stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
The man hadn't quite deserved the tirade he'd got: it wasn't his fault that the pressure had been building inside Rory for so long, half confidence issues, half the talk he'd heard among the Outlanders. It had only been a matter of time before Rory grew teeth and the words spilled out, full of sweet threats of their grisly demise. It was only chance that it was this particular man who had triggered him into spitting out what had been on his stressed mind lately.
It was easy to be angry in your mind. It was easy to be angry in the moment. It was less easy to be angry when the anger was spent, when whatever justification you had felt was just .. gone. Vented. Rory brought a hand up to his face, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry too, you didn't deserve all of that," he said, self-conscious and quiet. At the point they were, it seemed wrong to say that the Spark Bird wasn't his most immediate concern—that he did it mostly for Amalia, and out of a sense of duty—he had other things he rather wanted, dreamed, of, but they were personal matters. Private matters.
And Rory was a peacekeeper, when he wasn't being busy snarling.
And there it was again: someone as handsome as you. This time Rory felt less charmed—a little charmed, just not quite as charmed—and snorted lightly. He'd dropped his hands from his face and looked down at them. "Purpose," he repeated with a grimace; it was said rather lightly. "We leave offerings here in the Glade. Traditionally, fruits, seeds, nuts... We've also erected a perch for it down in the Settlement. You're welcome to help decorate it in any way you wish."
It was easy to be angry in your mind. It was easy to be angry in the moment. It was less easy to be angry when the anger was spent, when whatever justification you had felt was just .. gone. Vented. Rory brought a hand up to his face, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry too, you didn't deserve all of that," he said, self-conscious and quiet. At the point they were, it seemed wrong to say that the Spark Bird wasn't his most immediate concern—that he did it mostly for Amalia, and out of a sense of duty—he had other things he rather wanted, dreamed, of, but they were personal matters. Private matters.
And Rory was a peacekeeper, when he wasn't being busy snarling.
And there it was again: someone as handsome as you. This time Rory felt less charmed—a little charmed, just not quite as charmed—and snorted lightly. He'd dropped his hands from his face and looked down at them. "Purpose," he repeated with a grimace; it was said rather lightly. "We leave offerings here in the Glade. Traditionally, fruits, seeds, nuts... We've also erected a perch for it down in the Settlement. You're welcome to help decorate it in any way you wish."
