Upon leaving the stage, Raymond wasted no time seeing to the maintenance of his blade. The woodcarving process had dulled its edge and left sap residue clinging to its faces. His distaste at the thought burrowed far deeper than an expression of inconvenience, flirting with either obsession or near-Pavlovian levels of conditioning.

Luckily, it was simple enough work. Finding clean water among the refreshments required asking a couple of the revelers, and after retreating to an open space he was able to rinse the blade without a fuss. The sharpening was another matter, but in a pinch any decently-sized stone would do and there were plenty to be had.

Storytelling was an art form that the red stallion had taken to quite naturally in his youth, and he wondered at times if a different universe might have seen him become a bard rather than a soldier. Certainly for someone of his culture and upbringing, he harbored a surprising reluctance to engage others directly.

So why did he always show up in new places ahead of whispers of war like some brightly-colored storm crow?

He certainly had a knack for picking his paths.

Turning so he might catch a decent view of the stage as he worked and glancing around at the gathered masses for a glimpse of Florentine, who had accompanied him, Raymond began the well-practiced process of whetting his scythe against the stone he had elected for the purpose. The flower-crown still draped over his head swayed rhythmically with every stroke. It was difficult not to hum along to the long, sweeping strokes as he worked, but out of respect for the festival and the presentations of those that followed him he kept silent and sang the whetting song only with his eyes.

There's a universal sensation that accompanies the moment someone new enters a scene - a visceral Metal Gear alert, if you will. Raymond got the full effect as a collared stranger spoke up midway through a long stroke of his blade.

You might refrain from being seen sharpening that.

The red stallion paused abruptly and tilted his head quizzically, meeting her smoldering eye before slowly following through with the interrupted arc. "I'm sorry," he replied with blithe puzzlement. "Should I hide in the bushes so people really start asking questions?" Certainly if he had been worried about disturbing the peace, he'd have chosen to center his contribution to the festival around something other than his skill with the blade. Perhaps some light stand-up.

Certainly Raymond teased, but there was neither malice nor impatience in his jovial tone. He'd always loved a good party; the stormy-eyed mare would not dampen his spirits over what likely amounted to a misunderstanding. She carried herself like a levee under pressure, holding back a roiling, tumultuous sea (which is to say she reminded him of Calliope in her intensity, though he imagined the similarity ended there).

"Unfortunately I cannot disarm myself. But this is an art festival, and I would hope the hosts would understand if an artist needed to look after the tools of his trade." As he spoke his tail had fallen easily into its usual loose curl, the blade turned in a soft upward arc. Leopards telegraphed their intentions similarly when not hunting, letting their white-tipped tail inform one and all of their presence as a peace offering. When you are the weapon, you have to speak plainly.

After a beat of silence, Raymond launched once more into the sort of charismatic positivity he had worn on stage. "I haven't disrupted your peace, I hope. I'm Raymond." He tipped his head slightly, causing the crown of sword-lilies to slip slightly. "Would you like a crown? The splendidly talented gentleman over there made this one for me, but I doubt he'd mind if I paid it forward."

Raymond chuckled warmly at the mouse-colored mare's dry literalism, not missing a beat even as she efficiently swatted down his attempts at nurturing the spirit of community. A no-frills kind of person; he could get behind that. Sometimes he didn't appreciate chatter either.

Pretty rarely, but it counts.

"They'll die very quickly regardless," he shrugged, "things usually do. But at least they might brighten someone's day while their beauty lasts." Were all of his conversations before Novus centered so firmly over a chasm of bleak morbidity? It seemed everything since his arrival conspired to remind him of what he had lost, of the way Ruth rattled about in the hollows of his skull like broken teeth. It had been a long time since he had lost anything he cared about (by design). Maybe it had been like this then, too.

But the shadow of his thoughts could not reach so far as to stain his outwardly festive presentation. He was used to sharing only part of his hand, and appearances are everything in social circles.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all the same, Teiran." He straightened the flower crown, content not to press the issue unnecessarily. If she wanted flowers she knew where to find them, but she didn't seem like the sort to change her mind readily and he wasn't quite prepared to become that guy who tackled unfamiliar women in hopes of showering them with gifts. That's just weird. "Solterra," Raymond rolled the world about in his mouth with a historian's enthusiasm. "That's...east of us, right? What's it like, besides dry?"

Raymond didn't mind people without social skills. They were at times easier to talk to, easier to engage with, because they shot straight and spoke plainly.

"I'm not from around here," he added in lieu of an apology for his ignorance. Teiran hardly would have needed the reminder for any other purpose; his apparent disregard for conventions and ignorance of basic geography were quite telling on their own, and Raymond was not afraid to be identified as a foreigner.

He offered a perfunctory, appreciative smile. There was no telling how long it would take him to make his way to and through the deserts of Solterra, but having said it he fully intended to follow through. The red stallion might regularly sound frivolous in his chosen topics of conversation, and at times it was difficult to describe his manner as anything other than flippant when he was not fully engaged in a situation, but he never spoke lightly. If he said he would like to show up, then he would show up when he could.

Or, you know, get eaten by sand wyrms. But that would be a meal that they'd have to soundly earn before tucking in.

Be careful not to get lost. In the desert, that is. If you do come.

Raymond chuckled again, this time his whole body dedicated to his morbid mirth. He was too sharp to ever completely rule out the possibility of his own death, but he rarely planned for it. That'd just give him an excuse to up and do it. "Well, if you're ever out there on patrol and find my bones, just pour one out for me okay?"

Reining in his laughter, he nodded once more as a farewell to the grulla mare and turned back to spectacle unfolding onstage.