Rory wore no armor.
He looked as he had for most of his time with the mob: dark and wild-eyed, feral and sleepless. The blue of his eyes, normally so light and so mellow, was cold and hard. His hair was done up in a golden braid, tucked down the back of his leather greatcoat—which was the closest he had to protection, and not much at that, either.
And the only thing he had to bite with was a small knife.
Rory wasn't there to fight. He didn't even like being where he was, surrounded by people, by anger, bloodthirst, despair, faith—
But he had started this, so he would see it through. If he gave up—if he went home—what would that say about him? And if anyone made it into the Spire, and he hadn't been there to stop it, like he'd said he would...
It made him both angry and sad that this was needed at all, that the Outlanders couldn't just leave well enough alone, and grieve for their fallen warrior while the Naturals grieved for their dying world. Why was there such a rush? Such a blind, mad race to break out? He was already halfway out of his mind, stressed about every day lost planting his crops and caring for his animals (he had managed to send word to a neighboring farm, who had agreed to make sure his animals were fed and oversee the kiddings, so at least they didn't starve), wanting this only to end so that he could go home.
So that they all could go home, and plant their crops and care for their animals, and think about what they were going to do.
But with the demon dead, the Spire had no other guardian that they knew of, so Rory became the new one.
The word got around. She, that filthy Outlander, was back. Rory rose from where he had been sitting, and rolled his shoulders back. He was not looking forward to this, but he steeled himself, and strode off in their direction.
Once in front of them, he folded his arms over his chest. And seeing who stood there, on the other side, hurt his heart, so he clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain. Edy, from Long Night. Vai, who he liked, who had saved him, who he wanted no squabble with.
Roana. The short woman from the Spire fight. And a complete stranger.
"I told you," he said calmly, but the way he stood, the way a couple of others fanned out behind him, made it clear: they would not be allowed to come closer. "This is not your thing to be doing."
Distantly, he wondered if they would attack him, and if so, how far they were willing to go.
He looked as he had for most of his time with the mob: dark and wild-eyed, feral and sleepless. The blue of his eyes, normally so light and so mellow, was cold and hard. His hair was done up in a golden braid, tucked down the back of his leather greatcoat—which was the closest he had to protection, and not much at that, either.
And the only thing he had to bite with was a small knife.
Rory wasn't there to fight. He didn't even like being where he was, surrounded by people, by anger, bloodthirst, despair, faith—
But he had started this, so he would see it through. If he gave up—if he went home—what would that say about him? And if anyone made it into the Spire, and he hadn't been there to stop it, like he'd said he would...
It made him both angry and sad that this was needed at all, that the Outlanders couldn't just leave well enough alone, and grieve for their fallen warrior while the Naturals grieved for their dying world. Why was there such a rush? Such a blind, mad race to break out? He was already halfway out of his mind, stressed about every day lost planting his crops and caring for his animals (he had managed to send word to a neighboring farm, who had agreed to make sure his animals were fed and oversee the kiddings, so at least they didn't starve), wanting this only to end so that he could go home.
So that they all could go home, and plant their crops and care for their animals, and think about what they were going to do.
But with the demon dead, the Spire had no other guardian that they knew of, so Rory became the new one.
The word got around. She, that filthy Outlander, was back. Rory rose from where he had been sitting, and rolled his shoulders back. He was not looking forward to this, but he steeled himself, and strode off in their direction.
Once in front of them, he folded his arms over his chest. And seeing who stood there, on the other side, hurt his heart, so he clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain. Edy, from Long Night. Vai, who he liked, who had saved him, who he wanted no squabble with.
Roana. The short woman from the Spire fight. And a complete stranger.
"I told you," he said calmly, but the way he stood, the way a couple of others fanned out behind him, made it clear: they would not be allowed to come closer. "This is not your thing to be doing."
Distantly, he wondered if they would attack him, and if so, how far they were willing to go.
