This was a Jigano he did not know: this was the Jigano he had wondered about, as he laid upon his bed in the Infirmary, told tales of a man who had had enemies and had fought them. Tales of a man whose decisions had gotten others killed. As feral as Rory was in the dark, his hair a moonlight river, his eyes dark and grim. An elegant, thin sword upon his hip.
A storm he thought as he slowly drifted from his previous vantage and down towards the Spire's dark mouth, which threatened to swallow his friends; his heart pricked uncomfortably as his feet moved. What if they chose to duck into the dark before he had finally come down to join them?
His hand reached out toWessex in passing, silent pride and gratitude that she had chosen to step back, forgiveness that he was now choosing to step forth.
Rory had little interest in what lay in the Spire; he wanted neither to release the Voice, nor bring down the barrier. He was curious, in a way, about what resided within those granite walls, and he couldn't say that he was overly fond of anyone who had stepped into its maw. He had cared for Maea before all of this went down, and once it smoothed over, he would care for her again, but the only reasons he came close stood outside.
Jigano. Amalia. Wessex.
For them he would brave the dark, to protect them, to try and bring them back safely; to convince them not to press on, for what was the rush? What was the hurry, the eagerness to wrap themselves in death's black embrace? If those within failed—died or elsewise—there was time. Time to.. time to what?
The part of him that had camped out by the Spire for days, sleepless and gaunt and afraid, just wanted it all to end. Bitterly. In whatever way—but not at whatever cost.
So he stood, a dark shadow among his friends, wishing he had the strength in his hands and arms to grasp them and pull them back into safety.
Part of surviving in Caido was knowing when to let go.
And that was why he now learned about dying.
For he did not want to let go.
Rory to reserve team, please.
A storm he thought as he slowly drifted from his previous vantage and down towards the Spire's dark mouth, which threatened to swallow his friends; his heart pricked uncomfortably as his feet moved. What if they chose to duck into the dark before he had finally come down to join them?
His hand reached out to
Rory had little interest in what lay in the Spire; he wanted neither to release the Voice, nor bring down the barrier. He was curious, in a way, about what resided within those granite walls, and he couldn't say that he was overly fond of anyone who had stepped into its maw. He had cared for Maea before all of this went down, and once it smoothed over, he would care for her again, but the only reasons he came close stood outside.
Jigano. Amalia. Wessex.
For them he would brave the dark, to protect them, to try and bring them back safely; to convince them not to press on, for what was the rush? What was the hurry, the eagerness to wrap themselves in death's black embrace? If those within failed—died or elsewise—there was time. Time to.. time to what?
The part of him that had camped out by the Spire for days, sleepless and gaunt and afraid, just wanted it all to end. Bitterly. In whatever way—but not at whatever cost.
So he stood, a dark shadow among his friends, wishing he had the strength in his hands and arms to grasp them and pull them back into safety.
Part of surviving in Caido was knowing when to let go.
And that was why he now learned about dying.
For he did not want to let go.
Rory to reserve team, please.
