Rory had not been prepared for what he stepped into: it seemed a tidy, quiet sort of feast, not the boisterous atmosphere of a night at the Rathskeller, but definitely something more than quiet solitude and serious faces. It was—once the initial shock of finding the greathall something like a mixture of a tavern and someone's living room faded—actually rather.. pleasant? Soothing? Inviting? He didn't have the word for it, and though his uncertainty and feeling of not belonging remained, some of it eased.
Then he spotted Ronin, when the man said his name. Rory's head turned in his direction, taking in the sight of him (who are you) with his daughter cradled in his arms, and Rory couldn't decide what he looked like—or maybe it was just that Rory knew exactly what he looked like and that wasn't what Rory had hoped for, wanted, needed.
Perhaps he had been right to walk out of that meeting.
Still, Rory smiled, let himself be shepherded towards the table Ronin suggested, his fingers turning over themselves (he wanted hair between them, coarse pony manes, something to braid, tangle, twine—) as he settled into the chair. "Hey. Hi. I—" really don't need to be stressed talking to you, do I? Subtly, he bit the inside of his lip. Breathed in. Held it. One second. Two seconds. Three, four, five, and then he exhaled.
"I just wanted to talk. I mean, a little about.. what happened, but also—just, how you're doing. I feel like it's been five lifetimes since I caught you and Remi by the Spire, when he was sketching it, when..." not much had changed and I was still king of my own life, safe and contained "Well. A different time," he finished lamely, glancing around at the others present in the hall. Part of the conversation was likely better held in a different locale, but he wasn't going to force it, nor lead with it. "If you have a moment?"
Then he spotted Ronin, when the man said his name. Rory's head turned in his direction, taking in the sight of him (who are you) with his daughter cradled in his arms, and Rory couldn't decide what he looked like—or maybe it was just that Rory knew exactly what he looked like and that wasn't what Rory had hoped for, wanted, needed.
Perhaps he had been right to walk out of that meeting.
Still, Rory smiled, let himself be shepherded towards the table Ronin suggested, his fingers turning over themselves (he wanted hair between them, coarse pony manes, something to braid, tangle, twine—) as he settled into the chair. "Hey. Hi. I—" really don't need to be stressed talking to you, do I? Subtly, he bit the inside of his lip. Breathed in. Held it. One second. Two seconds. Three, four, five, and then he exhaled.
"I just wanted to talk. I mean, a little about.. what happened, but also—just, how you're doing. I feel like it's been five lifetimes since I caught you and Remi by the Spire, when he was sketching it, when..." not much had changed and I was still king of my own life, safe and contained "Well. A different time," he finished lamely, glancing around at the others present in the hall. Part of the conversation was likely better held in a different locale, but he wasn't going to force it, nor lead with it. "If you have a moment?"
