The twilight world was soaked in lavender as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Raglan could feel in the distance how the Night Court was stirring, coming alive in the arms of evening as only Denocte’s children could. It called to his blood, pulling at the wild heart pulsing within his breast and quickening his breath. He had been born and forged there, amid the grit and cobbles and exquisite chaos. Raglan’s blood still stained the stones of the Downsides - a result of brawls and stumbles, a childhood that had always been both too old and too swift for it to really be called such.
The grasses were cool where they brushed against mahogany skin, a few of the more precocious stalks tickling at his upper legs as he moved. Raglan had no direction, and so wandered slowly about the prairie with something akin to a quiet mind for the first time in months. The stallion reveled in the sensations outside of him, no longer trapped in some self-made hell of regrets and worries and constant mental strife.
There was a breeze, crisp but not chilled, toying with the layers of mane hanging over the Crow’s shoulders. It carried scents from the city beyond and from the forests and streams just out of reach - this world he had abandoned seemed to pay no mind to his absence. Raglan couldn’t decide if that should be a source of sorrow or relief. Pulled from his reverie, the blood colored stallion started at the sound of his name being called with the voice of a ghost. Blinking rapidly, he cast his opalescent gaze about and saw that the ghost was... most definitely not a ghost.
It took the young stag a moment to find his voice, the shock laying so heavily across his tongue that, for a moment, he wasn't quite sure he had ever possessed the ability to speak.
In the few beats of silence where Raglan searched for his voice, the Crow found himself moving toward the golden figure, expression stricken. “Bexley Briar? Bexley?” Heart squeezing almost painfully, the crimson stallion found himself before her, pupilless eyes devouring her face, her hair, her skin, her absolute and undeniable there-ness. His mouth flapped wordlessly for some time, face reminiscent of some great gaping fish before he was able to speak again, though his words sounded to him as if he were speaking from some great distance, “Who hurt you?”
It was only after the question was posed that Raglan realized that he was furious, that the scar lacing the mare’s face was not something that could be earned by anything other than violence. His words had lashed out of him, a series of sharp, angry things that felt almost foreign. The idea of someone laying the golden spitfire low both scared and infuriated the boy - for that was very much what he felt in that moment, a lonely and frightened boy - to no end.
He blinked hard, breathed slow, and tried again, “It has been a... very long time. And I’m sorry that my irresistible charm seems to be more rusty than I realized.” A halfhearted smirk flitted over blackened lips and a tiny bit of shimmer returned to those opal eyes, “Either that or your presence is so breathtaking that I couldn’t bear the shock — how is it any nation is still standing in the face of your wit and beauty, Lady Briar?”
@Bexley Hi its sad flirt time
