Rory
It was a deeply seated instinct to curl up in a ball when struck by unknown and ferocious assailants—and whether it was an instinct shared by all mankind or simply one Rory had acquired as a picked-upon kid he didn't know. He just knew that for a brief moment he'd been back in his scrawny child's body, and the gourds had been the boots of his bullies. Turns out humans and vegetables bruise you the same. Turns out that those memories were ones he hadn't touched in years, and he was surprised by both how potent they still were, and how little they affected his day-to-day life these days.
Still. He was curled up on his side in the frozen mud, covered by angry and murderous gourds, and to make matters worse, it was in the middle of the Settlement. If he had hoped to ride out his surprise in peace and then get up, hopefully without a pumpkin bashing his head in, he was to be disappointed.
Even as he was gathering his senses and preparing to throw himself upright again, he heard footsteps approaching. And the woosh of a well-aimed kick, followed by the splatter of a gourd landing somewhere far away.
Good job Rory. You're getting rescued.
He kind of wished one of those really big calabash would just land hard on his head so he wouldn't have to deal with this embarrassment, but, tough shit: sometimes you have to face life head-on. Steeling himself and searching for his naturally good humor, Rory spasmed once, with the intended effect of giving him enough space to sit up. As he did, he saw that he was being saved by someone who he didn't recognize. The man was tall and bulky and sort of dark-looking, but he seemed pleasant enough, as he actually asked Rory how he was doing, instead of gloating at him.
"Just startled," Rory responded, only then noticing that it wasn't just the two of them. Amalia, the baker, had come from somewhere, staff in hand, amusement on her face. Rory, for some reason still sitting down, made shooing motions at the gourds, which was enough to keep them from climbing on top of him again. She suggested victory scones, and while the idea of watching someone expertly murder his attackers sounded good, he actually wasn't sure if he was invited: victory scones sounded more like something Deimos would get out of it. Rory wasn't doing much victory-ing.
He thought of Wessex, hanging the gourds by their stems. He looked at the patch of pugnacious pumpkins. Kicked a little towards a gnashing squash. "Grab 'em by the stems," he suggested, pulling himself into a crouch. Oww, yeah—boots and cold veggies definitely bruised you the same. He grimaced a little before diving for one of the better-looking pumpkins, and rather easily grabbing it by the stem.
You got deft hands working with leather and animals.
Still. He was curled up on his side in the frozen mud, covered by angry and murderous gourds, and to make matters worse, it was in the middle of the Settlement. If he had hoped to ride out his surprise in peace and then get up, hopefully without a pumpkin bashing his head in, he was to be disappointed.
Even as he was gathering his senses and preparing to throw himself upright again, he heard footsteps approaching. And the woosh of a well-aimed kick, followed by the splatter of a gourd landing somewhere far away.
Good job Rory. You're getting rescued.
He kind of wished one of those really big calabash would just land hard on his head so he wouldn't have to deal with this embarrassment, but, tough shit: sometimes you have to face life head-on. Steeling himself and searching for his naturally good humor, Rory spasmed once, with the intended effect of giving him enough space to sit up. As he did, he saw that he was being saved by someone who he didn't recognize. The man was tall and bulky and sort of dark-looking, but he seemed pleasant enough, as he actually asked Rory how he was doing, instead of gloating at him.
"Just startled," Rory responded, only then noticing that it wasn't just the two of them. Amalia, the baker, had come from somewhere, staff in hand, amusement on her face. Rory, for some reason still sitting down, made shooing motions at the gourds, which was enough to keep them from climbing on top of him again. She suggested victory scones, and while the idea of watching someone expertly murder his attackers sounded good, he actually wasn't sure if he was invited: victory scones sounded more like something Deimos would get out of it. Rory wasn't doing much victory-ing.
He thought of Wessex, hanging the gourds by their stems. He looked at the patch of pugnacious pumpkins. Kicked a little towards a gnashing squash. "Grab 'em by the stems," he suggested, pulling himself into a crouch. Oww, yeah—boots and cold veggies definitely bruised you the same. He grimaced a little before diving for one of the better-looking pumpkins, and rather easily grabbing it by the stem.
You got deft hands working with leather and animals.
