I AM THE KING OF LIES
He had not come to dance, nor to drown his sorrows in the wine that flowed like water. He did not kick up his heels and engage in the sublime courtly dances, did not mingle with the laughing crowd, did not share in the bountiful delicacies and drinks that were displayed extravagantly. Like a shadow he clung to the outskirts, to the dark, moving unseen and unheard among the din of loud voices and distracted eyes. He was in his element, in the perfect position to absorb knowledge as his keen ears attuned themselves to the various speeches, picking out choice tidbits to file away. He was in his element...
And he had no reason to be.
He could be among the throng, sharing in their revelry and laughter without consequence, for he did not need to slink like a hellish specter on the edge of society. He did not need to glean information from gossip. He did so because it was familiar, because otherwise he would remain in Denocte haunting the Night Court keep. This purposelessness, this aimlessness... he was adrift in a sea of helplessness and he knew not how to recover. The Sovereign whom had taken the raven in had done nothing to set him on his wings, had not recognized that the rook needed orders and guidance, an arrow in the quiver that was forgotten. It chafed and infuriated him, the lack of action. So he struck out for the fesitval in Dawn, unsure of whether or not he would return to the roost or seek his shadowed wings rest elsewhere.
He was not, however, left to his own devices long when he began to slink about the festivities. His ghoulish eyes caught sight of a familiar Emissary in almost the same heartbeat her own locked onto him, and for a brief moment there was a shared look of recognition before she began to make her way over. He turned away, slipping deeper into the night, into the shadows, until the music of the festival was a faint melody in the night air, almost wholly drowned out by the cricket-song and nightjar calls.
Ammon turned to face Seraphina, the pair draped in nothing but starlight and moonbeams, and the curling, buisness-like smile on her face was shadowed by a fainter, polite curl of his own lips. Her words pierce the silence, faintly edged for all it's flatness, and for a long moment he mulled over his answer. "Mine treatment wouldst depend on what thine definition of 'well' pertains." To a normal equine, was he being treated well? Yes. He was given sanctuary, a place to lay his head, warmth and food and drink all in safety and comfort. But for the raven and his needs? No... no, Denocte, for a land of spies and thieves and shadows, was not giving the raven what he needed. What he desired. "I take it thou art here on behalf of thine Sovereign? Or, mayhap, art thou here for thine own entertainment, thine own purpose?" He recalled her offer all too well, her insistence in pursuing him even after taking serious injury, all to try and sway him to her cause.
It amused him.
And he had no reason to be.
He could be among the throng, sharing in their revelry and laughter without consequence, for he did not need to slink like a hellish specter on the edge of society. He did not need to glean information from gossip. He did so because it was familiar, because otherwise he would remain in Denocte haunting the Night Court keep. This purposelessness, this aimlessness... he was adrift in a sea of helplessness and he knew not how to recover. The Sovereign whom had taken the raven in had done nothing to set him on his wings, had not recognized that the rook needed orders and guidance, an arrow in the quiver that was forgotten. It chafed and infuriated him, the lack of action. So he struck out for the fesitval in Dawn, unsure of whether or not he would return to the roost or seek his shadowed wings rest elsewhere.
He was not, however, left to his own devices long when he began to slink about the festivities. His ghoulish eyes caught sight of a familiar Emissary in almost the same heartbeat her own locked onto him, and for a brief moment there was a shared look of recognition before she began to make her way over. He turned away, slipping deeper into the night, into the shadows, until the music of the festival was a faint melody in the night air, almost wholly drowned out by the cricket-song and nightjar calls.
Ammon turned to face Seraphina, the pair draped in nothing but starlight and moonbeams, and the curling, buisness-like smile on her face was shadowed by a fainter, polite curl of his own lips. Her words pierce the silence, faintly edged for all it's flatness, and for a long moment he mulled over his answer. "Mine treatment wouldst depend on what thine definition of 'well' pertains." To a normal equine, was he being treated well? Yes. He was given sanctuary, a place to lay his head, warmth and food and drink all in safety and comfort. But for the raven and his needs? No... no, Denocte, for a land of spies and thieves and shadows, was not giving the raven what he needed. What he desired. "I take it thou art here on behalf of thine Sovereign? Or, mayhap, art thou here for thine own entertainment, thine own purpose?" He recalled her offer all too well, her insistence in pursuing him even after taking serious injury, all to try and sway him to her cause.
It amused him.
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