Acton

Acton paced his room with all the tension of a prisoner before an execution. He felt the way he did before a big performance: muscles taut, pulse in his throat, alert to every movement caught from the corner of his eye. What he really wanted was a drink, but things the last few weeks had been pretty dry.
 
Luckily Raum was out – where, the buckskin didn’t know. Denocte’s Ghost had been even more of a haunt of late, and not even Acton could keep track of his comings and goings, much less what was on his mind. So the former Crow was alone when finally he left the keep below the warm sun of a spring afternoon and sauntered into the Night Markets to help.
 
It was a combination of guilt and bribes from a few of his favorite merchants that brought him to the back of a crowd gathering to listen to instructions. It wasn’t that Acton was embarrassed to be helping his home rebuild (though, fine, he was), it was that he was so unused to getting his hands dirty doing anything that could be considered straight work. It felt strange – like he was as scattered as the pieces of Caligo’s mosaic.
 
To help distract himself, he cast an amber-eyed gaze over the small gathered crowd, easily picking out their guests from Terrastella. He hadn’t spoken to any of them, but had kept an eye out for the former golden queen – and the antlered stallion he’d helped beat bloody on Reichenbach’s behalf.
 
There was a man it might be interesting to run into in a dark alley, but not so much a daylight work crew.
 
Neither of them was present, and that was just as well. Acton was relieved when those gathered began to break up, some into groups and some splitting off singly. Many would rehang banners and replace posts, but the buckskin preferred not to break a sweat; for now he only made his languid way up and down the marketplace, looking for a smooth glint in the long grass and along the alleyways.
 
It was strange, too, to see the markets in the daylight; the sun did not love Denocte the way the stars did. What was magical with lanterns lit and incense burning was almost garish during the day, and with the damage from the storm it had the air of a hastily-abandoned carnival.
 
So distracted was he that Acton didn’t realize he was upon another figure until he shouldered them hard enough to stumble back a step. With a grunt he shook himself, then looked up. “Sorry, I was distracted looking for some rocks. Say, you haven’t seen any that are shiny and pale and round-ish, have you?”


 

Acton

The first thing he thought on realizing who he’d just shouldered into was that the red man was shorter than he’d always seemed from a distance; close on the heels of that was notice of just how sharp, how glintingly wicked, that blade on his tail was.

It did not seem wise to point out either observation, and so he only nodded at the stallion’s words. “Ah, well. Wouldn’t want to make anything too easy,” he said drily, and for the first time wondered just how long this would all take. It all sounded very noble in his head - helping rebuild Denocte from the ashes, the strength of the people, yada yada - but his throat was already dry and his mind already itching for something more interesting.

At least that second part might be looking up.

The buckskin smiled in return, keeping back a little of the powder-and-flint, a little of the slyness. Raymond’s words had not betrayed much familiarity, and while what he said wasn’t untrue, Acton had a keen memory despite the amount of substances he’d imbibed in his colorful life; he remembered the red from the summit, from the castle and Isra’s crowning, from the tumbling of the Gate.

Normally his opinion might not have been so warm - Acton cared little for authority figures that actually acted like authority figures -  but he’d been proven wrong enough recently that he was willing to sit on his presumptions a little longer.

Maybe he was finally growing up.

“Acton. I’m not sure I know what proper means anymore.” Not that he ever had in the first place, but it certainly seemed like they were all a kind of orphan now - and that was something he was achingly familiar with.

He stepped past, then, going back to his casual inspection of the weeds and debris that studded the markets, looking for an out-of-place gleam. Acton didn’t much care what Caligo thought, either, but he knew the markets wouldn’t be complete without each gemstone returned to their splendid crown.

Besides, it was easier than woodwork.

“You’re our Regent now, aren’t you?” He kept his voice deliberately even, not even glancing over his shoulder at the man; there was nothing to suggest he had known the last regime, or knew, too, that Raymond’s first allegiance had not been to Night. Acton was no longer interested in pointing fingers. “Careful, it’s been a short-lived position lately.”




 


@Raymond

Acton

Acton himself had never been much of a fighter. At least not in the good soldier, useful in a war sense. His brawls had always been back-alley affairs, chipped teeth and black eyes, the kind of scuffles that began over honor or territory or just a pocketful of signos.

Although there had been that tournament he’d won - but Rostislav had been imbibing at an impressive rate and that was just as the tower of the Night Court had begun to teeter and fall, so it had hardly been a typical situation. But who the hell cared if a fight was fair, as long as you came out on top?

Not that he had any intention of sharing of that with Raymond. He could guess how he’d end up if he ever faced a man like this. Getting beat to hell was a lot less sexy when it wasn’t Bexley doing it.

“Wise man,” he answered genially, nodding at the man’s chuckle even as his amber eyes flashed to watch the lazy movement of the blade. With a weapon like that, Acton didn’t think he would be careful. He didn’t think he’d have to be. Only a fool would fuck with a man who’d been born with a knife attached to his ass.

He did not offer anything else as they walked, instead only went with his gaze shifting constantly and curiously between the rubble and the red man. When Raymond spoke, Acton lifted his head and
drew alongside him. “Nope,” he said, “looks more like - shit.” He’d been about to conjure an image of one of the stones, but the sudden tumble-and-dust had startled him from his concentration, and now he skipped back a step. His nostrils flared at the cloud like a gasp from a grave-mouth that rose up toward them and was gone, and he blinked away a grain of dirt from his eye and stepped alongside the Regent.

Acton peered into that dark throat, where the light from the day puddled in and revealed a dusty stone floor. Carved marks were faintly evident, though he couldn’t see enough to make out what they depicted. “Huh,” he echoed, and with a glance at Raymond stepped smoothly inside, to be swallowed by black.  



 


@Raymond