[P] STARLINGS

[Raziel]

Gahenna hears him first: someone's coming. Raziel is sharp but his hound has always been sharper and it is a truth he keenly begrudges and admires.  His mother always said that the desert is a liar and its co-conspirator is the wind. "It will eat you, if you let it. So don't fucking let it." Balsheva had been a blunt woman, stiff and callous, but she knew the land and even as a stilt-legged colt he had known to trust her judgement. She was right; sound is easily manipulated when it has nothing to barrel against but the sky. It might whisper to the east only to whip violently back around south, too late for its casualty to catch on that it might be hiding men and rattlesnakes in its intricate disarray, and if he were to die today at the hand of an assassin concealed by the desert's untruth, he would not be the first. But Raziel does not think he is afraid to die.  He tries not to think about death too much. Tries.  Not today, though, as the pair watch the palomino stallion stretch into sight. Raziel blinks in the skin that shines like the gold under his own, noting every roll of muscle and each glint of light upon the ring fastened through his nose. He doesn't recognise him, but that comes as no surprise: Raziel Nazaret can count on one hand the number of times he has run into another soul this summer and with the recent change in sovereignty, he is under no illusion that his court knowledge has become desperately threadbare.  It makes him moderately uncomfortable: the presence of someone he does not know. Like an old veteran tied to old habits, he is not a creature made for capricious encounters; less so now, after many moons in the company of Gahenna alone. She has not risen from the shade, but her milk-white eyes are fastened tight to the man's throat. One wrong step. One quick end. But it is not bodily harm Raziel fears, rather clumsy disquiet at the thought of conversation.   He is thinking, quickly, of retreating into the sub-tropical thicket behind the oasis when the stranger's voice catches him. If he had not been raised in long meetings, dull lunches and political soiree's, Raziel might have audibly sighed. Can he even remember how to chat? Had he ever? A silence breaks between them as he fails to answer reflexively and perhaps a minute passes before he realises that he needn't have responded, for the gold man eases into the shade regardless. Gahenna still has not moved but Raziel knows her body to be coiled like a spring should it be required. Raziel shifts loosely, edging minutely away from the other before offering a tight smile of his own. It feels almost arthritic.  "What is?"  As a boy, his grandfather had impressed upon both he and Raoul that manners and etiquette were what separated them from the common rabble of society. (He didn't mention the matter of inordinate wealth and influence, mind) They had been served the highest education by the top tutors in the country, and Raziel supposed much of his upbringing had stayed with him; perhaps all but the art of conversation. That had always been Raoul's forte; his twin had possessed a nose and flair for winding even the surliest of nobles around his fine fingers, leaving Raziel trailing behind in his disinterest. Raziel was blade-straight in his manner - a smarting disadvantage in a world where the manipulation of the written and spoken word meant everything. But he didn't mind, he'd always had Raoul to smile and charm and he had never envied him for it.  It was times like these that he wished his brother were still here.  ♣ @august