Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Raymond had never taken part in rebuilding a kingdom.
As a young stallion, he'd been forced to slip away as his home was razed to the ground, its treasures and traditions reduced to raw materials for the benefit of its conquerors. From that point there had been no rest for him, no chapter where the waters if his life flowed slowly enough to pool in the stones of one place or another. In some places he passed like a windblown shadow; in others, he left the seeds and scars of revolution. But they were not his homes to heal.
There were nights, stalking the reaches of Denocte, that even now the red regent wondered if he was suited to the trappings of civilization. When he dreamed, he dreamed of towering, lonely buttes under empty blue skies. He dreamed of coiled-spring sinews and eyeshine in the darkness. And yet here he was prowling the night markets, offering his hand in the recovery efforts.
Weird.
Raymond chewed on the thought as he set about putting things in order, only to be shouldered from his self-reflection by the intrusion of a painted stallion whom he recognized as a Denoctean, but had never actually met.
"I can't say that I have," he replied, moving smoothly past the accidental transgression in lieu of acknowledging Acton's apology. What he didn't say was that he hadn't been looking for the stones he described: Raymond had appreciated the night mother's moonstone seal for the artistry involved in its construction, but his distrust in the goddess had only grown with greater familiarity. He'd not considered attending to appeals to her vanity over the sundry miseries suffered by her followers. Perhaps Acton saw differently, but perhaps it didn't actually matter.
"But two sets of eyes are sharper than one." He smiled. "Name's Raymond; I don't believe we've properly met."
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Raymond had never taken part in rebuilding a kingdom.
As a young stallion, he'd been forced to slip away as his home was razed to the ground, its treasures and traditions reduced to raw materials for the benefit of its conquerors. From that point there had been no rest for him, no chapter where the waters if his life flowed slowly enough to pool in the stones of one place or another. In some places he passed like a windblown shadow; in others, he left the seeds and scars of revolution. But they were not his homes to heal.
There were nights, stalking the reaches of Denocte, that even now the red regent wondered if he was suited to the trappings of civilization. When he dreamed, he dreamed of towering, lonely buttes under empty blue skies. He dreamed of coiled-spring sinews and eyeshine in the darkness. And yet here he was prowling the night markets, offering his hand in the recovery efforts.
Weird.
Raymond chewed on the thought as he set about putting things in order, only to be shouldered from his self-reflection by the intrusion of a painted stallion whom he recognized as a Denoctean, but had never actually met.
"I can't say that I have," he replied, moving smoothly past the accidental transgression in lieu of acknowledging Acton's apology. What he didn't say was that he hadn't been looking for the stones he described: Raymond had appreciated the night mother's moonstone seal for the artistry involved in its construction, but his distrust in the goddess had only grown with greater familiarity. He'd not considered attending to appeals to her vanity over the sundry miseries suffered by her followers. Perhaps Acton saw differently, but perhaps it didn't actually matter.
"But two sets of eyes are sharper than one." He smiled. "Name's Raymond; I don't believe we've properly met."
@Acton
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
