Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
The red stallion met the night-mother's gaze with that lingering, unblinking smile, head cocked to one side in his usual self-assured way. What lurked behind his stone-grey eyes and confident swagger was far more difficult to elucidate.
Raymond hadn't not been an invader since his youth. Not with an army, but always as a pathogen - a little breath of insidious air in whose ethereal folds rested the quiet malaise that, once inhaled, invited rot into the bodies and souls of the unrepentant. All things considered, he was fine with that. He was no monster hunter, except in Calliope's company, and he drew blade against the beasts because they threatened individuals that he would prefer to keep safe and there was still plenty of himself that found life to be preferable to death.
When the star-marked goddess turned her eyes away, Raymond looked again toward Calliope, a curious arch creeping into his brow, and then met Isra's eye.
The reality that Caligo's retort had not even begun to approach was this: in this moment, choice was a luxury he did not have. Calliope would never abandon valor for prudence or yield ground to savage beasts, and Isra (he hoped) would not let fear buckle her spine before the barest needs of her people.
And Raymond, the lone ranger, the bearer of red tidings and retribution, was now tied willingly or otherwise into their yoke.
So he looked toward them with eyes carrying wishes for vigilance where his lips did not. Ruth's consciousness stirred against his, a reminder of the price he paid and continued to pay for decisions made many moons hence.
Raymond hadn't not been an invader since his youth. Not with an army, but always as a pathogen - a little breath of insidious air in whose ethereal folds rested the quiet malaise that, once inhaled, invited rot into the bodies and souls of the unrepentant. All things considered, he was fine with that. He was no monster hunter, except in Calliope's company, and he drew blade against the beasts because they threatened individuals that he would prefer to keep safe and there was still plenty of himself that found life to be preferable to death.
When the star-marked goddess turned her eyes away, Raymond looked again toward Calliope, a curious arch creeping into his brow, and then met Isra's eye.
The reality that Caligo's retort had not even begun to approach was this: in this moment, choice was a luxury he did not have. Calliope would never abandon valor for prudence or yield ground to savage beasts, and Isra (he hoped) would not let fear buckle her spine before the barest needs of her people.
And Raymond, the lone ranger, the bearer of red tidings and retribution, was now tied willingly or otherwise into their yoke.
So he looked toward them with eyes carrying wishes for vigilance where his lips did not. Ruth's consciousness stirred against his, a reminder of the price he paid and continued to pay for decisions made many moons hence.
@Isra @
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
