Raymond met the bay unicorn's eye with a carefully blank expression, its vagueness lent perfectly toward either self-reflection or disbelief based on the whims of the observer's heart. He knew he wasn't simply anyone - anyone would never have sipped the sweet nectar of retribution. Anyone would have died and been remembered no less fondly, for how does anyone brace for the slow withering destruction from beneath?
But what anyone would do had nothing to do with what they were capable of. A hundred people on a given street all had the power to prevent evil being done, but statistics tell us that almost none of them actually would.
Perhaps that is why he had been alone for so long.
He didn't hold it against Isra. They were different people bound for very different paths, and one could hardly blame a victim for the actions of her oppressors or the inaction of those that should have defended her and everyone else against the sins of the corrupt regime.
Raymond quirked the corner of his lip upward in dubious acknowledgement of her words before she continued.
Will you help me?
These words actually played across the red stallion's face. He tilted his head, brow creasing with bemusement. "Forgive me if I sound harsh" he riposted in that way that suggested he cared relatively little about harshness given the circumstances, "but your jailors have fled in disgrace. Your enemies lie broken before the walls of your court and their blood paints the faces of the victorious living. What more can I do to help you?"
Unfolding along the sordid story of his life were a procession of broken chains and power vacuums. In his work, he lingered only long enough to dismantle the rot so often allowed to fester in mortal souls. From there, their lives had been their own responsibility to enrich or destroy as they saw fit. What more could be asked of him now?
But what anyone would do had nothing to do with what they were capable of. A hundred people on a given street all had the power to prevent evil being done, but statistics tell us that almost none of them actually would.
Perhaps that is why he had been alone for so long.
He didn't hold it against Isra. They were different people bound for very different paths, and one could hardly blame a victim for the actions of her oppressors or the inaction of those that should have defended her and everyone else against the sins of the corrupt regime.
Raymond quirked the corner of his lip upward in dubious acknowledgement of her words before she continued.
Will you help me?
These words actually played across the red stallion's face. He tilted his head, brow creasing with bemusement. "Forgive me if I sound harsh" he riposted in that way that suggested he cared relatively little about harshness given the circumstances, "but your jailors have fled in disgrace. Your enemies lie broken before the walls of your court and their blood paints the faces of the victorious living. What more can I do to help you?"
Unfolding along the sordid story of his life were a procession of broken chains and power vacuums. In his work, he lingered only long enough to dismantle the rot so often allowed to fester in mortal souls. From there, their lives had been their own responsibility to enrich or destroy as they saw fit. What more could be asked of him now?
Raymond.
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
@Isra
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
