[P] We are just dust and bones

[Raum]

 



Acton was the spark, flaring bright, igniting in the eye of his beholder. He was a light to blind but Raum was the darkness that followed. He was the eerie dumbness of sound following a bomb. Harrowing, deep and silent.
 
In everything the Ghost was silent, save for the song of his dagger that cut deep, save for the whisper of his scarf as it tied tight about an enemy’s throat.
 
Together these brothers, bound, not by the blood in their bodies, but the blood they spilled together. Ah, every drop was theirs, a ruby in the crown of destruction they had forged. Theirs was a diadem of gold. It was edges as sharp as knives, a metal as bright as a torch, its perimeter tight like a noose. These Crows belonged upon the gallows with ebony feathers as the eternal bed upon which they would fall.
 
An ear twists to catch the clack of teeth and a silvered shoulder rolls dismissively, his skull tilting back, his chin up. Into the black he peered, searching for salvation, for a reason to renounce who he was. None would come and he gave up the search too soon.
 
He was a cursed soul; he chose to be nothing more.
 
“Neither did I.” Raum confesses and such words are diamonds upon his lips – rare and costly. It is a confession, a lack of foresight. Maybe that is why the Night King’s departure stung even more. Raum is gasoline for his grief, he is ready to burn hot and bright and oh so wild. Yet he tampers it down and his eyes roam. Chaos is like sugar upon his lips and he desires it so.
 
There is an anger building, it will split him open like a volcano. Lava will be his retribution, dealt out to all who have wronged him. Bexley is gone, but he still thinks of gold, of gypsy coins, of raven feathers left to blow like dust in the wind.
 
“Are you ready to shed your feather’s brother?” Had he not just called Acton to arms? Had he not just asked them to unite and rally the Crows once more? Ah! The idea is salt and ash, it is bitter and bruised. The Crows makes his heart ache and fury has him carving the pain out. It has him throwing loyalty to she sea as readily as she throws herself upon the cliffs.
 
“The Night Markets are too quiet, but they will never sing with the sound of Crows again.” He stops, liquid, silent, deadly as he surveys the darkened fringes of Denocte. “Meet me there, if you wish for something new, brother.”
 
The darkness steals him, turning moonlight into pitch, swallowing him in stars and shadows. The Crow is gone and will, forever, be so.  

@Acton eee fin at my end!