most he was willing to give. " Indeed, Fate is at work in this world. The troubles we face go beyond mere monsters and abominations. It is not just the dead that speak. Fate has made her"- the pronoun seemed appropriate for the moment- " will known."
He leaned forward, the sapphire blue of his eyes burning with icy intensity. "A pillar, with four faces- a bull, a lion, an eagle...and a man." That last was said with an emphasis that screamed "you". His eyes burned with the fire of this singular moment in time. "The prophecies come to fruition. The four of use are called to the garden to find the reality. You have been called."