stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
There wasn't much in terms of government or nobility here. No one to pay taxes to. Enough housing for almost everyone. Outlaws roaming certain parts of the woods and paths, taking what was not theirs and living their life, until someone had enough of them and purged them. Bar fights? Certainly. The occasional murder? Certainly. Break-ins? Certainly.
But most were simply too concerned with staying alive that they didn't choose such risky methods, as sooner or later, enough people would band together against you and put you down if you became a nuisance.
It was a balance, of sorts, and the only thing to upset it was the Outlanders.
"In Northaven there was a wall..." Rory was.. surprised, as he sat there with Bakshi's reins in his hand, the pony's muzzle coming to rest against the back of his head, Remi next to him scratching at the surface of the blond's bitterness. The revelation made him uncomfortable. They had lost their homes, as he was losing his. He wanted to be righteous in his slow-cooked anger, he wanted to be able to blame it, freely, on the Outlanders—he wanted the unfairness for himself and his wronged natives, and not for those who had come here.
His mother had once told him that the assumption that no one else suffered was what got people into messes. Rory, his fingers still busy with his pants and the reins, figured it was true.
He wondered at how much violence and bloodshed had been needed to confine the population, if the wall itself did not bite. He knew a fair few things about accepting things as they were, of forgetting the injustice of not being allowed the full breadth of the world, horizon from horizon. Perhaps the same had been true for them, that on most days, they simply.. forgot that there was something beyond the wall.
"From one cage to another," he said quietly. "So you brought your resentment with you." Could he fault them for it?
Not really. Could he fault them for trying to take his world, and change it to their liking? Yes, the dark and fiery voice whispered, but he wasn't sure whether to listen to it or not.
And still, he couldn't help but wonder—why now? What power had snaked out from its grave, and torn open pathways between worlds? What was stirring? Much as Rory stayed away from the Gods he couldn't deny their existence, so perhaps it was a premonition of sorts. Perhaps they were supposed to break out.
Or they were all going to die horribly. Or it was some sort of celestial spasm. An accident, a mishap, and here they were.
"A shop?" he echoed, seizing onto something that was less dismal, something that allowed him to shove his slithering and bitter nature back under the surface of the lake it had crawled out of. Cursed by the gods sounded less fun, but that was how things went around here. "What do you do?"
Rory had grown up a lean dreamer, fed on stories and thin goat meat. His mother had been a dreamer, too—his sister had more of their father in her, more of a realist, feet on the ground. Even though she had seemed content, their mother had never really stopped dreaming, stopped trying, and it had been the death of her. And Rory, well—Rory didn't know if he had stopped trying, either, but he supposed the difference between him and Remi was that he did not expect to succeed, while the other, perhaps, remained optimistic.
He didn't know if it would be a blessing or a curse, to genuinely think there was a way out.
"Only you can decide that," he responded, gentle but sad, his eyes looking for Remi's. Experience told them there was no way out, and their hearts told them differently. The pious, the restless, the scholars and dreamers and wolves—those who wanted out, or just to find their silent gods. After a moment, Rory gave a small, apologetic shrug.
But most were simply too concerned with staying alive that they didn't choose such risky methods, as sooner or later, enough people would band together against you and put you down if you became a nuisance.
It was a balance, of sorts, and the only thing to upset it was the Outlanders.
"In Northaven there was a wall..." Rory was.. surprised, as he sat there with Bakshi's reins in his hand, the pony's muzzle coming to rest against the back of his head, Remi next to him scratching at the surface of the blond's bitterness. The revelation made him uncomfortable. They had lost their homes, as he was losing his. He wanted to be righteous in his slow-cooked anger, he wanted to be able to blame it, freely, on the Outlanders—he wanted the unfairness for himself and his wronged natives, and not for those who had come here.
His mother had once told him that the assumption that no one else suffered was what got people into messes. Rory, his fingers still busy with his pants and the reins, figured it was true.
He wondered at how much violence and bloodshed had been needed to confine the population, if the wall itself did not bite. He knew a fair few things about accepting things as they were, of forgetting the injustice of not being allowed the full breadth of the world, horizon from horizon. Perhaps the same had been true for them, that on most days, they simply.. forgot that there was something beyond the wall.
"From one cage to another," he said quietly. "So you brought your resentment with you." Could he fault them for it?
Not really. Could he fault them for trying to take his world, and change it to their liking? Yes, the dark and fiery voice whispered, but he wasn't sure whether to listen to it or not.
And still, he couldn't help but wonder—why now? What power had snaked out from its grave, and torn open pathways between worlds? What was stirring? Much as Rory stayed away from the Gods he couldn't deny their existence, so perhaps it was a premonition of sorts. Perhaps they were supposed to break out.
Or they were all going to die horribly. Or it was some sort of celestial spasm. An accident, a mishap, and here they were.
"A shop?" he echoed, seizing onto something that was less dismal, something that allowed him to shove his slithering and bitter nature back under the surface of the lake it had crawled out of. Cursed by the gods sounded less fun, but that was how things went around here. "What do you do?"
Rory had grown up a lean dreamer, fed on stories and thin goat meat. His mother had been a dreamer, too—his sister had more of their father in her, more of a realist, feet on the ground. Even though she had seemed content, their mother had never really stopped dreaming, stopped trying, and it had been the death of her. And Rory, well—Rory didn't know if he had stopped trying, either, but he supposed the difference between him and Remi was that he did not expect to succeed, while the other, perhaps, remained optimistic.
He didn't know if it would be a blessing or a curse, to genuinely think there was a way out.
"Only you can decide that," he responded, gentle but sad, his eyes looking for Remi's. Experience told them there was no way out, and their hearts told them differently. The pious, the restless, the scholars and dreamers and wolves—those who wanted out, or just to find their silent gods. After a moment, Rory gave a small, apologetic shrug.
