drifting

Rory had never been inside the Monster Hunters Guild before, at least not since it had been repurposed. He wasn't sure if he had been inside of it before either, but it was certainly possible—he had been mostly everywhere as a child, running with a ragged pack that first fought shadows and then explored rundown, empty buildings and then tried to fight monsters, only it turned out the monsters could kill them, and kill them it did. At some point after that, Rory had stopped running with that ragged pack and climbing into houses he had no business climbing into.

But now he found himself in the building's ground floor, arms wrapped around his chest even though there was no cold to protect himself against. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the place: confidence and capability seeped through the walls. It was a place of purpose, of skill, of determination, ambition; it was a place that knew what it wanted, and where it wanted to go. (Or maybe it was just because someone had given it purpose where everyone else just struggled to survive.)

In many ways it was this: what the Outlanders had come to represent to him. They weren't just stuck in this place (well, not anymore), they.. had hopes and dreams and reached for them. (Or maybe it was all in his head.)

And that was probably why Zariah Launceleyn had fashioned the Hollowed Grounds into a throne and sat upon it, calling herself Queen.

Slowly, Rory began to drift through the daunting place, unsure of what to do. He had come looking for Ronin—Talys was hitched outside, patient as a saint in the lengthening evening shadows—but he felt out of place, uncertain, unimportant, so he didn't dare call for the man.

[ For Ronin <3 ]

RONIN if there's one thing i'm good at, it's surviving The entrance area - a small space containing a wide noticeboard where marks and jobs could be pinned up by any and all who wished to receive help from the guild - was quiet, but beyond it through a pair of double doors, the murmur of voices was a low hum on the air. Ronin was still getting used to this; now that his guild had grown enough, it was like any other home only until about mid-morning, when the greathall opened for stories and socialisation. That would be the scene Rory walked into; the hall was an eclectic mess of tables and chairs, a few of which were filled by hunters, civilians and all manner of others. Drink flowed easily from kegs obtained either from the Rathskeller or by Remi's own design, and laughter and conversation filled the air. The large fire in the hearth was not lit today (LongHeat made sure of that) and all the shutters were thrown open to let in the sunlight and what little breeze there might be. "Rory?" The guildmaster's voice was politely puzzled; after that meeting he had not really expected to see anyone for some time. Still, Ronin smiled as he approached the other man, unable not to pick up on the air of uncertainty he brought with him. Aoife was in his arms, the child dozing with her head lolling against his shoulder, and Ronin nodded at an empty table nearby. "What brings you here? Please, take a seat."

Rory had not been prepared for what he stepped into: it seemed a tidy, quiet sort of feast, not the boisterous atmosphere of a night at the Rathskeller, but definitely something more than quiet solitude and serious faces. It was—once the initial shock of finding the greathall something like a mixture of a tavern and someone's living room faded—actually rather.. pleasant? Soothing? Inviting? He didn't have the word for it, and though his uncertainty and feeling of not belonging remained, some of it eased.

Then he spotted Ronin, when the man said his name. Rory's head turned in his direction, taking in the sight of him (who are you) with his daughter cradled in his arms, and Rory couldn't decide what he looked like—or maybe it was just that Rory knew exactly what he looked like and that wasn't what Rory had hoped for, wanted, needed.

Perhaps he had been right to walk out of that meeting.

Still, Rory smiled, let himself be shepherded towards the table Ronin suggested, his fingers turning over themselves (he wanted hair between them, coarse pony manes, something to braid, tangle, twine—) as he settled into the chair. "Hey. Hi. I—" really don't need to be stressed talking to you, do I? Subtly, he bit the inside of his lip. Breathed in. Held it. One second. Two seconds. Three, four, five, and then he exhaled.

"I just wanted to talk. I mean, a little about.. what happened, but also—just, how you're doing. I feel like it's been five lifetimes since I caught you and Remi by the Spire, when he was sketching it, when..." not much had changed and I was still king of my own life, safe and contained "Well. A different time," he finished lamely, glancing around at the others present in the hall. Part of the conversation was likely better held in a different locale, but he wasn't going to force it, nor lead with it. "If you have a moment?"

RONIN if there's one thing i'm good at, it's surviving Unaware of the turmoil writhing within the man opposite him, Ronin settled into another of the chairs and shifted Aoife against him so she could cling at his shirt and be a general warm lump in a room already prone to be stifling. Honestly, he had been expecting a bollocking from Rory; he had walked out of the meeting that would have been the making of the two of them, had he not let his emotions cloud his judgement. But then again, the child snug against his shoulder would always bring out the best - and worst - in him. So when Rory started to speak and simply... wanted to know how he was doing...? Well. That confused him, and it showed plain in his face. "Uh," he began helpfully, reaching out for a jug of wine chilled by the feisty ice dragon somewhere up in the rafters. Offering to pour Rory a glass as well as himself, he thought the words over. "I'm... surviving, I guess," he said with a wry smile. "A lot of good things have happened and a lot of bad, too. And it does feel like forever, doesn't it? How are things with you?"

Uh felt like a very proper response: it was probably how Rory would've reacted to a rambling Rory as well, hadn't he been the rambling Rory in question. He felt slightly embarrassed about it, but only slightly; he'd lived with himself long enough to know that this sometimes happened. It usually meant that he was doing something he thought was right, but also oddly terrifying, difficult, or daunting.

Rory wasn't the best at social chitchat or keeping tabs on his friends, and this wasn't an entirely regular social call either. He was hunting for some introspection, something to mull over, to learn from, but not in a way that had him wanting to ask direct questions about it.

Instead he watched—fingers still twining anxiously around each other underneath the table—as Ronin found his way out of whatever emotional space Rory had accidentally put him in. Silently Rory encouraged Ronin to pour him a glass of the wine as well, before taking it and giving it an experimental sip. It really was quite good, and a blessing on such a hot late Longheat day.

"Surviving," he echoed, his voice hollow though there was something wry in his expression. Wasn't that what they had done for three centuries, until some Outlanders came along and showed them there was more to life than just surviving? "I'm okay. Struggling to find my place with all of these changes." Less than a year, yet it felt so much longer... He could barely recognize his own world anymore, even less remember a life before all of this.

He found that his gaze had dropped to Aoife, watching the way her chubby child's fists grabbed at Ronin's shirt. "How old is she now?"

RONIN if there's one thing i'm good at, it's surviving Pouring them both a cup of chilled wine, Ronin slid Rory's across to him before settling back in his chair, joining the other man in a sip of the cool liquid. Surviving, then, was a state they could both relate to, and Ronin's amusement flickered across his face in a smirk. "I know how you feel, but... from the other side of the coin, I guess," he said empathetically. "If the upheaval from Northaven wasn't change enough, the ups and downs of building a life here..." He sighed, shooting Rory an apologetic look. "Perhaps that's why we learned to roll with the punches, with everything that happened at the Spire. We were already used to chaos." Not like the Naturals, whose world have been torn up and thrown back in their faces. Glancing down at Aoife, Ronin fussed at her mop of dark curls and tried not to let his smile falter. "Just over two seasons. She'll be a year old at Longnight," he said - and even thinking about reliving all of that now, in Longheat, was enough to put a chill up his spine.

It was true, that the Outlanders (chiefly those from Northaven, as they had been the largest and most united and vocal faction) and the Naturals had viewed the Spire very, very differently. To the Naturals, it had been impenetrable, something best left alone, something foolish young men and women sometimes tried their hand at but no one really thought they should get into anyway. The Outlanders had seen it as an obstacle to overcome, wasn't that it? From Elyna telling him there wasn't a wall she hadn't yet been able to find a way around, to, well, it had probably been Zariah or Roana talking about it much the same way, too. You forgot we also had a wall blah blah but that hadn't been made by Gods to keep another God in.

He could go on forever, get lost in that bitterness, but he chose not to, taking another sip of the wine to chill both his body and his thoughts.

"What was Northaven like? Remi told me a little, long time ago," enough that he knew there was a wall, enough that he knew there were bloodfiends, creature disturbingly similar to the Ascended. "And what was your place in it?"

Rory may not have liked the Outlanders being deposited into his literal bubble and wreaking havoc in it, but he was curious about mostly everything, and much of that animosity had faded. Shit happened. The Spire got blown open. Deal with it. They had other problems, like the blight, and Zariah.

And perhaps thinking about Long Night was the best way to cool off in summer, then; Rory had heard of a child losing her mother in childbirth in the darkness, and the father fleeing through the streets to the Temple. Slowly, he nodded. Some said that the children born in the dark became weaker, for the lack of sunlight, and some said that they became stronger, for the same reason.

And many became the death of their family, as their cries attracted the demons, who tore down their barricades and none of them were ever seen again.

RONIN if there's one thing i'm good at, it's surviving It seemed that neither of them needed to say much more about Longnight, Ronin fussing over his sleeping daughter for a moment before forcing his mind to take a different direction. Even now (was that even right to say, after only two seasons?) it took him off guard, the grief he felt over Vanya, and the accompanying anger at Caido and everything it had thrown at him and taken from him. Taking another sip of wine to distract himself, he glanced up as Rory brought up Northaven, arching an eyebrow at the idea that the other man would even want to know about it. "It was... small," he said. "Originally we came from a place called Northwind, which was a much larger country. Northaven was created as a sanctuary from the war that the kingdom had gotten itself into. The best and brightest were pushed through a portal into a small settlement surrounded by a wall, and told to get on with it." He shrugged his shoulders, smiling bitterly at the place he had once regarded with such pride. "There was very little freedom. Just just in movement, but socially too. Whilst there wasn't tyranny like with Zariah, here... it was close enough. Just more subtle. Nobles and commoners, true magic users and lesser magic users... there were roadblocks everywhere." And as for him? "I was a soldier in the army - the Storm Guard. The military was all I knew until Caido. I was made Lieutenant of the Wall a few months after getting to Northaven, and Captain of Training shortly after that."