[P] bloodbird

[Raum]

 


He does not keep himself hidden as he turns from the crowd like a wraith. He does not hide as he move in beside her with his eyes full of silver.
 
Together they move, mirrors of moonlight and gray. She is the storm and he the sky that welcomes her by. This queen rolls in with her sun-eyes aglow, her people the seas that rise in waves to her call.
 
Raum notices the way she spots him, for he sees her too. It is the glint of an eye, perfect and golden. He drowns it in the blue of his own. They are silent in blue and silent in gold. They walk on in silver and might.
 
Ah Seraphina is sharp and strong like wire. As he meanders beside her, Raum wonders what it would be to light her skin like electricity, turn her into a livewire and watch the way she glows. If only he had a care, he might do just that.
 
The Ghost keeps such thoughts within his mind as he haunts the forest beside her. Then he watches the roll of her skin – sinew and bone bound tight, her thoughts kept tighter still. This girl betrays nothing; so regal and strong. He thinks he might like all the girls in Solterra, if he did not wish to be rid of them more.
 
Slowly she comes to a stop - not even death could be as silent as she. But a look dares to suggest he might have heard death cry.
 
Her silvered skin commands all light to draw upon her, but he is the brightest of them both and it pours across his skin. This Crow is quicksilver then – enough to poison, enough to enchant the eye of any beholder.
 
Sera speaks and even the leaves do tremble. Raum might have wondered if the eyes of Caligo and Solis would turn to behold the shadowed pair in their den of darkness and danger. But he does not, for the gods have returned, their eyes elsewhere, for now.
 
The queen calls him a Crow and Raum does not flinch, he does not sway. In answer he slowly turns a corvid gaze to settle upon her. No longer he affords her just one eye, but two; oh blessed Seraphina. The night has stolen all the blue of his eyes and it is just twin marbles that gleam as they watch her.
 
His teeth snap shut, a beak clacking in the quiet of the mountain pass. His skull shakes its disregard but in deference the Crow steps from the trees. A shiver runs his spine and it arches with phantom wings he has never worn, but stretch up and up to the trees anyway.
 
“My queen.” The Crow sings without humour, without love or adoration. His voice is whiskey, silken and delectable then deadly and intoxicating. When he steps from the veil of trees, his eyes are those of a crow, just as she named him so. Wickedly sharp he watches her with a raven’s eyes and feels the skin around them bleed to black.
 
“How does your court fare?” The Crow asks, as if he might care, as if he might fall to his knees and honour her there.

@Seraphina Sorry, just too excited, forgive me <3