If he had to compare the quality of alleyways, Raglan would have to use multiple categories and perhaps a diagram or two in order to give an honest review.
The two contenders for his heart would be Terrastella and Denocte, for each capitol had a wondrous maze of lanes and pathways that snaked through their hearts. The alleys of Dusk’s seat were markedly cleaner and safer, there was no competition when those details came to comparison, but Night’s corridors were darker and superior for sneaking. Denocte would win points for nostalgia and sentiment, as well, though it was a definite bias that no doubt skewed whatever anecdotal data the rogue would collect.
And yet, Terrastella’s alleyways produced run-ins with beautiful women at a drastically higher rate than Denocte’s ever had. Raglan crinkled his nose and pursed his lips in half-thought.
Back to the drawing board; more research was necessary.
Strolling through the lattice-like network of passages that limned the stretch of roadway housing the famous Night Market, the horned Crow watched the crowd with a lazy interest. He didn’t see much going on in the rowdy bazaar that would qualify as unique or interesting — street urchins pickpocketing, merchants hawking their wares, veiled mares winking and motioning toward shadowy doorways where *their* wares could be anything from a night of bliss to waking up in a gutter with a sore skull and an empty purse.
He sighed wistfully at the organized chaos that he had been raised upon. It had been within the Night Market, after all, that he and Acton had established their reputation among the other Crows; Acton performing his light shows while Raglan cut purses and relieved the richer sorts of their heavy monetary burdens. He wondered at where his lively saffron brother was now, if he was still charming the pockets of prince and pauper alike.
The stallion’s musings were cut short, however, by a stir in the crowd.
The sight would not have been an unusual one — smaller, golden male being scolded enthusiastically by a hulking draft — if not for the only slightly sloppily performed pilferage undertaken by the smaller lad. Raglan looked on curiously as the conflict dissolved and the sun kissed youth continued on his way with an arrogance that almost made the Silvertongue’s heart ache with nostalgia. In a blink, he was sidling up next to the male, close enough for crimson wings to brush against the golden child’s sides with a misstep or two.
Close enough to smell the desert on his skin.
"You see," He drawled, shimmering opal eyes flitting to the youth’s for but a moment as he subtly attempted to steer the lad away from the crowds and closer to the shadowed mouth of an alley, “Such actions can be rewarded, but you’re an amateur, and so you were discovered thieving.” Raglan paused, a smirk twisting darkened lips, “This is no game, gentlefriend, the Crows no longer hold Denocte’s streets. The smaller gangs and groups have taken over and, Goddess forbid, if they catch you criming on their turf? Well...”
The Crow tried to soften reality with a grin, tried to push home the truth of his words with the tension in his shoulders, tried to spoon feed the novice thief with the lightness in his voice. Yet, there was no way to lessen the truth of the newer Underside gangs and their strange brutality; even the Crows, at their most powerful, had never dived as low as the Neo-Underside groups had. Raglan’s memory showed him flashes of daggers fashioned from broken glass, bruised sides, bloody teeth spat to the earth.
The Court of Night and her many shadows were not as safe as they once were.
“All the sun and sand in the Solterran desert could not save you.”
Well, that got dark. Apologies. But here you are! @Locke
