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[wolflord_andain]

Tracking a fallen angel across a solar system is far from an easy task, but at last, it seems, Galadan has managed

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[un_fallen]

Now. Now is optimal, really. And restricted as he is by what he knows of Galadan's future, Raguel is still firmly convinced of the cathartic properties of a really good fistfight.

Even if teeth and fire are involved.

Even if someone dies, it was an accident.

Not that that will happen, surely.

Raguel steps out of the transit station, grinning to himself, and starts walking.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan slides into wolf-shape, getting the feel of the ground under his feet, this dry, bare earth so different from what he knows in Fionavar.

He appreciates the harshness of dust in his throat as he runs, a black shadow crowned with silver slipping far from the common trails. There is a shift in the air, the faintest crackle of not-presence against the corners of his mind, and he knows.

Now. Now is when he must be ready.

There is no room for error.

[un_fallen]

There's a faint glow around him as he moves, but in the slanting late afternoon light it's not so noticable. Nor, oddly, is it noticable when his speed increases until it's much faster than a mortal man could move.

The sudden blurring of the scenery is a trick of the light. It's not as if anyone on Whitefall especially cares, though.

It's different when he's prepared.

[wolflord_andain]

Raguel is far from the only one that is prepared.

Doubtless he is, in part, expecting that as well.

But eventually, when he's made a particular turn, speed carrying him deep into the scrub brush--

Why, there he'll find Galadan waiting for him, winter-grey eyes cool and piercing as a spear-thrust from the Hunt.

"Raguel. I do hope you got my message."