[AW] Mirrors start to whisper

[Raum]

 
There is not much to separate these two Crows.
 
Like recognises like.
 
Raum watches as Dovev moves like smoke across the stone; a wraith to meet Denocte’s Ghost. Raum walks with him, their every step matching, but the elder Crow is so very hidden.
 
Oh, Raum is always unseen, revealed only at his moment of choosing. It is how so many victims met their death in silence and anguish. His shadows pour over his skin like ink, praising his return as they pull him deeper and deeper into black.
 
The boy had learned to walk beneath the Solterran sun, leaving his trails in its infinite grains of sand. But it is Denocte that forged this assassin from the shadows and where they now welcome him home.
 
Raum is the Crow who flew too close to the sun and oh how his skin burned for its every stolen touch. That soul, corrupt and savage, is now a canvas of burns: so beautiful, so terrible. The sun took a part of him and it remains held within Solterra’s fiery grasp when he flew for home.
 
The moon high above him whispers along his skin. It whispers its song of death – for how much it yearns to die again so that the sun might live with her fire and her wild heart.
 
The darkness takes Raum’s silver skin a gift of Calligo’s moon and jealously painting it black, black, black. Its prodigal son has returned; for Calligo’s shadows have always been his parents.
 
With silent limbs, Denocte’s Ghost pours across the stone of the courtyard, electric blue eyes - the only part of him that glints in the dark (the only part of him he affords Dovev to see) – watch his fellow Crow. Ah yes, they are so startlingly similar, silver skin, bright eyes of myriad blues; they were both pulled from the side of the moon.
 
The shadows cling and cling and cling to his body as he finally steps out from their grasp and into the moonlight. They fall away like silk, a cloak he has finally discarded. Raum gleams silver beneath the moonlight, every part of him liquid mercury. Those electric eyes still glowing, still seeking to drown their foes in their live waters, take in the whole of Dovev: One assassin to another.
 
He does not wear a smile, for when has Raum ever? Ah, maybe his sun, oh yes, maybe her. The scent of the sun still clings to his skin, the sands still abrading the stone of his soul. “Brother.” The prodigal Ghost greets, voice chafing like silk over rough stone.
 
Denocte’s multitude have sung his name for days, for The Ghost is to return to the stage this night. He will dazzle and enchant as he always has. This evening he will smile and seduce the crowd before slipping away, ever the silent Crow, with his scarf – his silent weapon about his throat and the deadly song of his blade upon his limb. And that blade is the only part of him that makes a noise.

@Dovev