Raglan
may the bridges i burn light the way
Raglan had not been planted in fertile soil.
The Crow had not spread his roots and blossomed in the light of the sun or been watered with care. It could be argued that he had a rougher upbringing than most equines, not until the Orphan King had sat the Reveler’s Throne and brought forth splendor for his fellows. Though by that time, Raglan had been all but grown. A life cultivated between dingy alleyways and grubby hands had not taken from the stallion, however — the truth was indeed quite the opposite; Raglan had found he had been given the gift of joy.
As a colt, it had been frustrating that the budding Crow could never quite master the cold calculation that had been Raum’s calling card, couldn’t grasp the quiet groundedness that had emanated from Acton, or the soft elegance that belonged to Rhoswen.
No, the Silvertongue had always embodied a childlike spark and a youthful amicability — no matter how many hours he had spent making stern faces at his own reflection. At some point, the pegasus had decided to accept his fate as comic relief, to fine tune whatever insatiable mischief danced in his eyes. Raglan had long since come to terms with the fact that he may never become the hero of a story, but what was a tale without a few peals of laughter between the tragedy? And so he had grown, filled out his skin in whatever lanky way he could and did his best to fit whatever mold the universe had selected for him.
Raglan watched his predestined role take effect on the bun-toting stranger; saw it in the loosening of posture, the smile that spread over champagne lips, and the conspiratorial way the golden male leaned in to reply. Raglan mimicked the stallion’s body language, the pair of them standing near the pillar like so many gossiping spinsters. How long had it been, some distant part of the rogue wondered, since he had been able to pretend at secrets for the fun of it? Done much of anything just for the pure fun of it?
The grin over the Crow’s lips widened further as his newest ally discreetly offered him one of the delectable pastries, and Raglan wasted no time in scooping one up — steaming and shining with glaze — and stuffing it into his mouth. He bit back a groan as the nearly too-hot dough practically melted in his mouth, the taste buttery and sweet and altogether luxurious. Mouth full, the pegasus managed a grateful nod toward his companion and a cheerful wink; winks were, after all, the preferred form of approval and managed mischief among newly minted partners in crime.
Swallowing and making himself a promise to devour an entire tablefull of those buns after the noon bells tolled, Raglan held back his belch and turned silvery eyes back to the palomino at his side.
“What luck, my bun-baking friend, you have earned my undying loyalty via pastry — were I a proper gentleman, I’d have already asked your father for your hand in marriage.” Punctuating his words with a chuff, Raglan eased his posture into something looser, “I get the feeling, however, that my advances would be both clumsy and unwelcome, seeing as I am, as a kindly Lady once advised; a complete and utterly hopeless cad.” A small adjustment as more servers swept by, the Crow careful not to get his feathers in the various treats and drinks floating by.
“You mentioned a new king — though I’ll be honest, I was unaware of an old one. Is Maxence’s grouchy and wildly muscular rump no longer perched in your people’s throne?” The query was accompanied by a small tilt of Raglan’s horned head, his expression open and quizzical. “I’ll bet he ate too many of these delicious honey cakes and died of ecstasy, didn’t he? Poor handsome cavedwelling bastard...”
@
"Talk"
