I'll be a stone, I'll be the hunter,
The tower that casts a shade
***
The tower that casts a shade
***
There is a pervasive sort of honesty in the aftermath of battle that Raymond both appreciated and disliked. There is no place in life-or-death struggles for masks or comfortable lies; even those who fancied themselves inscrutable came into a new, sharper focus.
Everyone learns from a battle, and about themselves most of all.
Raymond was whetting his tail blade when Isra found him. His body was a constellation of wounds both great and small, many accumulated from the deceptive dangers of flotsam shaken loose in town, some more unsightly gashes opened like black grins across his chest and back from his dances of death with the hellish birds. All told, they were a small price to pay for survival.
His head tilted toward the sound of his name long enough to pick out the bay mare from the background noise before falling back to his work. One, two more strokes, a glance over his work; the scythe was the only clean thing left of him. Putting his work behind him, he straightened, flashing her a harried yet winsome smile that he hoped would satisfy any concern for his wellbeing. "You made it. Good." But, as it goes, she had not come merely to count her chickens after the fray.
Thank you, she continued as she drew close. For everything.
It was enough to make him pause, and his smile became no more real for her gratitude. Instead it faded, leaving only the hard eyes of one that had wallowed in the dark underbellies of cities and souls alike, one who had taken that darkness into himself and weaponized it - to survive, to win.
"Anyone could have done what I did," he replied without any illusions of false modesty. Anyone should have done what he did.
Everyone learns from a battle, and about themselves most of all.
Raymond was whetting his tail blade when Isra found him. His body was a constellation of wounds both great and small, many accumulated from the deceptive dangers of flotsam shaken loose in town, some more unsightly gashes opened like black grins across his chest and back from his dances of death with the hellish birds. All told, they were a small price to pay for survival.
His head tilted toward the sound of his name long enough to pick out the bay mare from the background noise before falling back to his work. One, two more strokes, a glance over his work; the scythe was the only clean thing left of him. Putting his work behind him, he straightened, flashing her a harried yet winsome smile that he hoped would satisfy any concern for his wellbeing. "You made it. Good." But, as it goes, she had not come merely to count her chickens after the fray.
Thank you, she continued as she drew close. For everything.
It was enough to make him pause, and his smile became no more real for her gratitude. Instead it faded, leaving only the hard eyes of one that had wallowed in the dark underbellies of cities and souls alike, one who had taken that darkness into himself and weaponized it - to survive, to win.
"Anyone could have done what I did," he replied without any illusions of false modesty. Anyone should have done what he did.
***
Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.
Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.
@Isra | Sorry it's bad
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
