Rory
She was a drop of a dream: pristine, even though she bent towards the ground with its soil and its fallen leaves. She was reason to believe in all the stories he had heard of a Caido beyond the barrier, a time so different he couldn't have imagined it. He found his gaze drawn to the gloved hand—such a small detail, yet it eclipsed his attention. He didn't care about her bright blonde hair; he didn't care about the luxurious quality of her ethereal coat; he only cared about such a tiny, pointless detail as the quality of the glove, the perfect fit.
Rory knew leather. How supple and fine it must be to wrap so effortlessly around her fingers. How difficult the stitching, to not tear the fine, thin skin. He couldn't even begin to fathom the process used to tan it and somehow keep it so supple.
It certainly made him self-conscious of his own crude garb, and the shoddy work of Bakshi's worn not-quite-saddle.
He'd worked some inlay into the pony's browband though, but you hardly saw that under the thick, black forelock.
Then she looked up, the movement catching his eye, drawing his attention away from the gloves and to her eyes. They were blue. They were the kind of blue you only noticed just how blue the were because you were staring straight into them.
Bakshi's warm breath fell on the back of his neck.
Rory's heart was about to leap out of his chest.
She slowly raised her hands as if he was a skittish animal that might bolt at any moment—not an incorrect assessment, as every muscle in his body was taut, his brain screaming run as if that would help. There was no getting out. They were stuck in here with him and the others.
At least this one wasn't pointing sharp weapons at him in a threatening manner.
"Me neither," he ended up saying after what was definitely an awkward silence of Rory mostly trying to fathom what to say to her. Hello? Go away, go back where you came from? I can't deal with you right now, this is all too much? "I, uh... I'm Rory."
Rory knew leather. How supple and fine it must be to wrap so effortlessly around her fingers. How difficult the stitching, to not tear the fine, thin skin. He couldn't even begin to fathom the process used to tan it and somehow keep it so supple.
It certainly made him self-conscious of his own crude garb, and the shoddy work of Bakshi's worn not-quite-saddle.
He'd worked some inlay into the pony's browband though, but you hardly saw that under the thick, black forelock.
Then she looked up, the movement catching his eye, drawing his attention away from the gloves and to her eyes. They were blue. They were the kind of blue you only noticed just how blue the were because you were staring straight into them.
Bakshi's warm breath fell on the back of his neck.
Rory's heart was about to leap out of his chest.
She slowly raised her hands as if he was a skittish animal that might bolt at any moment—not an incorrect assessment, as every muscle in his body was taut, his brain screaming run as if that would help. There was no getting out. They were stuck in here with him and the others.
At least this one wasn't pointing sharp weapons at him in a threatening manner.
"Me neither," he ended up saying after what was definitely an awkward silence of Rory mostly trying to fathom what to say to her. Hello? Go away, go back where you came from? I can't deal with you right now, this is all too much? "I, uh... I'm Rory."
