Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
The earth is a hum beneath his hooves, the night an endless black, set alight by the gold of lit torches. The market thrums in song with the vibrating ground.
In black he slides along within their midst. His skin is darker than the very sky, even midnight is a bright sun compared to him now. Raum is a phantom, a ghost of a Crow, a terror of an assassin. Malevolence gleams from his eye like the spark of a flame. His heart, they say, is a wretched thing. There were no ties to bind them together, no balm to ease the wounds nor medicine to heal the virus of anger that festered and spread like disease.
A dagger glints at his side, the only part of him that the light is allowed to touch. It is a small concession, the only chance he ever offers his foe – his victim. To see him, is to know the fate he has drawn out for them in blood and sinister retribution.
Though his skin is not quicksilver now, his limbs still move like liquid. In motion the Crow something other, no longer slashing claws and a snapping beak, but the silent, fluid grace of a feather with edges of cut glass.
Black eyes tip up to the sky, their electric blue remaining only in speckles of electricity that seem to spark ruthlessly, keenly, hungrily. He blinks and offers the sky no more of him and turns into the shadows, blacker than black.
((oh gosh, be gentle on me. An Obsi has forgotten how to write
![[Image: x341oLX.png]](https://i.imgur.com/x341oLX.png)
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
in his catastrophic plan
