[P] the patron saint of liars and fakes;

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends His anger was a living thing, closing in around him like the canyon walls. The news of Maxence’s death had come not long after his last meeting with Raum, and all the want for war that had been building, building, building in him had nowhere to go. And so he radiated it, heat rolling off of him in the midmorning desert, the path he walked still cool in the shadows.   By all rights he should have been happy. Acton doesn’t know why it’s not satisfaction licking through his blood, quickening his steps – but then, it’s not like him to parse apart his feelings. That was more for Raum. The buckskin only felt and acted and paid whatever the consequences demanded.   His course through the canyon was quicker than the last time he was here; his gaze glanced over familiar rock formations, burnished orange as his skin, the shadows stark and coal-black. Meet me, said the message that the Ghost had sent, and Acton had told no one where he was going.   It doesn’t yet occur to him that that may have been a mistake.   The cave mouth is a deeper black than the shadowed rock around it. Acton paused a moment before entering, ears pricked with listening, his gaze half-wary and half-mad. There was no one; not a sound but his own breathing, too quiet to echo in the narrow walls.   He slipped into the darkness to wait for the sound of hooves.     @Raum @Bexley