In spite of foals' reputation of lankiness and legginess, Raglan was born lankier and leggier than others of his time. He's told that he takes after his mother, not that the orphan would know - or even care, for that matter - but let it not be said that the boy isn't grateful for his beauty.

Raglan is fortunate with his looks; pretty and pristine, the boy is a sight to behold. Graced with large, opalescent eyes that gleam and glimmer with a myriad of colors, the lad has mastered the art of the mischievous wink. Pair those doe like eyes with full black lips and a shining demantoid garnet inlaid in the center of his forehead, and you have a recipe for a handsome disaster.

With a pelt the color of dried blood stretching over a lithely muscled frame, interrupted only by long stockings of black reaching to his knees and hocks, the youth catches eyes as well as his nimble fingers catch purses. Long legs are tipped in opal hooves, their pale and gemlike hue matching that of the squire's eyes. Towering height is made loftier with a pair of scythe shaped horns stained the warm, deep brown of freshly turned earth. The twin crowns arch over the page's back and come to a tapered point in line with the lad's rump.

The yearling's silhouette is made more impressive by the addition of a pair of great feathered wings the same color as his skin, though each feather darkens toward it's tip, as if Raglan strayed too close to the sun and felt Solis' vengeful burn. To add some contrast to his image, pale, cream colored strands hang straight and smooth from the lad's neck and rump, the lengthy mane and tail trimmed to hang close to - but never skim nor touch - the earth.

What can be said about a boy who was born amongst the cobbles and dirt of a city?

Could it be said that he rose to greatness despite his humble beginnings? That he held in his chest a morally upright and splendid heart? That he refused sin and chaos as he rode upon the turbulent wings of immaculate innocence?

No, no one could claim this of Raglan Silvertongue. He was born a weed, unwanted and unnecessary, gangly and thin with heavy horns upon his head and massive wings dragging at his steps. His first memories are not of his mother or father, no, they are of drinking warm goat's milk from a trough alongside a kindly cheese maker's twin daughters, Pyracantha and Mithrille. The mare was not young, but neither was she old. Indeed, the matronly cheese maker was a soft, sweet woman who had found a thin colt struggling to stand upon her back door.

He had been a little, unimpressive thing within the first few weeks of life; nubby horns and oversized wings threw off his already tenuous balance and caused his willowy frame to go toppling at even the slightest breeze. So while the cheesewoman - Dalla, was her name - had taken him in during the cold nights and necessary meals, the moment he was able to fend for himself, she set him on his way with a kiss on his cheek and a chunk of cheese in his satchel. It was something she could not afford, she had told him, not when he was growing so quickly alongside her babes - he would eat her out of house and home, and there were more orphans on the streets that weren't as quick of thought and silver of tongue as her Raglan.

So on and into the city he went, his nimble feet dancing among the smallfolk and lords alike, cleaving his life's path as a quick fingered thief and a prettily clad liar. It wasn't long until he found a gang of youths similar to him, grubby faced and bruised, desperate and proud. Together, they organized better pick pocketing spots, caused profitable distractions, and couriered messages for whoever had the coin or food to pay. It was a rough life, one that didn't go without risk and one that lead to the loss of a number of Raglan's beloved brothers and sisters, but it was his life and he had chosen it.

It wasn't long before he and his band of Crows were sought after as spies and informants; no one paid attention to street rats, and many wished to know what went on when men and women didn't think that anyone important was watching. So they rose together, profiting off of the curiosities, suspicions, jealousies, and perversions of the rich. Raglan's brothers and sisters supped on foods that filled their bellies and weighted their bodies with muscle and healthy fats - he and his crows grew strong even as the nation floundered.

But then, something wondrous and impossible happened, a boy who they had worked with, then worked for, who had been rising in the ranks of the military for some time, was selected by the populace to rule Denocte. Reichenbach, the bruised boy with his fist around a throne, a fellow orphan, a fellow Crow had risen to the crown and brought the orphan children of Denocte's streets with them. Raglan had watched with starry eyes as the gypsy stallion had taken this ragtag gang of ne'er do'wells and misfits and called them his children, called them his beloved and valued friends.

His heart had swelled with pride and gratitude, and the yearling had begged his new King for service - to continue to help his Crows prosper and to continue to prosper himself beneath the guidance of Reich's lords and ladies. So the benevolent Orphan King had listened and smiled, threw back his head and laughed that full-bellied laugh of his, and given him a home and a purpose beyond his years. Page, squire, friend.

Whatever gods sat upon their celestial thrones must have grinned as they heard Raglan's heartsong that night and every day after. He had found his place, if only for a moment.

Yet, not all things are set in stone.

It is said that if one travels down the same path enough, the ruts in the road will become so deep that the traveler will no longer be able to take any other direction without difficulty. Raglan supposes this was his folly.

Reichenbach’s regime fell, shadows and stars and whispers shoved away upon the back of the sun. War and flame came to their home, ripping away the sense of safety that the youth had held beneath the eaves of Denocte’s palace. He fled, of course he fled, that spindly silver-haired child with fear and cowardice in his heart as mahogany wings carried him aloft to lands that would never shine as bright. The Silvertongue hadn’t let himself look back, hadn’t allowed for homesickness to pull at his soul until now, until he knew that whatever smoke had come from the cleansing fires of a slaughtered era had blown away.

And so he returns, battered, bruised, angrier and older, in an attempt to reforge what he once knew to be home.