Rory
Rory was passing through the Fields—on his way to or from somewhere, as always—when he saw something interesting: a lone woman, who seemed to be doing something incredibly specific. Intrigued, and obviously not in a hurry to wherever he was supposed to be, he angled his path towards her, trudging along with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his greatcoat, shoulders set against the wind and cold.
When he came closer he recognized her as the outspoken woman from the Festival of Lights. She had a cleared area, a firepit, some sticks stuck in the ground, a pumpkin she'd recently picked up off the ground. And she hurtled it at the sticks.. and the sticks went flying... and Rory just stood there, rather dumbstruck, head tilted to one side.
"What are you doing?" he heard himself ask: he was curious, not judgmental, his gaze drawn to where she had been headed. Several trapped gourds hung by their stems from a tree, an obvious and ready supply for whatever game she was playing.
When he came closer he recognized her as the outspoken woman from the Festival of Lights. She had a cleared area, a firepit, some sticks stuck in the ground, a pumpkin she'd recently picked up off the ground. And she hurtled it at the sticks.. and the sticks went flying... and Rory just stood there, rather dumbstruck, head tilted to one side.
"What are you doing?" he heard himself ask: he was curious, not judgmental, his gaze drawn to where she had been headed. Several trapped gourds hung by their stems from a tree, an obvious and ready supply for whatever game she was playing.
