His shovel kept them at bay, at least, the ringing of metal on stone a sharp and discordant sound in his ears. He hated the reverberations going up his arms as much as he hated the noise, the cacophony fed by startled cries and hard stomps; Rory was a creature of wood and summer and gentle sounds (though goats could make one hell of a racket, too), not this. He gritted his teeth and once the onslaught seemed to lessen, paused to bend down and look at some of the squished ones.
Ah. A quick glance around confirmed that no one had been horribly overrun by the eight-legged critters, and with a sigh Rory dropped the shovel and straightened up. His attention was immediately captured by Melita and her question and her hands, nails raking over skin, leaving red trails, and Rory tsk'd. "Willow bark salve," he began to say, though how much of it actually made it past his lips he didn't know, because in some horrible and ironic repetition of events the rubble began to shift—
He knew that noise far too well, and he flung out his arms as he backed off, trying to drive anyone close to him back. Dust rose as rubble shifted and fell, and he raised his arm to cover his mouth as he coughed.
Damnation.
But the dust didn't clear to shocked silence. There were cries and screams, and Rory swore under his breath. It was obvious those trapped were still alive, and acutely, he wished that Remi was there to make the debris float.
But Remi wasn't there. They just had themselves. Melita was scampering up the pile to try and remove it from the top, but.. Rory scouted around the debris for a beam that looked sturdy enough, and tried to jam it into an opening down to one of the trapped townsfolk. It was laid across a rock and Rory pressed down on it, hoping it'd catch on something (like a larger slab of stone) and lift slightly, perhaps alleviating some pressure on the poor trapped sod.
Ah. A quick glance around confirmed that no one had been horribly overrun by the eight-legged critters, and with a sigh Rory dropped the shovel and straightened up. His attention was immediately captured by Melita and her question and her hands, nails raking over skin, leaving red trails, and Rory tsk'd. "Willow bark salve," he began to say, though how much of it actually made it past his lips he didn't know, because in some horrible and ironic repetition of events the rubble began to shift—
He knew that noise far too well, and he flung out his arms as he backed off, trying to drive anyone close to him back. Dust rose as rubble shifted and fell, and he raised his arm to cover his mouth as he coughed.
Damnation.
But the dust didn't clear to shocked silence. There were cries and screams, and Rory swore under his breath. It was obvious those trapped were still alive, and acutely, he wished that Remi was there to make the debris float.
But Remi wasn't there. They just had themselves. Melita was scampering up the pile to try and remove it from the top, but.. Rory scouted around the debris for a beam that looked sturdy enough, and tried to jam it into an opening down to one of the trapped townsfolk. It was laid across a rock and Rory pressed down on it, hoping it'd catch on something (like a larger slab of stone) and lift slightly, perhaps alleviating some pressure on the poor trapped sod.
