He had never been much for worship, never much for gods that weren't of his own making. No, the Silvertongue lad with ruises limning his knuckles, with blood seeping from clenched teeth and eyes darkened with experience had never had the privilege of religion. Faith was something that a soul craved when all other needs had been met, when the belly was full and the mind wasn't full of desperation and doubt in the humanity of the world. Faith was something that was foreign to a street rat with thieving fingers and a quick grin.
He was a Crow and that was all the religion he needed.
Yet, the Veneror Peak and the temple that sat upon it was still a place of wonder for the youth, a point untouched by the filth and stench of moral decay. He could be Raglan, just Raglan, here. He didn't have to be a Page to the Crown, a trainee healer to the Regent, he didn't have to be his successes and he didn't have to live up to the expectations of the persona that he had knitted together from circumstance and necessity. He could leave all of that behind, could shed the skin that he kept in such good condition that even his fellow Crows didn't know that there was something else that lurked there at the Silvertongue's molten core.
Just Raglan.
Truthfully, the lad hadn't had much time to spend with Just Raglan - the boy that he was, but the boy he knew nothing about. That boy got left behind in the alley where he had been tossed after birth, he supposed. What the Silvertongue understood about Just Raglan is that he was leagues more kind and empathetic than the Crow could ever fathom, that he loved and mourned and had nothing of the fierce desperation, none of the blood and grit caking his skin that the winged youth had grown accustomed to. Just Raglan wasn't morally ambiguous, wasn't dangerous, didn't crave fortune and violence in retribution for what had been done to him.
Raglan scoffed at such a notion and murmured into the dark doorway of the temple in which he stood, "Just Raglan has no drive. He'd have gotten us killed long ago."
He was a Crow and that was all the religion he needed.
Yet, the Veneror Peak and the temple that sat upon it was still a place of wonder for the youth, a point untouched by the filth and stench of moral decay. He could be Raglan, just Raglan, here. He didn't have to be a Page to the Crown, a trainee healer to the Regent, he didn't have to be his successes and he didn't have to live up to the expectations of the persona that he had knitted together from circumstance and necessity. He could leave all of that behind, could shed the skin that he kept in such good condition that even his fellow Crows didn't know that there was something else that lurked there at the Silvertongue's molten core.
Just Raglan.
Truthfully, the lad hadn't had much time to spend with Just Raglan - the boy that he was, but the boy he knew nothing about. That boy got left behind in the alley where he had been tossed after birth, he supposed. What the Silvertongue understood about Just Raglan is that he was leagues more kind and empathetic than the Crow could ever fathom, that he loved and mourned and had nothing of the fierce desperation, none of the blood and grit caking his skin that the winged youth had grown accustomed to. Just Raglan wasn't morally ambiguous, wasn't dangerous, didn't crave fortune and violence in retribution for what had been done to him.
Raglan scoffed at such a notion and murmured into the dark doorway of the temple in which he stood, "Just Raglan has no drive. He'd have gotten us killed long ago."
@Rhoswen BABEHH
