It was autumn in Novus, which meant it was as good as winter in the thin-air places of the Arma Mountains, and Acton was in a foul mood.
The magician was a simple man. He liked a drink (or two), a game of cards (only rarely with an illicit ace up his metaphorical sleeve) and being onstage with a held-breath crowd before him. He liked back-alley brawls and poorly thought out bets and chance encounters with pretty women that lasted only as long as they needed to.
He did not like the nervousness that hung uneasy in his stomach now like too much sour wine. He did not like the memories that dogged him, of conversations he wished had never happened. And he did not like waiting, not even for Raum, not even to go home.
What was home, without the other Crows? Without Reichenbach the Night Court was just another city, no matter how prettily shone the strangers or the stars.
The mountain pass still bore the scars of the dragon’s strange fire. Smaller plants were struggling to make a comeback, but there was still so much char – black soil, black tree-trunks, black-smeared bones of unfortunate beasts. The wind was cold as it sighed down from the mountain, and Acton paced and muttered and left half-moon prints in the ashy earth.
Mostly what he wanted was someone to scream at, someone to punch, someone to use to sort out his messy rats-nest of feelings that he never knew what to do with. That, or to make something go boom, an explosion loud enough to shock his nerves into adrenaline and drown out his needle-teethed thoughts.
But Acton’s powders were far away, back in his quarters in Denocte (if they were still there at all), and not even the wildlife had returned to this part of the scorched mountains.
So he tried to make do. Laying his dark ears back, teeth meeting with a click, Acton focused his shaky grip on his magic and willed it into being. His head began to throb, but he could feel a presence behind him – and when he turned a moment later, match-bright eyes flashing, his gaze fell upon Reichebach.
Well. Not quite. It was only a weak approximation of the Night Court king – small and pale and flickering in and out of being like sparks or smoke. But it wore that devil-take-you grin, and gypsy coins glinted for a moment in the clear autumn sunlight –
“Fuck you,” Acton said, his heart pounding ragged in his ribs as if it were truly the King Crow and not some third-rate illusion, but already the bay figure was fading. Sunlight cut through his dark sides, then the whole image stuttered like a heartbeat. “Come back,” the buckskin urged, but the figure was gone.
He was alone, had been alone, would be alone.
“Fucking pathetic,” he snarled, and kicked up a cloud of ash and dirt at the place where the illusion had been – but he didn’t feel any better.
He felt as pathetic as the figure he’d conjured.
NOT YET CORPSES
STILL, WE ROT
@Thranduil if he wants and any! plz disregard the tantrum
