Raglan
may the bridges i burn light the way
Cobbles did strange things to the sound of hoof beats.
Raglan supposed it had something to do with the paving being broken up into various pieces, each with potentially different densities. Then, add the inconsistent heights and patterns of wear, and born is the perfect recipe for sound distortion. In his youth, the stallion had been able to read the sounds of the cobbles like a book, each pattern of steps with an accompanying story to tell. He had spent hours lurking in the shadows, listening for the secrets that could be found in the staccato rhythm of a runaway daughter or a drunken father.
The Crow had since lost that ability to time and lack of practice, and it was a skill that he missed, though mostly for entertainment’s sake; Raglan had hung up his habit of playing spy long ago. As the clatter and clack of he and Locke’s hoof falls rose up to swirl about cocked ears, the bloody bay wondered what sort of story he could have listened to them tell. Would a listener have heard the near-bereft aimlessness that plagued Raglan’s nights? Would they have divined Locke’s inexperience, his budding guile, his innocence amid sin?
He wasn’t sure if he would ever find out, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Raglan had never been one for hiding his emotions, but he had always carried a knack for carrying them in such a way where they were overlooked. Glancing back at the golden boy, noting the clever glint in those emerald eyes, Raglan felt all at once proud and worried for the younger male — being clever and young and more than a little reckless was something that Raglan knew well, and it was something that had gotten him into trouble countless times.
Maybe this was his punishment for abandoning his homeland and his makeshift family — doomed to mentor and vicariously live through the mistakes of his youth mirrored in the lives of others.
At Locke’s reply, Raglan felt a laugh bubble up in his throat and offered a nod in response to the emotion fizzling beneath his skin. Acton was missing from the Crow’s life, but he had been the wiliest stallion that Raglan had ever known, and the pegasus was sure that he would turn up somewhere. With a purse of his lips and a wry, narrowed look tossed at the lanky colt, the winged stag arched a brow and whispered as if his next words held some grand secret.
“My name? Only the gods and those soon to meet them have ever known my name, boy.”
To add to the drama, Raglan struck a pebble with his hoof, the resulting clunk multiplying into a chorus of skittering echoes that seemed to follow the air before tapering off into near silence. Slowing to a sudden stop, the Silvertongue affixed Locke in his pale gaze and stared hard, part of him feeling almost guilty for toying with his new charge. After a few moments of faux-tension, the horned male broke off in a guffaw, his mannerisms returning the normal impishness he was known for.
“Sorry, kid, I had to try. Call me Raglan, though many a lass and lord know me more accurately by ‘Bastard.’” Silvery eyes twinkling as a crooked smile sprang to darkened lips, Raglan dipped his head and motioned with a flourish to the slumped entrance of a battered tavern, the warped wooden sign above the door reading The Buzzard’s Board in chipped paint. “It seems we have arrived. Good choice on your part, by the way, to get caught sneaking so close to my favorite haunt.” With a jaunty step and a swish of his lengthy tail, the stallion led the way through the creaking door and into the dim interior. While it had been some time since he had last stepped through the threshold, the tavern was just as warm and worn as ever. Making his way to the mostly empty bar, Raglan winked at the barmaid who rolled her eyes in response, and leaned over the counter to ask after the evening’s specials.
“Nothing special about this place, luv, you know that. Now what will it be?” Came the maid’s deadpan reply.
”You’re right, Benilde, I do know that, but how could I resist the urge to speak with an angel at least a little more?” The flattery elicited yet another eye roll from the mare, though Raglan forged ahead as if she had giggled demurely behind a fan, ”A Buzzard’s Breath, please. As for my friend...” He trailed off and looked over at the feathered form of Locke, quirking a brow and waiting patiently as he may.
Raglan supposed it had something to do with the paving being broken up into various pieces, each with potentially different densities. Then, add the inconsistent heights and patterns of wear, and born is the perfect recipe for sound distortion. In his youth, the stallion had been able to read the sounds of the cobbles like a book, each pattern of steps with an accompanying story to tell. He had spent hours lurking in the shadows, listening for the secrets that could be found in the staccato rhythm of a runaway daughter or a drunken father.
The Crow had since lost that ability to time and lack of practice, and it was a skill that he missed, though mostly for entertainment’s sake; Raglan had hung up his habit of playing spy long ago. As the clatter and clack of he and Locke’s hoof falls rose up to swirl about cocked ears, the bloody bay wondered what sort of story he could have listened to them tell. Would a listener have heard the near-bereft aimlessness that plagued Raglan’s nights? Would they have divined Locke’s inexperience, his budding guile, his innocence amid sin?
He wasn’t sure if he would ever find out, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Raglan had never been one for hiding his emotions, but he had always carried a knack for carrying them in such a way where they were overlooked. Glancing back at the golden boy, noting the clever glint in those emerald eyes, Raglan felt all at once proud and worried for the younger male — being clever and young and more than a little reckless was something that Raglan knew well, and it was something that had gotten him into trouble countless times.
Maybe this was his punishment for abandoning his homeland and his makeshift family — doomed to mentor and vicariously live through the mistakes of his youth mirrored in the lives of others.
At Locke’s reply, Raglan felt a laugh bubble up in his throat and offered a nod in response to the emotion fizzling beneath his skin. Acton was missing from the Crow’s life, but he had been the wiliest stallion that Raglan had ever known, and the pegasus was sure that he would turn up somewhere. With a purse of his lips and a wry, narrowed look tossed at the lanky colt, the winged stag arched a brow and whispered as if his next words held some grand secret.
“My name? Only the gods and those soon to meet them have ever known my name, boy.”
To add to the drama, Raglan struck a pebble with his hoof, the resulting clunk multiplying into a chorus of skittering echoes that seemed to follow the air before tapering off into near silence. Slowing to a sudden stop, the Silvertongue affixed Locke in his pale gaze and stared hard, part of him feeling almost guilty for toying with his new charge. After a few moments of faux-tension, the horned male broke off in a guffaw, his mannerisms returning the normal impishness he was known for.
“Sorry, kid, I had to try. Call me Raglan, though many a lass and lord know me more accurately by ‘Bastard.’” Silvery eyes twinkling as a crooked smile sprang to darkened lips, Raglan dipped his head and motioned with a flourish to the slumped entrance of a battered tavern, the warped wooden sign above the door reading The Buzzard’s Board in chipped paint. “It seems we have arrived. Good choice on your part, by the way, to get caught sneaking so close to my favorite haunt.” With a jaunty step and a swish of his lengthy tail, the stallion led the way through the creaking door and into the dim interior. While it had been some time since he had last stepped through the threshold, the tavern was just as warm and worn as ever. Making his way to the mostly empty bar, Raglan winked at the barmaid who rolled her eyes in response, and leaned over the counter to ask after the evening’s specials.
“Nothing special about this place, luv, you know that. Now what will it be?” Came the maid’s deadpan reply.
”You’re right, Benilde, I do know that, but how could I resist the urge to speak with an angel at least a little more?” The flattery elicited yet another eye roll from the mare, though Raglan forged ahead as if she had giggled demurely behind a fan, ”A Buzzard’s Breath, please. As for my friend...” He trailed off and looked over at the feathered form of Locke, quirking a brow and waiting patiently as he may.
"Talk"
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