Rory
It was dark outside, or at least, as dark as it got during the end of Longheat. Thin, gauzy clouds blew across a brilliant night sky—so bright, lit with infinite stars, and as Rory stood before the Shrine with his head tilted back he knew that he had been .. wrong. What they had had within the barrier had been a half-life, slowly draining and dying, a world that lacked vibrancy and a sky that was muted.
But it had been the only thing he had known. It had been his home and he had loved it fiercely, and he had defended it fiercely, and then...
And then he had seen the night sky for what it truly was.
Rory was a creature of sunlight, not starlight, but it took his breath away. He never tired of staring at the vibrant leaves of the Greatwood (though he knew disease was spreading in the forest), or watching the play of sunlight over the perfect, healthy copper of a squirrel's fur as it hesitantly crossed the border between the two worlds.
Sighing, he looked down from the skies again and stepped into the circles. Crying over how beautiful the world was wasn't what he was at the Shrine to do.
Things were changing and he needed to change along with them.
Questions needed to be answered, and he could not find the answers among mortals. He had tried.
So he knelt down in front of a rock, placing two objects upon it: one was a candle, unlit, the other a small horse sewn from supple leather and stuffed with goat's hair. Closing his eyes, he reached into his fire pouch, and pulled out the Spark Bird's feather. (Abandoned.) Just held it in his hands for a while. (Destined.) Listened to the hiss and drip of sparks. (A fancy label wouldn't change his relationship with the Gods.)
Finally he opened his eyes again and touched the feather to the candle's wick before returning it to where it could do no harm.
One star on the ground, a pale imitation, not enough to rival the brilliance of the sky above.
"Ludo, please," he whispered into the night, "there are things I would like to ask you."
But it had been the only thing he had known. It had been his home and he had loved it fiercely, and he had defended it fiercely, and then...
And then he had seen the night sky for what it truly was.
Rory was a creature of sunlight, not starlight, but it took his breath away. He never tired of staring at the vibrant leaves of the Greatwood (though he knew disease was spreading in the forest), or watching the play of sunlight over the perfect, healthy copper of a squirrel's fur as it hesitantly crossed the border between the two worlds.
Sighing, he looked down from the skies again and stepped into the circles. Crying over how beautiful the world was wasn't what he was at the Shrine to do.
Things were changing and he needed to change along with them.
Questions needed to be answered, and he could not find the answers among mortals. He had tried.
So he knelt down in front of a rock, placing two objects upon it: one was a candle, unlit, the other a small horse sewn from supple leather and stuffed with goat's hair. Closing his eyes, he reached into his fire pouch, and pulled out the Spark Bird's feather. (Abandoned.) Just held it in his hands for a while. (Destined.) Listened to the hiss and drip of sparks. (A fancy label wouldn't change his relationship with the Gods.)
Finally he opened his eyes again and touched the feather to the candle's wick before returning it to where it could do no harm.
One star on the ground, a pale imitation, not enough to rival the brilliance of the sky above.
"Ludo, please," he whispered into the night, "there are things I would like to ask you."
