stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
Deepfrost was a time of sleep, of preparing for a week when monsters sniffed and howled and growled just around the corner—a time when you were supposed to come together, whether it was helping your old or injured neighbor with snow moss to quieten their house, or just pitching in to build the Spark Bird's perch, or.. anything, honestly (and he chose to disregard the less savory individuals who intentionally sabotaged for others), but for Rory, it turned out to be a time of reflection and change.
A few years back, it was him and his sister, elbow to elbow in their tiny kitchen, laughing as they brewed tea and made apple cakes, snow sparkling outside and as night fell, the dark lit up by the horns of a couple of Luxere wandering among the goats, munching on hay and kept near by the promise of song and carrots and basking in the joy and familiarity the pair exuded.
Then she had met him and she had changed, and while it was a thing he'd rather not dwell on, he had to accept some things about it: she was leaving, bit by bit, and he was on his own in a way he wasn't used to. Usually if he'd been in town the woodstove was warm when he came home, even if she'd gone on her own errands, but more and more often she didn't even come home to sleep.
Too many memories, she said. Not enough space to grow whatever poison she grew; at least she was sensible enough to not interfere with their sparse crops.
But he missed her, that less jaded, less bitter version of her; the one that sang to the Luxere and baked apple cakes and never smelled of smoke.
He was on his own, and he wasn't used to it. He still hadn't collected snow moss to sound-proof his house and the outbuilding he used to house the goats and ponies, nor had he managed to coax any Luxere into staying around more than a few hours.
Earlier that morning he'd sat staring at Ludo's lantern and its magic glow refusing to go out, wondering if he should perhaps hang it outside during the Long Night for the light it gave off, but at the same time uncertain if such a finicky God's item was a good idea to display so brazenly. Perhaps it was prime monster bait.
In the end, he'd got sick of himself and his bleak mood, so he'd tacked up the uncomfortable and spirited young gray mare and ridden into the Settlement with his three precious winter apples, stopping by a couple he frequently produced knit goods for to wheedle another two apples from the bull-like husband. Rory had spent a great many years being afraid of the man, before understanding that he was just large and full of bluster, but actually a really soft guy beneath all the thunder. He had also learned that it was easier to squeeze a few extra apples out of him than out of his wife.
So with five precious apples he hitched Esaia outside of Amalia's little bakery, and took a deep breath before trying the door.
[ ForAmalia <3 ]
A few years back, it was him and his sister, elbow to elbow in their tiny kitchen, laughing as they brewed tea and made apple cakes, snow sparkling outside and as night fell, the dark lit up by the horns of a couple of Luxere wandering among the goats, munching on hay and kept near by the promise of song and carrots and basking in the joy and familiarity the pair exuded.
Then she had met him and she had changed, and while it was a thing he'd rather not dwell on, he had to accept some things about it: she was leaving, bit by bit, and he was on his own in a way he wasn't used to. Usually if he'd been in town the woodstove was warm when he came home, even if she'd gone on her own errands, but more and more often she didn't even come home to sleep.
Too many memories, she said. Not enough space to grow whatever poison she grew; at least she was sensible enough to not interfere with their sparse crops.
But he missed her, that less jaded, less bitter version of her; the one that sang to the Luxere and baked apple cakes and never smelled of smoke.
He was on his own, and he wasn't used to it. He still hadn't collected snow moss to sound-proof his house and the outbuilding he used to house the goats and ponies, nor had he managed to coax any Luxere into staying around more than a few hours.
Earlier that morning he'd sat staring at Ludo's lantern and its magic glow refusing to go out, wondering if he should perhaps hang it outside during the Long Night for the light it gave off, but at the same time uncertain if such a finicky God's item was a good idea to display so brazenly. Perhaps it was prime monster bait.
In the end, he'd got sick of himself and his bleak mood, so he'd tacked up the uncomfortable and spirited young gray mare and ridden into the Settlement with his three precious winter apples, stopping by a couple he frequently produced knit goods for to wheedle another two apples from the bull-like husband. Rory had spent a great many years being afraid of the man, before understanding that he was just large and full of bluster, but actually a really soft guy beneath all the thunder. He had also learned that it was easier to squeeze a few extra apples out of him than out of his wife.
So with five precious apples he hitched Esaia outside of Amalia's little bakery, and took a deep breath before trying the door.
[ For
