Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Satisfaction was not the word of the hour as the red stallion left the Steppes behind him. His righteous fury smoldered black and ugly like a brand upon his chest, its thirst unquenched and its need for retribution unfulfilled. Reichenbach had refused to answer for his reticence in the face of injustice.
His silence was as deafening as the silence hanging over the court itself.
But if he had truly fled, taking the tyranny of dragons and terror on the wing with him, then silence too could be a perfectly serviceable answer.
Raymond had reached the scar of dragonbreath blighting the pass through the Arma mountains. However many times he passed through the desolation, the sight sickened him - not because he was particularly fond of nature, for as with anything else in reality the natural world could be friend or foe and often both at once, but because of what the scar represented and the senseless harm it had caused in the name of shock and awe. That blight represented the things against which he had maneuvered for his entire life. Perhaps now that the silence was accompanied by an exit, the land could heal. The people could heal.
He did not regret his decision to leave Terrastella. Was it traitorous to be honest about one's allegiance? Was it traitorous to defend the defenseless? Raymond looked up, eyeing the looming silhouette of the Raven Gates in the gathering shadow of dusk, and imagined a world in which he could tear them down as easily as they had been used to imprison the people of Denocte. Freedom would never - could never - suffer such an edifice to endure.
The dim rustle of wings disturbed the nighttime stillness and a familiar raven landed at his feet, beak gaping with exhausted breaths. Around its twiggy leg was fastened a scrap - literally a scrap - of parchment, all that remained of the note he had sent to Calliope. He frowned and freed the laboring creature of its burden. In his own writing, Calliope's rage roared back at him from the parchment: "yr obdt svt"; it stung more than he would have liked.
"Thank you, my friend," he said, then gingerly offered his tail to the bird. It climbed up, allowing him to transfer it to the slope of his back where it settled into a puddle of inky feathers to rest.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Satisfaction was not the word of the hour as the red stallion left the Steppes behind him. His righteous fury smoldered black and ugly like a brand upon his chest, its thirst unquenched and its need for retribution unfulfilled. Reichenbach had refused to answer for his reticence in the face of injustice.
His silence was as deafening as the silence hanging over the court itself.
But if he had truly fled, taking the tyranny of dragons and terror on the wing with him, then silence too could be a perfectly serviceable answer.
Raymond had reached the scar of dragonbreath blighting the pass through the Arma mountains. However many times he passed through the desolation, the sight sickened him - not because he was particularly fond of nature, for as with anything else in reality the natural world could be friend or foe and often both at once, but because of what the scar represented and the senseless harm it had caused in the name of shock and awe. That blight represented the things against which he had maneuvered for his entire life. Perhaps now that the silence was accompanied by an exit, the land could heal. The people could heal.
He did not regret his decision to leave Terrastella. Was it traitorous to be honest about one's allegiance? Was it traitorous to defend the defenseless? Raymond looked up, eyeing the looming silhouette of the Raven Gates in the gathering shadow of dusk, and imagined a world in which he could tear them down as easily as they had been used to imprison the people of Denocte. Freedom would never - could never - suffer such an edifice to endure.
The dim rustle of wings disturbed the nighttime stillness and a familiar raven landed at his feet, beak gaping with exhausted breaths. Around its twiggy leg was fastened a scrap - literally a scrap - of parchment, all that remained of the note he had sent to Calliope. He frowned and freed the laboring creature of its burden. In his own writing, Calliope's rage roared back at him from the parchment: "yr obdt svt"; it stung more than he would have liked.
"Thank you, my friend," he said, then gingerly offered his tail to the bird. It climbed up, allowing him to transfer it to the slope of his back where it settled into a puddle of inky feathers to rest.
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aut viam inveniam aut faciam
