[P] of circles and fangs and hate;

[Raum]

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.

 



The fires fall to darkness behind them, swallowed by the night. Not even the winds can reach them with the hubbub of the markets. The fringes of society fray into cobweb trails that reach ghostly threads out to claim their new queen and its Ghost.
 
The cobwebs dress him wasted and old. They cling to her horn and drift behind like a tattered banner. The edges of Denocte paint the strangers with dust, coat them in rust and the dirt of abandoned homes. Raum hears their ghosts, the blink of fires that once lit the windows like lamp-lit eyes. But those fires were long ago snuffed out. They were long ago scolded by the ice of dragon fire.
 
Clouds of phantom ash gather and bloom before his feet. They press on and reach for the tails of mice, the heels of orphans and the ends of their queen’s tail. The Crow’s skull tilts as electric eyes drink in the stones that turn to apples and the greedy feeding of malnourished orphans.
 
His eyes trail over the sneer of a colt, the heedless glance of the giving queen. Raum waits until mouths are fed, until the teeth of hunger no longer rake along the ribs of the famished. Only then does he step from the shadows.
 
“I would have made him a Crow.” The Ghost muses in a voice of silk that slides, beautiful and dangerous. Raum is mercury beneath the moon, liquid poisonous and beautiful, destined to be poured out for all.
 
He lifts his electric eyes to lay upon her. Slowly they survey every inch of her with sparks that prick at her skin like static. He would wonder if they felt like pin-pricks, like the knives that cling tightly to his leg. “All the orphans became Crows.” Raum continues, trailing cobwebs from his slim sides like a string bearing all the souls he has taken.
 
Slowly, silently (for he is always silent), he steps toward Denocte’s chosen queen, though his gaze peers into the black, hollowed eyes of buildings and their breathing shadows. He wonders of the ghosts that live there and how many were by his blade.
 
His thoughts are secrets, never to find a place upon his tongue. The assassin regards the queen once more, his corvid gaze stripping her skin like the snap and pull of a sharpened beak.
 
A fire sparks to life, broken wood alighting with a hiss and crackling laughter. Its light sparks something dangerous within his gaze and his eyes flicker to the smile of pearls that gleam upon her lips.
 
“Careful,” He warns as soft as a caress. “I might steal that smile from your lips.” No smile comes to lighten the weight of his threat. Nor does he step from her side when the mirrors blink awake to capture the silver of his skin as he stands beside her, close, close, so dangerously close.

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@Isra please forgive me, still remembering how to actually write