[AW] [MEETING] What hand dare seize the fire?

[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.

 

There is no grand procession as Raum arrives at Solterra’s citadel gates. There is no welcome to greet him or congratulate his victory. But how could there ever be, when he wears the blood of their beloved queen upon his chest?
 
There is no break of stride, not as the great gates are pulled open in silence, the only noise the sound of grating, heavy wood upon stone. The new Solterran king does not flinch at the citizens who bare there teeth and spit upon the floor. Ah, the memory of his betrayal is still strong. No Denocte dog has ever taken the crown here, least of all a Crow.
 
Behind him Legion follows. Still he is savage, a dog fighting it’s leash but following as it thirsts and begs for sustenance. Poison drips along their bond as Legion dreams of fangs upon Raum’s skin, of his torso exploding into stone as his great herd of raven elks once did.
 
Not even such violent thoughts from his monster, is enough to make Raum blanch. Though maybe something twists within him. Maybe something dies a little more, turning cold as ice.
 
Legion’s tail twitches and patrons scatter before it, dust swirls beneath the sun, forming a cloud that plumes and reaches for the unwavering sun. Raum’s skin is moonlight silver, bright as a dagger beneath the glare of the Solterran daylight. Sweat blooms and glistens across his skin and his body begs to limp, to expose the punishing blow Seraphina laid upon his back. Yet he does not let it. Oh how Raum forces one foot before the next, as though he were liquid, smoothly pouring, like a river, through Solterra’s narrow, dusty streets.
 
The steps to Solterra’s citadel keep are high and many. Raum ascends and Legion follows, with wings and feet gouging into stone that keens into the hot air. Steps were not made for monsters such as he:
 
Cities and citadels were not made to contain me, but fall at my bidding. Legion hisses to Raum in promise as he returns to fraying their connection, like a beak upon a rope.
 
“One day you shall be free.” Raum says simply, softly, as if Legion’s freedom did not equal his own demise. As if a thousand terrible deeds did not lie between then and now.
 
In silence the Ghost stands before Solterra, before the grand doors of its Keep, at the pinnacle of its great stone stairs.
 
“Solterra.” Raum greets, without love, his eyes as black as pitch – drenched in shadow and deep as a bottomless chasm. “Your queen is dead. Seraphina fell before me in Bellum Steppe. I left her broken.” And his skin bears the grizzly testament of his victory. He had indeed left the former queen broken. In his mind she still lies, twitching and gasping, her blood still warm in his mouth, upon his skin.
 
“I am your new king now.” And he is a horror, dressed in blood and dust, adorned with wicked eyes.
 
Raum pauses then, trailing his (freshly changed) blue, blue eyes over all those gathered. If he were anyone else, he might care what they think when they look up to behold their silver king. But Raum does not and he never has. At his side his beast caws a serpent’s cry that trembles both earth and sky. Legion’s skull tilts, his bloodied blindfold tilting too as he listens to the crowd. His beak is jagged and sharp, his fangs sharper still and a monstrous sight he is.
 
“A new monarchy is born this day and you will kneel before it or face the punishments borne of treason.” Raum voice is ringing steel and yet it is as soft as the silk of his scard – that same silk that binds Legion’s eyes and once twisted tight around Rhoswen’s throat. Solterra’s king’s gaze is a thing of ice and vengeance and it threatens to douse the whole of Solterra. “Many of you may have heard rumours from Denocte. Ask them now, for after this night you shall ask me no more. Solterra is made for better things. She sets her sights now on things that lie beyond these walls and they will be realized.”
 
Raum’s skull tilts then, twisting, corvid and bright, as he gazes to the citadel gates and beyond, on, on to where the other courts lie. “The tide is turning and it will make Solterra powerful.”

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--: Your lovely overlord has arrived. Isn’t he great? Heh –hides under a cushion-