He rises as the morn breaks day, traveling south toward a land unknown to him and does not stop. He halts only sporadically, to drink and to feed, but for nothing else does he waver his course. A man with a soul filled with relentless uncertainty does not call for a steady trail and he goes on but not with ease, perceptive of everything around him with so, in the new world he roams in, each sound is a warning, and each scent a reason to return a slave to the shadows.

But he is not a coward, and he stands unwavering just beyond the banks of a river, dull optics settling upon a man he does not know. Trust is a fluid thing within his multiverse; trust of himself, trust of others, trust of the world around him. Nothing is certain for him anymore, and nothing has given him a reason to believe that it should be so. He is a haunted man, body and soul; the cost of living freely has irreversibly marred his face and from that lesson he has learned the price of peace of mind is one that is sure to put a soul in debt, something he refuses to accept again. But for now he hovers silently between confrontation and fleeing, unsure of what the other’s purpose in such a proximity to him and his own. His head dips, perhaps warningly, perhaps questioningly, but he does not submit.

Despite the paranoid mind frame he holds, he is not a man of submission to the most imposing force out of obedience. There is only one force he will bow to, and in body it is not likely he will ever have the chance. Instead, stormy eyes settle intensely upon the other, no movement save for the rapid twitch of his eyes as they observe vividly, taking in the other of his intent and his purpose. At this point, Rollo is unable to assess clearly the intent of the other, a fact that both shocks as well as disturbs him, but he does carefully hide his confusion with a gaze of pure steel and a low chuff escapes him.

Rollo does not know what he seeks other than self-assurance that his presence is not threatened by the other. But how to put into words his own core-shaking fears in the face of a man who, with one word, asserts his dominion; his impassive confidence? While outwardly, the man himself may seem unwavering on account of his physical attributes, instability reeks within, and he finds himself not wholeheartedly threatened but regarding the other with a feeling of respect. This is not a man to be conned, but one with a backbone similar to Rollo himself. But that does not take account for the skepticism that is yet to be avowed, and he presses on with his mistrustful mindset, out of instinct rather than choice. “Friend . . .” he draws out, words staggering through his throat on a husky breath. “ -- or foe?” Comes his inquisitive inquiry; when he calls, there is very little sign of his inner trepidation but pure virility in his tone and movements. Straightening up, he rests his head properly upon the mantle of his shoulders, losing his appeal of uncertainty in replacement of a wish to appear as if his mind could mimic the outward composure of his body. In physicality, he has little flaws, but in the workings of the brain did his blemishes lie.

Rollo will not appear a weakling, but he does not appear pretentious. He is a man, searching for what he cannot find, and unknowingly, something the other can offer; allegiance. But Rollo’s intentions do not even come clear to himself and for a fraction of a second does he second guess the purpose of his words, contemplating the idea that should the man wear the pallium of a leader strong, that he could be willing to fall in line and serve, to serve anyone other than his gods. One thing is certain, however, he acknowledges the other holds a certain sway, something that calls, that pulls to take a chance and he cannot attempt to deny it frightens him more than ever.

The other answers with words that surprises the apathetic man, but he dares not show it. Instead, his ears align upright, looking to the other with eyes of curiosity but a gaze of lessening detachment. He grunts, a brief nod of his head, an unspoken acknowledgement of an unsaid yet newfound acquaintance and the certainty of the possibilities to come. Arturo was not alone in the extension of the olive branch, for as his uncertainty fades and respect grows, Rollo unconsciously grasps the offer with a desperation he could not identify if asked to; loneliness had taken his heart so long ago, he had grown used to the dull independence that both haunted him and fueled his demons, until now. And in that, the fear of infinite possibility is subsided in the face of assurance the other bids him no ill will, and he relaxes almost visibly. “Rollo,” He replies with the same decisive tone as the other, accepting the idea of mutual benefit from their current situation. His man, he did not have to be cautious of in the sense he felt that betrayal could not come about him whilst he was associated with Arturo. In return, Rollo himself is a force to be reckoned with; the brute to the brains of a thundering machine. Nothing gets by him, and in his own way, there is an intensity in each step he takes, unwavering and true.

But he only offers one name, one side of him for he knows not yet enough about the other to offer a piece of himself he had since buried to the point of ignorance many moons ago. He was simply Rollo, now. There was no need nor motive to be anything other than the hard-gazed creature he had become, and for the only use he could serve, it was rightly so. “You have land?” He speaks with an air of experience, but gruffly so; a suggestion but not a promise just yet that he is willing to follow. Nothing is certain yet, he thinks as his tongue rolls over his jowls, tracing the outline of his scar in vivid recollection of troubles since past. But should Arturo prove to be a man of charismatic ambition, something worthy to follow, he would, for it is something about the other that perceives the mantle of a leader.

The idea of loyalty was less of a moral trouble to him in that moment, the other was clearly something of clear perception and had thus earned the regard of a dubious, thorny soldier like Rollo. Something the callous man could respect, if the other did not downplay the severity that could come with the man Rollo, for as dormant as his words are, havoc wages a war within.

He listens intently as the other speaks, hard gaze unwavering despite his confliction. The other has a head on his shoulders, unlike Rollo himself bt with a suave he recognises they share. It is something he has not witnesses in another for some time, and he wonders what kind of leader he is, and what kind of enemies they hold. But then the word is spoken, a word he has avoided for many moons. “Family,” He murmurs, a word and its concept since estranged to him. Once he had known familial bond, once when it was a sacred thing rather than something out of necessity, and in he had learned that even the most promising of futures among those who would call you their brother were subject to abandonment, by the cold claw of a stranger. But the other says so in a way that does not make him think of the term family as blood relation but a bond. Not a family but a tribe, in some way. While the man is less inclined to embrace the idea of togetherness so quickly after chosen isolation, he knows he will not find a chance such as the one he faced in that moment, elsewhere, for never before had his angst been won over so easily. He was a creature of habit, but also instinctive survival. He would do what needed to be done in the end, even if it was cause for moral dismay. And with contemplating the possibility of his fealty, he knew it would not come a difficulty to follow in another’s command.

Rollo’s problem was not with compliance but with the idea of family itself, for following another was not nearly as similar to familial duty, even despite his understanding of what the term meant to the other, the concept was the same. He had served valiantly, and done so before with the obedience of a thousand loyal men. But what he had learned from it became a powerful tool in hindsight and pain beyond measure.. Perhaps he was not yet ready to accept such a change in the amount of time the other suggested his loyalties should adjust. “I am in no need of family, not yet,’’ His apprehension was spoken with a flicker of pain, visible only in his eyes as he cast them away, reason enough that his hesitation is justified. His eyes return to the other's awating optics; he was willing. “But I will follow you if you should have me, Arturo Fearghal, . . .’’ He decides, that his prolonged isolation sentence should come it its end and his purpose realigned to vouch for something other than himself. Eventually, he will learn that his lone wolf tendencies are not really his instinct at all, but a fall back resort he has long since adapted to. Eventually, that is. For now, he is man full of corruption, fury beneath the surface and a death wish the size of north america that has kept him alive despite inner most secret wishes, but should the other have him, there would be n need to fear what was the unknown. “. . . friend,” spoken with the slightest sign of fondnes but more with he determination and respect duitifully given, Arturo has captured the fealty of a man with little will of self preservation, and perhaps, saved him from permanent and irrevocable damnation.