He’d gone elsewhere. The trickster always returns to his homeland (it is a breeding ground of chaos, a mixing pot of ingredients for trickery, a pothole of darkness filled with evil-making), but when he grows bored, he finds his hooves carrying him elsewhere. It’s easy, really, to pick up and leave Beqanna (when you don’t feel any sympathy or love or familiarity with anything). It’s also easy to come back and move back into the swing of life (when there are few who remember you – and those who do are glad to be rid of you).
He slinks into the meadow like he hasn’t been gone for years. It’s autumn and the heavy scents of mare and stallion mingling fill the air. He bypasses the pair casually going to town (although his good ear does flick in their direction as he lankily slides past) and heads toward a spindly pair of trees twined together like old lovers. One tree’s leaves remain completely bare, the other with only a few brave, dying leaves hanging on.
Although his hooves itch to cause trouble one more, the chaos-lover remains relatively stand still under the sparse protection the trees offer. The only signs he might be curious include the ever-shifting movement of his bruised (black and blue, white and blue) gaze and the miniature sandstorms stirring around his ankles like house cats.
(so this sucks and i really apologize, please forgive me i love you)
i want the world in my hands
 The ravens tell her of the boy in the meadow with the sand around his feet. There is no sand in the meadow! they squawk. But there is sand at his feet! It still amuses her how amazed the ravens are by some of these things. They know to expect the sand, of course, but they come to her excited anyway. Perhaps not at the sand, but at having something new and different to report to her. She does enjoy new and different things (or old and returned and different things, either way). She smiles at her birds, and they seem pleased with themselves, ruffling their feathers before launching back into the sky to scout for more.
Because of the ravens, it is rare that Straia goes somewhere without a purpose. She shifts, leaving the Chamber behind as she takes to the sky with the rest of her ravens. It makes travel easier, moving with the other birds far above so many watchful eyes in Beqanna. Besides, she will be hated soon enough, and her life will always be in jeopardy. The stronger she makes her kingdom, the more she puts a target on her own head. She knows this, but the risk is well worth the reward.
The Chamber is growing. The Chamber is powerful. The Chamber is not to be forgotten.
She lands not that far away from the stallion with the bruised eyes, just a raven in the grass for a moment. She shifts back though, always enjoying a bit of fanfare now and again. Okay, usually enjoying a bit of fanfare. She retains the crown of raven feathers that sits on her head, though when she shifts, she is otherwise fully horse. She could keep more, of course, but that seems like overkill. The crown is perfect.
“Hello,” she says easily, naturally, as if she hadn’t clearly sought him out. She has not real reason other than the fact he seems interesting, and from there, she has yet to make any judgments. “Straia. May I ask your name, sandman?” She won’t hide her interest, either. Sometimes it does her well to be straightforward.
straia the raven queen of the chamber
 Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
 this isn't mischief He doesn’t know anything of Beqanna’s politics. It is refreshing, almost (he doesn’t know who’s ruling which kingdom, what wars might be brewing, who might be in love with who, what deals are being struck, what alliances are being forged, what heirs might be born). Although the trickster never truly cared for the political aspect of his homeland, per say, he still preferred to know what was going on. That way he could pinpoint the weak places (Beqanna’s Achilles heel, in a manner of speaking) and strike with fatal accuracy.
Nonetheless, with his lack of knowledge, the trickster is ready to dive into the world of gossip and politics again. He’d like to know who ruled which kingdoms (although he knows the mischievous little magician still co-rules the Deserts), who were in favor of chaos, and the like. He didn’t, however, expect to gain such knowledge the very day of his re-arrival.
The trickster has seen a lot of magical and unnatural things in his lifetime. The shifting of a raven into a horse isn’t one he’s seen before, but the thrill of surprise and disbelief that might strike a mind who has never seen other things (such as, worlds being put into his eyes or fire-breathing dragons diving through the sky or an entire kingdom burning around him as he sits in a bubble of safety – all things the chaos-lover has witnessed).
The organized chaos of the resulting mare’s crown of feathers gives away her place of royalty easily – she is the queen of a kingdom or, at least, a co-queen. The strong smell on her skin (aside from the stench of foul and feather and wind) speaks of the Chamber and the trickster’s mouth curves into a barely-full, smooth smirk of amusement and pleasure. Only a few hours into his re-arrival and he has piqued the queen of the Chamber’s interest.
However, she has yet to know his name. A silly thing, he thinks, but perhaps she has never come across him before. She introduces herself as Straia and his mind prickles with familiarity. He remembers to back when Rodrik was king of the Chamber (and he actually kept up with rulers and heirs and such); he had a daughter named Straia. Apparently she had become queenie herself.
Bruised eyes glance toward the sky in an almost thoughtful expression. He used to taunt mares who asked for his name (well, honestly only Myrina – and that resulted in a child that he didn’t help care for), but the trickster got a feeling the raven-queen wouldn’t accept such behavior. So instead he says his name in the quiet, still part of her mind (his little fingers of illusionism weave their way into the creases of her mind, leaking in to sing their sweet songs of trickery). He’s mastered the way of causing the illusion of words put into the mind, having done it for many years now. He’s perfected the sound of his voice (no longer were there any overlapping tones or awkward pauses of silence or crackling audio).
“Lokii.”
He settles for the simple way of introducing himself, mimicking hers. Tipping the edge of his back left hoof against the ground (a casual move, considering he’s in the presence of a queen – but when did the trickster ever care about such things?), he waited patiently for whatever she had coming next. lokii this is mayhem
i want the world in my hands
She always knows what is happening in Beqanna. It is a requirement of ruling, of know what to destroy and when. The ravens have made this task so much easier. They bring news constantly. Some come back to perch on her neck and whisper in her ear, though mostly, they speak in her mind. They do not need to be near her to communicate, and so when she is busy, somewhere in the back of her mind there’s cawing and happenings in Beqanna all the time.
She knows things almost as soon as they happen. There is little that is kept hidden from the Raven Queen.
That is why it does not take her long to find him. Delay, and she might miss an opportunity. Perhaps he’d prove to be nothing, but the ravens were rarely wrong. Usually, they know an interesting one when they see it. Worst case scenario, Straia will have a conversation that doesn’t have to do with politics or raids for half an hour before going back to her home.
He weaves into her mind, and she glares at him slightly. Though in truth, she is not annoyed. She is used to it, as the birds often speak this way. If he can read minds (which she doesn’t know, since this skill could be many things), her mind is always carefully blank anyway, and there’s little to glean in there that she doesn’t want someone else to know. And if he can’t read minds, well then he’s just showing off, and she has no problems with that.
After all, she does the same thing all the time. It’s fun to be herself, no matter what everyone else thinks of her.
“My ravens seem to think you might be interesting,” she says, and as if on cue, one of the ravens (a real one, actually made of feathers) settles on her back and caws. “So Lokii, are they right?” straia the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
this isn't mischief He watches her carefully (as he watches most things) for any sign of emotion. Her gaze shifts from curious to hard and he manages to contain a full-blown smirk into a crooked, half smile. He knows what he’s doing (to a queen no less), and his face clearly reads that he doesn’t care. His respect for anything society might deem higher than him is slim unless said higher-up does something to gain that respect. In this case, this raven-wielding queen is going to have to try harder to gain his respect if she wants it.
Another raven settles on her back and his bruised eyes are drawn toward it. Although birds don’t normally bother him, the fact they were watching him and reporting to their mistress sends little prickles across his skin. His eyes, however, turn to remain latched on the queen. Graying lips dance again into that charismatic, mischievous grin. He sighs once, ears flicking briefly as if he were in thought.
“Oh, I don’t prefer to speak too highly of myself,” he says slyly, although the chaotic expression in his eyes speaks otherwise. “It could also depend on your definition of interesting…” He pauses for a moment, regarding her again with newfound curiosity. Her ravens are looking for someone interesting. Therefore, she’s looking for someone interesting (but for what purpose?). His head tips to the side slightly. “What are you looking for, Straia? I can be many things; it just depends on what you want.” lokii this is mayhem
i want the world in my hands
i am the violence in the pouring rain i am a hurricane She doesn’t seek respect. Not handed to her on a silver platter, at any rate. She’s earned it in the Chamber through hard work and dedication. In some of Beqanna, she’s earned it through her reputation (though some just don’t like her thanks to that same reputation). Not that she has ever cared much what others think of her. In the end, she only cares that they serve the same goal. Make the Chamber more powerful. Stir the pot in Beqanna. She really isn’t that demanding.
He wears a grin that she knows all too well. She has her own version of that mischievous, playful grin. It comes out often. But it seems to be a common feature in lovers of chaos, and she is quickly deciding that yes, he is interesting. They may or may not have anything to offer one another, but he’s no waste of time either way. But of course, the raven’s rarely waste her time.
“Why don’t I believe that?” she says, her own mischievous grin showing itself now. She flicks her tail slightly, an old habit from childhood. Some things never change, after all. There are plenty of rumors about Lokii. How many are true, she has no idea. But she does suspect that he’s very happy to talk about himself highly. “I am simply looking for others who believe Beqanna has grown stale. I believe that perhaps we can help one another.” straia the raven queen of the chamber 
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
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