He had abandoned his first home, the motherland that had both nourished and ruined him against her breast. As a boy, he had supped on cobbles and stars, and the darkness was as home to him as his own skin. At times, Raglan swore that he still smelled of smoke, that Denocte’s sacred nightfires by which generations had frolicked had soaked their wild essence into his bloodied skin. Mostly, he found it reassuring; that his mother, vast and mountain clad, had not left him even as he had fled her. Though when the night was long snd the stars stretched coldly into he horizon, the wind whipping at him as if in punishment, Raglan worried that the lingering scent of the Night Court was simply a sign to others that his life was forfeit to Caligo; that she had claimed his death right.

But what could he know of the workings of gods and timelessness?

Was it not sin to fret over a future so intangible?

When had he started caring about sins, anyway?

Raglan sighed and shook his head, dislodging the thoughts that had wormed their way through his thick barrier of aimlessness. It was the first time that he had stepped into the Dusk capitol — his capitol, if he were adhering to technicalities — and it was only fitting that he had fallen back into old habits. Shrouded in the dimness of an alley in midday, the Crow felt strangely reminiscent of his youth. Cobblestones and dirt looked the same in all grand cities, he supposed, and the winding streets of Terrastella’s jewel were no exception. Ebon hooves clicked against stone and grime as the mouth of the alley loomed, the painted brick and stonework walls on either side of the pathway growing lighter as the lad approached the roadway proper.

A clatter of hoof falls and an exclaimed apology just outside the alleyway piqued the Crow’s attention, and he emerged from the alley to find a pair of mares had collided; though from the lack of both fires and gore the horned stallion surmised that it wasn’t with enough force to cause a tragedy. To be fair, Raglan wasn’t disappointed by the lack of chaos, but he had been expecting a modicum more excitement from the enthusiasm with which the apology was spoken. Pursing his lips for a momoent, the pegasus decided to enjoy himself regardless.

As a rogueish grin spread over darkened lips, he nodded a greeting at each femme in turn, moving to stand at a point position in the little triangle of bodies. One was a unicorn, young and pale, with cloven hooves and a trifecta of horns adorning a delicate face; and from the apologetic smile tugging at her expression, it seemed she was the perpetrator. The other, a soft colored pegasus whose entire physique screamed sunset beauty while being draped in a threadbare shroud, was clutching at a book and looking for all the world as if she had been daydreaming — and may still be.

Adjusting crimson wings against his sides and fixing each lass in a sparkling opal gaze, Raglan spoke, “Good day, gentlefriends. I heard your collision while pondering something scholarly and not at all while lingering in an alleyway. Is everyone alright?” His words were flippant, but tone genuine, resulting in what could be assumed to be a rather muddled impression of what the rogue was after — was he flirting, joking, or serious? It didn’t help that the lanky stag’s lips remained quirked upward in a neutral, albeit present, grin.

The lad had never been one to give an accurate first impression.