[P] o sinnerman;

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends He is not, for once, interested in talking of himself or his tricks. Acton could not quite tell if the silver man was trying to goad him; they fought so rarely, and for good reason. It was never a pretty thing when one of the Crows took offence with another, and age did not necessarily mean wisdom in such matters. When something happened between any of them it was always ugly, and with Acton it could be ugliest of all. For that reason he let the words, the tone roll off of him and spill into the empty air. It was a tougher path to take when talk turned back to their king; this time he did bristle, and his dark-tipped ears laid back. Only for a moment, but the moment was enough. For Acton – from his sources – to hear was to know. It was the importance of the information that the buckskin had disregarded. Clearly, the Ghost did not feel the same way. “Do you suggest, brother, that Reichenbach would be so foolish as to let his feelings for a girl threaten us all?” His words were slick as obsidian, and his gaze as dark. “I trust him more than that.” Maybe that made Acton the fool, to believe that nothing could turn Reich’s head away from his kingdom (and his Crows), even if his heart was the one tugging him. Their thief-king’s loves had never lasted before, his wild heart wanting too much – Acton saw no reason to believe this case would be any different. He wasn’t sure why Raum’s apparent inability to see things that way felt like a personal slight, and even that smile – a rare and honest thing on the lips of their Ghost, unlike Acton’s thousands of disposable grins – didn’t chase the feeling away. . Talk of Maxence, however, did the trick. It always did – the name alone of the pegasus could jar Acton from any black thoughts, send him sliding into some terrible amalgamation of hate and pleasure and guilt. His hate (founded on shaky ground) was a drug and he always wanted more, more, more. He saw the way that Raum fell still and tried to quell the awful joy that stirred in him, the one hungry for the idea of danger. Where Raum was a statue the buckskin was all movement, pacing in the semi-darkness, ears never still, his hair an extension of his wildness. For all of that, he only had this to say: “First Rostislav, and then delivering threats at our doorstep in the dead of night. To keep waiting is an insult.” If it were up to Acton they would already be at Solterra’s gates. It is a good thing that it isn’t. Bexley, the Ghost named the girl, and Acton’s head tilted his direction with a crow’s dark interest. The name fit her; it began like a punch and ended like a grin. He snorted, stopping short of rolling his eyes at Raum’s implication. “I only want to know what she wants. I caught her leaving Denocte for Day. You don’t think it’s strange, that she’s close to them both?” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug and then yawned, suddenly all bored nonchalance, and when his gaze found the Ghost’s again he was back to himself. As much as that meant anything. “If I stay much longer the gods might tire of me,” he said with a grin and a flick of his tail. “Next time we meet, let’s do it somewhere that requires less climbing.” And then he turned to go without so much as a goodbye or be safe. Acton didn’t believe in either of those things. @Raum closing here, if it's alright with you? <3