RORY
He was a watcher, a wary creature: he saw the widening of her eyes, marveling again at how little a difference it made in humans with their small, small irises. They sat there like islands in the white, so different from the eyes of an animal. There was no tell-tale band of white against the dark; on a human you saw it more by what it did to the rest of the face, a chain reaction of muscles moving to accommodate the expression.She recovered admirably, considering his words and jumping to all the wrong conclusions.
Rory heaved a small sigh, feeling the itch of his teeth and his hands: to throw the beer back, to grow fangs and bite this soft-cheeked girl who had the gall to tell him he had done the easy and convenient and wrong thing. "Do not imply that what I did was easy," he said icily over the rim of his beer, finding that a lifetime of rolling over had suddenly put him off doing it altogether. Holding the leash of an angry mob when all you wanted was the solitude of your farm and your safe, known life was not easy.
Holding the loyalty of the same mob once the fires of anger sputtered out was not easy, either. Reining back the violence of those baying for Outlander blood: not easy. His blue eyes were hard. "Only time will tell what we were forced to unleash on the world. Standing aside without a fight would've been the easy thing to do." He narrowed his gaze at her.
By choosing action he had chosen the difficult path.
It was only the narrative that had been convenient, and slightly untrue.
But she seemed eager to move away from the conversation, and honestly, he didn't blame her. She had a point in the fact that there was merit in getting along at a festival: he had caused damage to Natural/Outlander relations, and though he wouldn't let her get away with calling what he'd done easy and convenient and wrong he had no ill will towards her.
"My frustration," he echoed dryly, moving in the general direction of the little ball-bottle game. His frustration wanted copious amounts of beer. "My unfun." But still, the corner of his mouth quirked up, though he was still so much darkness and sharp edges: very uncharacteristic of him.
[ As you might've noticed this took me a month, if you don't mind I'd like to fade this out very soon into a sort of 'and they hung out in the festival spirit despite their differences' and archive it. :) ]
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
