The darkness ate him up.
It was all around him, thick like oilspill, pressing against his skin, against his eyes, against his nose: with every breath he pulled it into his lungs, and he wondered how he did not choke on it. The whites around his blue eyes were stark in the murky light as he stared at the splintered perch. Despair trickled in with the darkness. What could they possibly do about it..? The owners of the tools had likely cleared them away, long ago, and—
A girl was there. He didn't notice her until she opened her mouth, to tell them someone had opened the door to the Rathskeller and
oh gods no
You didn't unbolt your door during the Long Night; that was like inviting the monsters and how people died. Rory licked his lips. His ears were full of the darkness to, the doubt and uncertainty given voice, the monsters crawling in that way too until he was staring daggers at Edy, thinking it would've been better if she had been the one to open the door and get sucked into the dark—
And what was he doing out here anyway? Fucking Amalia and her piety; Bastien was probably right, the Spark Bird was long since dead and they were all just a bunch of idiots sweating together for a fool's cause. His hands tightened on the reins, suspicious eyes going this way and that.
She should give back his fucking pony too. And he'd heard Attuned shifted back when they lost consciousness; savagely he envisioned closing his hands around the fox's white throat, throttling it until it gave up its secrets—
"Someone who's better than you," he snarled at Edrei before she hurled her accusation at him, and then a swift judgment, followed by a bright, bright streak in the night.
Instinct—and a new found ability—had him tempering the tongue of flame, keeping it from licking Esaia's hide, but the bolt still smashed into his chest. It licked up his chin and neck, leaving searing red marks, drying and cracking the leather of his greatcoat where it stuck, and he saw the pony rise above him—frightened, she was frightened, he had to soothe her...
He hit the ground mostly on his back, one hand still clasping the lead rope; she shied away, from the fire, from him, churning up the snow as she dragged him a couple of paces before coming to a shaking halt.
Rory blinked as he laid on his back and breathed in the darkness. What was wrong with him?
Anger bubbled like fire beneath his skin, but he was also acutely aware of the fact that he did not, genuinely, wish to throttle the fox.
But his fingers twitched. He thought it was best to remain lying in the snow, lest he do something stupid. Besides, his face and chest fucking hurt.
Rory gets knocked off his pony but keeps hold of her, and remains lying where he is.
It was all around him, thick like oilspill, pressing against his skin, against his eyes, against his nose: with every breath he pulled it into his lungs, and he wondered how he did not choke on it. The whites around his blue eyes were stark in the murky light as he stared at the splintered perch. Despair trickled in with the darkness. What could they possibly do about it..? The owners of the tools had likely cleared them away, long ago, and—
A girl was there. He didn't notice her until she opened her mouth, to tell them someone had opened the door to the Rathskeller and
oh gods no
You didn't unbolt your door during the Long Night; that was like inviting the monsters and how people died. Rory licked his lips. His ears were full of the darkness to, the doubt and uncertainty given voice, the monsters crawling in that way too until he was staring daggers at Edy, thinking it would've been better if she had been the one to open the door and get sucked into the dark—
And what was he doing out here anyway? Fucking Amalia and her piety; Bastien was probably right, the Spark Bird was long since dead and they were all just a bunch of idiots sweating together for a fool's cause. His hands tightened on the reins, suspicious eyes going this way and that.
She should give back his fucking pony too. And he'd heard Attuned shifted back when they lost consciousness; savagely he envisioned closing his hands around the fox's white throat, throttling it until it gave up its secrets—
"Someone who's better than you," he snarled at Edrei before she hurled her accusation at him, and then a swift judgment, followed by a bright, bright streak in the night.
Instinct—and a new found ability—had him tempering the tongue of flame, keeping it from licking Esaia's hide, but the bolt still smashed into his chest. It licked up his chin and neck, leaving searing red marks, drying and cracking the leather of his greatcoat where it stuck, and he saw the pony rise above him—frightened, she was frightened, he had to soothe her...
He hit the ground mostly on his back, one hand still clasping the lead rope; she shied away, from the fire, from him, churning up the snow as she dragged him a couple of paces before coming to a shaking halt.
Rory blinked as he laid on his back and breathed in the darkness. What was wrong with him?
Anger bubbled like fire beneath his skin, but he was also acutely aware of the fact that he did not, genuinely, wish to throttle the fox.
But his fingers twitched. He thought it was best to remain lying in the snow, lest he do something stupid. Besides, his face and chest fucking hurt.
Rory gets knocked off his pony but keeps hold of her, and remains lying where he is.
