Raglan
may the bridges i burn light the way
When one thinks of a warrant, do they not think of the Law? Subsections and paragraphs, treatises and ordinances outlining which behaviors were unacceptable and which actions would require legal intervention. Warrants were the pen and paper demand that one be held accountable, the proof that an individual had wronged society grievously enough to grab a magistrate’s attention. They were an order for clipped wings, stone skies, and iron bars; a justification for a spiritual slaughter.
And weren’t at least some of them justified?
Then, consider a death warrant; would one ever include the Law in such a phrase? Death was a handmaiden of any society, to be fair, but when a population became developed enough, Lady Death became obsolete in favor of reformation. Indeed, the idea of a death warrant summoned images of brutal gangs, of blood feuds, of violence senseless and gruesome. Raglan thought upon the sort of death warrants issued by the lawless masses, those darker shades of creature who slunk about in the underbelly and in the dregs. He thought of just what sort of ending would manifest for the targets, and what that meant for their loved ones.
The Crow glanced again at the lad by his side and felt a pang of fear — true and sharp as any blade — slide along mahogany skin. The boy was fresh as spring time, green as grass, and reckless as Raglan himself, there was no reason to become entrenched in whatever conflicts this golden child would undoubtedly have clinging to his coattails. Yet, the horned stag couldn’t deny that he felt an odd kinship toward the male, and against his better judgement* decided to see where this new company would lead.
Approval emanated from the pegasus as his new comrade’s demeanor remained unchanged, so he wasn’t as much of a novice as Raglan had assumed. He didn’t yet know if that would end up damning or saving them. The shadows soon enveloped the pair, slowing their stroll to a halt and allowing the goldspun thief to fully assess the Silvertongue. Green eyes narrowed and Aurelian head tilted to the side, painting the coltish youth in shades of suspicion. Raglan nodded in response — good, it was good that the lad wouldn’t let himself be led blindly into an opinion — and waited patiently for the feathered rogue to come to his own conclusions.
At last, the lad acquiesced and began to walk once more at a leisurely pace. Raglan felt the corners of his mouth curve into a grin at the young male’s next words; he was insightful, to be sure, and the mahogany pegasus felt a faint wash of something like pride. He adjusted his steps to match the golden boy’s pace and cocked an ear to listen. The smile shifted to a smirk at the youth’s — Locke’s — comment about normal eyes and tells, and the Crow offered a mischievous wink in answer.
Swishing his tail, Raglan walked alongside Locke in silence for a few beats letting the scents and sounds of the city wash over his skin; in a way, this return to Denocte’s streets was a sort of baptism for the stallion. He had been lost for so long, and he still was, but at least the yearning for his motherland was no longer crawling beneath his skin and yanking at his soul. He breathed in, there would be no permanent return to the earthly lands of Night, Raglan was for better or for worse, a Dusk citizen.
Caligo’s gaze would never feel the same, and the stars would never again smile at him for this admission.
“A pleasure, Locke,” Came his response, spoken in the velvet smooth tones of one comfortable with uncomfortable situations, “Indeed, my slate is not clean, and I doubt it ever will be,” A wistful line spoken with a dismissiveness that bordered on apathy. “Though I would surmise that this predicament leaves us with some time to kill — with any luck, the Undersiders will assume my prolonged absence was due to training you and that you’ve joined up with the Crows. With any luck, they won’t know I’m the only one that still carries that ball and chain of a title and you’ll be let off the hook for your little mishap.”
Raglan tilted his head to look Locke full in the face, “So I can show you around for a while, point out the borders, pretend like we actually know each other.” There was a roll of slender shoulders that suggested a shrug, “Or we can waltz into a tavern, I’ll buy you a drink on whatever tab Acton hopefully left open a few seasons ago, and we can actually get to know each other.”
Pale gaze shifted back to the latticework of alleys and streets ahead, “It’s up to you, kid.”
* who uses better judgement or the crock of BS called a “conscience” anyway?
And weren’t at least some of them justified?
Then, consider a death warrant; would one ever include the Law in such a phrase? Death was a handmaiden of any society, to be fair, but when a population became developed enough, Lady Death became obsolete in favor of reformation. Indeed, the idea of a death warrant summoned images of brutal gangs, of blood feuds, of violence senseless and gruesome. Raglan thought upon the sort of death warrants issued by the lawless masses, those darker shades of creature who slunk about in the underbelly and in the dregs. He thought of just what sort of ending would manifest for the targets, and what that meant for their loved ones.
The Crow glanced again at the lad by his side and felt a pang of fear — true and sharp as any blade — slide along mahogany skin. The boy was fresh as spring time, green as grass, and reckless as Raglan himself, there was no reason to become entrenched in whatever conflicts this golden child would undoubtedly have clinging to his coattails. Yet, the horned stag couldn’t deny that he felt an odd kinship toward the male, and against his better judgement* decided to see where this new company would lead.
Approval emanated from the pegasus as his new comrade’s demeanor remained unchanged, so he wasn’t as much of a novice as Raglan had assumed. He didn’t yet know if that would end up damning or saving them. The shadows soon enveloped the pair, slowing their stroll to a halt and allowing the goldspun thief to fully assess the Silvertongue. Green eyes narrowed and Aurelian head tilted to the side, painting the coltish youth in shades of suspicion. Raglan nodded in response — good, it was good that the lad wouldn’t let himself be led blindly into an opinion — and waited patiently for the feathered rogue to come to his own conclusions.
At last, the lad acquiesced and began to walk once more at a leisurely pace. Raglan felt the corners of his mouth curve into a grin at the young male’s next words; he was insightful, to be sure, and the mahogany pegasus felt a faint wash of something like pride. He adjusted his steps to match the golden boy’s pace and cocked an ear to listen. The smile shifted to a smirk at the youth’s — Locke’s — comment about normal eyes and tells, and the Crow offered a mischievous wink in answer.
Swishing his tail, Raglan walked alongside Locke in silence for a few beats letting the scents and sounds of the city wash over his skin; in a way, this return to Denocte’s streets was a sort of baptism for the stallion. He had been lost for so long, and he still was, but at least the yearning for his motherland was no longer crawling beneath his skin and yanking at his soul. He breathed in, there would be no permanent return to the earthly lands of Night, Raglan was for better or for worse, a Dusk citizen.
Caligo’s gaze would never feel the same, and the stars would never again smile at him for this admission.
“A pleasure, Locke,” Came his response, spoken in the velvet smooth tones of one comfortable with uncomfortable situations, “Indeed, my slate is not clean, and I doubt it ever will be,” A wistful line spoken with a dismissiveness that bordered on apathy. “Though I would surmise that this predicament leaves us with some time to kill — with any luck, the Undersiders will assume my prolonged absence was due to training you and that you’ve joined up with the Crows. With any luck, they won’t know I’m the only one that still carries that ball and chain of a title and you’ll be let off the hook for your little mishap.”
Raglan tilted his head to look Locke full in the face, “So I can show you around for a while, point out the borders, pretend like we actually know each other.” There was a roll of slender shoulders that suggested a shrug, “Or we can waltz into a tavern, I’ll buy you a drink on whatever tab Acton hopefully left open a few seasons ago, and we can actually get to know each other.”
Pale gaze shifted back to the latticework of alleys and streets ahead, “It’s up to you, kid.”
* who uses better judgement or the crock of BS called a “conscience” anyway?
"Talk"
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