Locke was drunk. Had to be. Not that he and inebriation were familiar with each other beyond a handshake or two. But good gods it was close as he had ever come to her euphoric state sober. And he was just getting started.

Wandering the outer edge of stalls and tents the youth let himself slip among the crowd, continuing to drink his fill of the avarice, sights, lights, and noise. If ever he stole anything worth selling he now knew where to bring it to fence. Vendors shouted the superiority of their wears, and occasionally the bastardy of their neighbor, as they vied for the attention of the crowd above the music, and sounds of a city. A city! While the cold was chilling the boy enough to keep out any associations this place may have with the term home, the night life here was keeping his blood pumping strong. A mistress will keep your bed warm just as well as a wife after all, she was just temporary.

BAM. A drafty chestnut collided with the boy’s shoulder in the throes of his drinking, jolting him from his lullaby, and jostling the brutes a packages. Shit, thought the youth, he was huge. Course, Locke thinner frame only magnified how much shit he might be in if the brute was the angry type. And he was. Angry horned head came sweeping around on the youth, but Locke didn’t spin away, yet. “Apologies sir-” But the beast was already roaring curses at him. To be fair though most creatures were beasts to the tall lean youth. Head ducked, something glimmered at the red’s side, and now the boy moved off. “Now sir-!” But the brute followed and drowned out the palo’s protests. His eyes burned with such passionate annoyance they missed the small coin slid from its hiding place under the boy’s stomach, slipping without conscious glance to the leather satchel strapped to the colt’s far leg.

“Look, sir, here. Here- to make amends.” Turning to view his satchel the young bastard called out from it a familiar gold coin. The aggression dulled on the face of the brute, but the threat did not. His own will snatched the coin from Locke. Money makes a creature mirthful. He doesn’t have to know its his own money. Examining the coin with a hard eye the brute gave a sneer that was half hearted, and the young youth’s apologetic smile was whitewashed. Yet the red brute turned and continued storming down the walk. The fiery youth watched him go, the meek childish grin twisting into a smirk the Cheshire Cat would envy. Never was a thief more pleased than to watch a mark walk away satisfied. He could have kept the coin of course. Been a penny wealthier for the cost of a few more insults to his genealogy. But then where would the fun have been in seeing the beast buy himself off with his own coin. The feeling was akin to having someone running a warm touch down the spine of his feathers. His pride never knew such a feast of ego.

Locke let himself have one more soft chuckle before raising his head back to the busy street. The noise and crowds grew heavier up the cobbled walkway. And like ordering another round for the whole bar, the young thief moved to rejoin the mass of marks in the center of the street. 

If he had to compare the quality of alleyways, Raglan would have to use multiple categories and perhaps a diagram or two in order to give an honest review.

The two contenders for his heart would be Terrastella and Denocte, for each capitol had a wondrous maze of lanes and pathways that snaked through their hearts. The alleys of Dusk’s seat were markedly cleaner and safer, there was no competition when those details came to comparison, but Night’s corridors were darker and superior for sneaking. Denocte would win points for nostalgia and sentiment, as well, though it was a definite bias that no doubt skewed whatever anecdotal data the rogue would collect.

And yet, Terrastella’s alleyways produced run-ins with beautiful women at a drastically higher rate than Denocte’s ever had. Raglan crinkled his nose and pursed his lips in half-thought.

Back to the drawing board; more research was necessary.

Strolling through the lattice-like network of passages that limned the stretch of roadway housing the famous Night Market, the horned Crow watched the crowd with a lazy interest. He didn’t see much going on in the rowdy bazaar that would qualify as unique or interesting — street urchins pickpocketing, merchants hawking their wares, veiled mares winking and motioning toward shadowy doorways where *their* wares could be anything from a night of bliss to waking up in a gutter with a sore skull and an empty purse.

He sighed wistfully at the organized chaos that he had been raised upon. It had been within the Night Market, after all, that he and Acton had established their reputation among the other Crows; Acton performing his light shows while Raglan cut purses and relieved the richer sorts of their heavy monetary burdens. He wondered at where his lively saffron brother was now, if he was still charming the pockets of prince and pauper alike.

The stallion’s musings were cut short, however, by a stir in the crowd.

The sight would not have been an unusual one — smaller, golden male being scolded enthusiastically by a hulking draft — if not for the only slightly sloppily performed pilferage undertaken by the smaller lad. Raglan looked on curiously as the conflict dissolved and the sun kissed youth continued on his way with an arrogance that almost made the Silvertongue’s heart ache with nostalgia. In a blink, he was sidling up next to the male, close enough for crimson wings to brush against the golden child’s sides with a misstep or two.

Close enough to smell the desert on his skin.

"You see," He drawled, shimmering opal eyes flitting to the youth’s for but a moment as he subtly attempted to steer the lad away from the crowds and closer to the shadowed mouth of an alley, “Such actions can be rewarded, but you’re an amateur, and so you were discovered thieving.” Raglan paused, a smirk twisting darkened lips, “This is no game, gentlefriend, the Crows no longer hold Denocte’s streets. The smaller gangs and groups have taken over and, Goddess forbid, if they catch you criming on their turf? Well...”

The Crow tried to soften reality with a grin, tried to push home the truth of his words with the tension in his shoulders, tried to spoon feed the novice thief with the lightness in his voice. Yet, there was no way to lessen the truth of the newer Underside gangs and their strange brutality; even the Crows, at their most powerful, had never dived as low as the Neo-Underside groups had. Raglan’s memory showed him flashes of daggers fashioned from broken glass, bruised sides, bloody teeth spat to the earth.

The Court of Night and her many shadows were not as safe as they once were.

“All the sun and sand in the Solterran desert could not save you.”

You have to be careful mixing euphoric states with youth, it can spiral down instead of up as they lose connection with the all the strings of skill, caution, and concern for their own well being. It is when many of the ‘lessons’ older generations talk about get learned over a pot of sobering coffee or in worst cases, a pool of blood. And for the first time in a while, Locke was about to get served a hot steaming cup. Blood or coffee it was impossible yet to tell.

Cradled in the crowd’s mindless pace he could drift off to the wilds beyond this city, beyond this continent. Back to Kelhar. To mud paved streets of poverty and desperation…and adventure. Dust collected on memories blurring their realities to allow fondness for the times of his first year. When he picked pockets not just because he had too, but because he liked it. Because of the animal it let loose in his blood to be able to take, to claim something for his own. Then that boy had been too clever...but the world seemed to take a turn up. How was he to know it was an upside….down turn-

It was when the corners of his lips began to slide like a faded ghost down, that his gut tensed. Was that red- Chained ear turns to catch the low steady words while feathers raise slightly unbidden on his back. Emerald eyes return the flick of a glance, before looking back away to several mares rolling their shoulders and hips more than a lioness on the hunt. But his analytic thoughts were far from his (admittedly, realistically, paid for) romantic possibilities for the night. It was rolling through thoughts like, tall, muscled, horned, violence, witnesses...Extreme maybe, but he’d never known an auspicious start to include, a stranger walking up to him at the market.

A feathered side brushes against his, and the message, unfortunately, could not misinterpreted, but why?  Perhaps it was to try and sell him something from a darker side of the market, in that alley. It could happen- Caught. Or not. The young thief's face was kept in its pleasant state, (not easy with the richeting echo of the word ameteur in his ears) but his sweeping glance across the street now held a different purpose. Perhaps he had indeed been gone from streets like this for too long to think himself still so skilled at its trades, but the survival instincts began to click on like ancient lamps in those spider web covered halls of his mind. No one followed. No one glanced. But a quick slip off of the hook was out of the question in the foreign city of crowds. Shit.

Yet the world was always prepared for the idiocy of youths, and graced them with a willful determination to not be sucked under the waves of reality and consequence. So the boy lets himself be led away to the side street, even as his escort announced his guilt in such a matter of fact dead tone, that not a ghost of protest was allowed to rise on the boy’s lips.

This was not a game. Locke didn’t- but...he had, hadn’t he. A great laugh, a bit of meaningless fun. It seemed so stupid now… To hear the mantle of righteousness and questions of Locke’s safety upon the other’s voice bred frustration, jealousy, and (in no help to his cause at all) petulance. Only one small word kept the boy from turning that rock in the street into an admittedly crude weapon for fear of finding out the hidden ‘or else’ in the other’s words. They, not we. Now in the shadows of the back alley section of the market Locke finally stops and turns his head head to fully look at his watcher, not hiding the calculation in the narrower eyes and tilted head.

Was he...giving a friendly warning? Distrust at the other’s intentions still riddled every conclusion. The dark weight could not be mistaken, but… It wasn’t hiding a threat. It wasn’t shadowing a knife or thief's hand (not that he had yet anything to steal). In his distrust the young haphazard pickpocket let himself soak in the calm authority, experience hardened bearing, and wistful sadness hidden in the smile as they doused the pathetic fires he had been stirring of anger to nothing but envious whims of a youth remembering they could possibly be wrong. And because it wasn’t his first encounter with those whims, the fiery youth ended his assessment of the situation in an accepting dip of his head as he looked onward down the street.

Lanky legs moved forward again, but the conversation wasn’t done. Locke was labeled an ametuer newbie tourist, but- “So where does that leave you?” They not we. It came as the other’s words, spoken in expectation of a continued presence at his side, low but without pitched emotions that drew pesky attention. “It was foolish and brash,” Came the confession, jointed in tone that told of its distaste. “But it was not a virgin pickpocket's first trial.” His glance drifted over to a darkened merchant stall on the other side of his companion, which allowed him to slide an eye to see if the other even followed. Just as the other’s accusation had been made, now he made one too. “Normal eyes are not trained to find those tells…”

Then, even given the distrust the youth had that this was still an innocent friendly chat, the boy volunteers what payment he could return for the warning. “Locke, by the way.” A half, short, side nod settles the introduction. Maybe he was signing his own death warrant, letting one of those underside gangs know just who to ask for. But then, would it truly be so bad to make connections with the right people? Perhaps it was optimistic to still think the night might not end in him getting jumped in the alley, but he hadn’t been yet. And one thing he did remember was the right people did always have the right fun. And as much as the youth wanted to cling to his righteous petulant pride, he would have never survived to his first birthday if he hadn’t occasionally given that up. Even given the recent events, Locke was remembering quickly (brought to light in those cobweb covered rooms of forgotten situations) that a thief stubbornly clinging to isolation and ignorance, was a dead one. One drinker was as called an easy target, two drinkers were called a fun time. So while sobered up the young thief doesn’t leave the bar just yet.

Raglan

may the bridges i burn light the way

When one thinks of a warrant, do they not think of the Law? Subsections and paragraphs, treatises and ordinances outlining which behaviors were unacceptable and which actions would require legal intervention. Warrants were the pen and paper demand that one be held accountable, the proof that an individual had wronged society grievously enough to grab a magistrate’s attention. They were an order for clipped wings, stone skies, and iron bars; a justification for a spiritual slaughter.

And weren’t at least some of them justified?

Then, consider a death warrant; would one ever include the Law in such a phrase? Death was a handmaiden of any society, to be fair,  but when a population became developed enough, Lady Death became obsolete in favor of reformation. Indeed, the idea of a death warrant summoned images of brutal gangs, of blood feuds, of violence senseless and gruesome. Raglan thought upon the sort of death warrants issued by the lawless masses, those darker shades of creature who slunk about in the underbelly and in the dregs. He thought of just what sort of ending would  manifest for the targets, and what that meant for their loved ones.

The Crow glanced again at the lad by his side and felt a pang of fear — true and sharp as any blade — slide along mahogany skin. The boy was fresh as spring time, green as grass, and reckless as Raglan himself, there was no reason to become entrenched in whatever conflicts this golden child would undoubtedly have clinging to his coattails. Yet, the horned stag couldn’t deny that he felt an odd kinship toward the male, and against his better judgement* decided to see where this new company would lead.

Approval emanated from the pegasus as his new comrade’s demeanor remained unchanged, so he wasn’t as much of a novice as Raglan had assumed. He didn’t yet know if that would end up damning or saving them. The shadows soon enveloped the pair, slowing their stroll to a halt and allowing the goldspun thief to fully assess the Silvertongue.  Green eyes narrowed and Aurelian head tilted to the side, painting the coltish youth  in shades of suspicion. Raglan nodded in response — good, it was good that the lad wouldn’t let himself be led blindly into an opinion — and waited patiently for the feathered rogue to come to his own conclusions.  

At last, the lad acquiesced and began to walk once more at a leisurely pace. Raglan felt the corners of his mouth curve into a grin at the young male’s next words; he was insightful, to be sure, and the mahogany pegasus felt a faint wash of something like pride. He adjusted his steps to match the golden boy’s pace and cocked an ear to listen. The smile shifted to a smirk at the youth’s — Locke’s — comment about normal eyes and tells, and the Crow offered a mischievous wink in answer.

Swishing his tail, Raglan walked alongside Locke in silence for a few beats letting the scents and sounds of the city wash over his skin; in a way, this return to Denocte’s streets was a sort of baptism for the stallion. He had been lost for so long, and he still was, but at least the yearning for his motherland was no longer crawling beneath his skin and yanking at his soul. He breathed in, there would be no permanent return to the earthly lands of Night, Raglan was for better or for worse, a Dusk citizen.

Caligo’s gaze would never feel the same, and the stars would never again smile at him for this admission.

“A pleasure, Locke,” Came his response, spoken in the velvet smooth tones of one comfortable with uncomfortable situations, “Indeed, my slate is not clean, and I doubt it ever will be,” A wistful line spoken with a dismissiveness that bordered on apathy. “Though I would surmise that this predicament leaves us with some time to kill — with any luck, the Undersiders will assume my prolonged absence was due to training you and that you’ve joined up with the Crows. With any luck, they won’t know I’m the only one that still carries that ball and chain of a title and you’ll be let off the hook for your little mishap.”

Raglan tilted his head to look Locke full in the face, “So I can show you around for a while, point out the borders, pretend like we actually know each other.” There was a roll of slender shoulders that suggested a shrug, “Or we can waltz into a tavern, I’ll buy you a drink on whatever tab Acton hopefully left open a few seasons ago, and we can actually get to know each other.”

Pale gaze shifted back to the latticework of alleys and streets ahead, “It’s up to you, kid.”

* who uses better judgement or the crock of BS called a “conscience” anyway?

"Talk"

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