stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
It was a sort of pitiful sight, honestly. Snow and scorch marks and fruit and vegetables—a lot of it frozen solid, but some of it had gone bad on sunny, warm days, or perhaps some Natural annoyed by the bird's reluctance to show had simply given it bad fruit to show their displeasure. Rory didn't like the thought of it. While not rumored to be a god, he was pretty sure the bird could set the entire Settlement on fire if it wanted to. Butting heads with it seemed arrogant and risky.
He heard the sound of boots crunching over snow, and out of wary habits—the glade, while beautiful, was hardly a safe place—angled his head in that direction, throwing an uncertain glance towards the man.
It was not someone Rory knew, and not someone who looked like an outlaw, but still he remained on his watch.
As the man came closer it was obvious he was heading for Rory, who didn't know how to feel about it in such a place as this, and yet he'd experienced more than once that showing his wariness could invite ire from those with a less-than-benign disposition.
In short: Rory had learned, the hard way, that life sucked and you were never safe.
But the man wore no weapons, and his approach was anything but dangerous; if anything he seemed concerned about where he stepped, and he did not move with the same deadly grace and precision as Elyna or Deimos did. It was easy to label him as harmless, but Rory would reserve his judgment until he knew if he made it out of here in one piece or not.
Then the barrage of words came out, and Rory found himself laughing, a mild and pleasant sound; a laugh of delight rather than scorn, and he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Pigeons? Far too handsome? My, my; Rory gave his head a small shake, an amused smile lingering on his face.
"That's the first time I've heard good looks argued as a sign of, well, intelligence," he responded, still amused, a little flattered, a little pleased. He was, after all, only human, and while it was a complete stranger giving it, he'd take the compliment. It was dangerous, but so was everything else as well. "But, ah, no, I'm not hoping for pigeons. Leaving offerings here is tradition—an effort to convince the great Spark Bird to come down and bless us with his light." He shrugged one shoulder, trying to quench whatever sense was telling him to be embarrassed about hundreds of years of tradition. "I assume you're an Outlander?"
He heard the sound of boots crunching over snow, and out of wary habits—the glade, while beautiful, was hardly a safe place—angled his head in that direction, throwing an uncertain glance towards the man.
It was not someone Rory knew, and not someone who looked like an outlaw, but still he remained on his watch.
As the man came closer it was obvious he was heading for Rory, who didn't know how to feel about it in such a place as this, and yet he'd experienced more than once that showing his wariness could invite ire from those with a less-than-benign disposition.
In short: Rory had learned, the hard way, that life sucked and you were never safe.
But the man wore no weapons, and his approach was anything but dangerous; if anything he seemed concerned about where he stepped, and he did not move with the same deadly grace and precision as Elyna or Deimos did. It was easy to label him as harmless, but Rory would reserve his judgment until he knew if he made it out of here in one piece or not.
Then the barrage of words came out, and Rory found himself laughing, a mild and pleasant sound; a laugh of delight rather than scorn, and he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Pigeons? Far too handsome? My, my; Rory gave his head a small shake, an amused smile lingering on his face.
"That's the first time I've heard good looks argued as a sign of, well, intelligence," he responded, still amused, a little flattered, a little pleased. He was, after all, only human, and while it was a complete stranger giving it, he'd take the compliment. It was dangerous, but so was everything else as well. "But, ah, no, I'm not hoping for pigeons. Leaving offerings here is tradition—an effort to convince the great Spark Bird to come down and bless us with his light." He shrugged one shoulder, trying to quench whatever sense was telling him to be embarrassed about hundreds of years of tradition. "I assume you're an Outlander?"
