In many ways, Rory found animals—or would-be animals—easier to interact with. The difference between Attuned and regular animals was that the former could hold grudges if you brushed them off, and while he'd met enough animals that lived for grudges as well, they were typically easier to make it up to. They could be complex too, but nowhere near as complex as a human.
The point wasn't that he wanted to brush the fox off (for he didn't): the point was that the canine form was soothing and familiar and undemanding, and that was why he had no issue with it.
Honestly, if there was something to take issue with, it was, well, that Rory might get too comfortable and make a fool of himself in front of someone who was so much more than just a clever fox. Occasionally it ghosted to the forefront of his mind, a savage reminder that he knew nothing of where the fox's observations went: did their interactions stay between the two of them?
He had decided long ago not to worry about it, but sometimes, it was hard not to.
After an immeasurable time had passed, and Rory's hand fell to his side, the fox sat back. While he was glad to no longer have a paw pressing into his gut he felt colder.
Their eyes met again, and it was Rory's turn to not know what it was he saw in them. Something hesitant, something uncertain, and something powerful. The fox's head tilted. Rory shifted the gryphon a little. The fox barked, softly. Rory raised an eyebrow. The only response he had felt too—shallow, somehow, as if he wasn't understanding that this, whatever it was, meant much to the fox.
Which he did.
But frankly, it could've been a number of things, and he didn't have the first clue as to what.
"What?" he said, though it was mild and light. "You'll have to be more specific than that." He spoke in the way he might've responded to one of Vaya's many barks at gods-knew-what, because it was the only way he knew how to respond.
The point wasn't that he wanted to brush the fox off (for he didn't): the point was that the canine form was soothing and familiar and undemanding, and that was why he had no issue with it.
Honestly, if there was something to take issue with, it was, well, that Rory might get too comfortable and make a fool of himself in front of someone who was so much more than just a clever fox. Occasionally it ghosted to the forefront of his mind, a savage reminder that he knew nothing of where the fox's observations went: did their interactions stay between the two of them?
He had decided long ago not to worry about it, but sometimes, it was hard not to.
After an immeasurable time had passed, and Rory's hand fell to his side, the fox sat back. While he was glad to no longer have a paw pressing into his gut he felt colder.
Their eyes met again, and it was Rory's turn to not know what it was he saw in them. Something hesitant, something uncertain, and something powerful. The fox's head tilted. Rory shifted the gryphon a little. The fox barked, softly. Rory raised an eyebrow. The only response he had felt too—shallow, somehow, as if he wasn't understanding that this, whatever it was, meant much to the fox.
Which he did.
But frankly, it could've been a number of things, and he didn't have the first clue as to what.
"What?" he said, though it was mild and light. "You'll have to be more specific than that." He spoke in the way he might've responded to one of Vaya's many barks at gods-knew-what, because it was the only way he knew how to respond.
