[P] I solemnly swear that I am up to no good...

[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.

 

Legion preens before the boy. His beak, fanged and sharp, burrows into his crimson feathers, pecking and tugging at their quills. As if sensing the dark of Rufio’s eyes upon his scaled skin, the monster pauses and slowly twists his head. Angular, sharp fierce, the beast stares at where the boy stands, his crimson eyes gleaming from behind the barrier of azure silk.
 
His beak tips up into the air, nostrils flaring as he scents where the colt stands. Then slowly his beak parts, neck lowering, her serpent’s tail whipping through the air, this way then that. A hiss, coarse as a swan, as aggressive as teeth already in Rufio’s skin, slick with blood and venom(ah the monster can dream), rattles from legion’s throat. Venom strings between his fangs and lower jaw, yet slowly he closes his maw as Raum shifts lazily.
 
So the bond between Raum and his beast grows. It is nothing of love, or devotion. It is an unrequited bond, yet it festers deep. It sinks through skin and desire and settles deeper still into need. The basilisk and the king need each other, their nerves are now one, laces together by magic and circumstance. Legion screams at his master, fury alighting through his every nerve. Oh it sets Raum ablaze, yet Raum is ice to his monster’s fire. What is there to fear when everything you love is already so very, very lost?
 
Blank eyes turn back to the boy. The orphan stood gleaming beneath the Solterran sun. So much reminds the Crow of himself and fondness burns through hatred. But it is just a drop, only a drop of water landing upon a hotplate. “I did not tell you to bow, Rufio.” Raum says softly, uncaring. “Yet you would be surprised how fast people fall to their knees when their needs are not met.” Raum says, casually, as if it is just conversation.
 
Slowly his gaze peels from the stranger-boy and off toward the walled Oasis. Beneath his feet are carcasses. Already Solterra’s people are dying, already they come to him demanding, hating, begging.
 
The boy asks another question and again there is sarcasm in his tongue. A misplaced haughtiness clings to him. Oh Raum sees, not a black boy adorned in a golden outfit, but a boy of silver with raven black eyes. There is so much of who he was in Rufio, it fills him with hatred and yet stays his hand.
 
“When you learn to ask politely, then, I will give you my name. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He asks idly. Raum is not Isra, who can make the world give her bread from water or wine from stones. But he is a king and his resources are vast – for those within his Regime…

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@Rufio