Rory
It was a painfully familiar thing, this—his mind flickered through memories of him, his sister, and their mother, all together in the cabin, baking bread for the long and cold Deepfrost days. Laughter. Sunshine outside. Sunshine inside. The family they had once been was shattered, and he had not thought to find this sort of peace again, but there he was, in a kitchen with two relative strangers and not even Deimos's dark aura could sour his mood.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Rory found himself sneaking glances at the man, just as he sneaked glances at Amalia, especially when she started humming, but she did not captivate him in quite the same way; not because she was not captivating, for she was, but because she wasn't totally absorbed in slaughtering a gourd.
There was just something about it.. his focus, his carefully controlled savagery, and then—he stuck one of the raw seeds in his mouth, and Rory suddenly found himself smiling brightly at his own slain gourd. It reminded him of cats. They always did the most interesting things when they thought no one was looking, and his experimental tasting of the seeds endeared him to Rory.
He chose not to comment on it, keeping his smile—though it was slighter now, more subtle—as he buttered up the tray of seeds, sticking it in the oven and then hunting for another tray to put the flesh in. Pumpkin soup sounded divine, but he was happily distracted by the scent wafting from the oven. He watched, bright-eyed, as Amalia took the scones out, and once she had removed the last one he stuck the pumpkins in.
Amalia's muffled voice had him turn around, taking in the scene of her hand across her mouth, the scone—with a suspicious bite missing from it—steaming gently on the counter with its unblemished kin. Rory laughed, but gently. "But they are good?" he found himself asking—duh, they had to be, with the way they were smelling. Folding his hands together he leaned against the counter, looking longingly at them.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Rory found himself sneaking glances at the man, just as he sneaked glances at Amalia, especially when she started humming, but she did not captivate him in quite the same way; not because she was not captivating, for she was, but because she wasn't totally absorbed in slaughtering a gourd.
There was just something about it.. his focus, his carefully controlled savagery, and then—he stuck one of the raw seeds in his mouth, and Rory suddenly found himself smiling brightly at his own slain gourd. It reminded him of cats. They always did the most interesting things when they thought no one was looking, and his experimental tasting of the seeds endeared him to Rory.
He chose not to comment on it, keeping his smile—though it was slighter now, more subtle—as he buttered up the tray of seeds, sticking it in the oven and then hunting for another tray to put the flesh in. Pumpkin soup sounded divine, but he was happily distracted by the scent wafting from the oven. He watched, bright-eyed, as Amalia took the scones out, and once she had removed the last one he stuck the pumpkins in.
Amalia's muffled voice had him turn around, taking in the scene of her hand across her mouth, the scone—with a suspicious bite missing from it—steaming gently on the counter with its unblemished kin. Rory laughed, but gently. "But they are good?" he found himself asking—duh, they had to be, with the way they were smelling. Folding his hands together he leaned against the counter, looking longingly at them.
