How do you find something that might not even be there, under all this undisturbed snow? And why do you even look?
He thought about that as he dug through the snow, his mittens slowly melting the snow stuck to it due to the heat from his hands, and Rory hated having wet hands, but there was something else here that he hated more: torn garments, this close to the Spire. It wasn't any of his business—maybe it was just an Outlander who thought themselves good enough to take on the demon—but the bit of cloak he'd found was too familiar. He still couldn't place it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd recently seen it.
And that was why he kept digging, which was less digging and more simply sweeping his hands and feet through the snow, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Sweat began to bead his forehead and the back of his neck, dressed as he was for sitting exposed on a pony and not doing much more than that. Eventually he tore off his cap and stuffed it in a pocket.
It wasn't all fruitless, though. He bumped his foot against something and fell to his knees, digging through the snow, but he didn't find what it was—he likely wouldn't have heard the whine if it wasn't because his senses were so alert, listening and looking for any sign of the demon. Still he jumped a little, but it was only the fox—
Only the fox—
There was no such thing as only the fox; there was a human mind behind those blue, blue eyes looking questioningly at him from a perfect and white canine face. And briefly, oh so briefly, he wanted to be angry at it, to demand it change, or stop fooling him into thinking it was a fox, but.. he was the one fooling himself, and it was the worry spiking his blood and temper. Rory bit his lower lip and pulled a mitten off, holding it out for his friend to sniff, and if allowed, give its cheek a brief scratch. "Hi there," he said, voice gentle. It was too cold to engage in a lengthy cuddle session though, and he had something else to do, so he put the mitten back on.
"I found this," he began, showing the fox the frozen piece of cloak he'd uncovered. Again, Rory bit his lower lip, frowning. This was a fool's errand. It could've gotten torn off for any other number of reasons. "And considering the proximity to the Spire, I'm worried someone was attacked. The thing is.. I recognize it, but I can't for the life of me remember who has cloaks like these." Was the fox a Natural? Did it even know of the dangers of the Spire? So many questions, and no answers, and it felt like a conversation saved for when they both wore human faces and perhaps had a cup of freshly brewed tea, or something.
If that'd ever happen...
Rory put his hands back in the snow, feeling around for what it was he'd scraped his foot against. He found it after a couple of seconds, and pulled out a strip of leather.
Definitely bad. Definitely looked like someone had been torn to shreds. Not too unusual, but if it was someone he knew, he wanted to know. "So I'm looking for.. pieces.. to see if I can identify anything..."
He was self-conscious and stupidly worried about something that had already happened, a sick feeling in his gut, messing with his brain. Rather brusquely he stood up, resuming his search, sweeping his feet through the snow.
He thought about that as he dug through the snow, his mittens slowly melting the snow stuck to it due to the heat from his hands, and Rory hated having wet hands, but there was something else here that he hated more: torn garments, this close to the Spire. It wasn't any of his business—maybe it was just an Outlander who thought themselves good enough to take on the demon—but the bit of cloak he'd found was too familiar. He still couldn't place it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd recently seen it.
And that was why he kept digging, which was less digging and more simply sweeping his hands and feet through the snow, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Sweat began to bead his forehead and the back of his neck, dressed as he was for sitting exposed on a pony and not doing much more than that. Eventually he tore off his cap and stuffed it in a pocket.
It wasn't all fruitless, though. He bumped his foot against something and fell to his knees, digging through the snow, but he didn't find what it was—he likely wouldn't have heard the whine if it wasn't because his senses were so alert, listening and looking for any sign of the demon. Still he jumped a little, but it was only the fox—
Only the fox—
There was no such thing as only the fox; there was a human mind behind those blue, blue eyes looking questioningly at him from a perfect and white canine face. And briefly, oh so briefly, he wanted to be angry at it, to demand it change, or stop fooling him into thinking it was a fox, but.. he was the one fooling himself, and it was the worry spiking his blood and temper. Rory bit his lower lip and pulled a mitten off, holding it out for his friend to sniff, and if allowed, give its cheek a brief scratch. "Hi there," he said, voice gentle. It was too cold to engage in a lengthy cuddle session though, and he had something else to do, so he put the mitten back on.
"I found this," he began, showing the fox the frozen piece of cloak he'd uncovered. Again, Rory bit his lower lip, frowning. This was a fool's errand. It could've gotten torn off for any other number of reasons. "And considering the proximity to the Spire, I'm worried someone was attacked. The thing is.. I recognize it, but I can't for the life of me remember who has cloaks like these." Was the fox a Natural? Did it even know of the dangers of the Spire? So many questions, and no answers, and it felt like a conversation saved for when they both wore human faces and perhaps had a cup of freshly brewed tea, or something.
If that'd ever happen...
Rory put his hands back in the snow, feeling around for what it was he'd scraped his foot against. He found it after a couple of seconds, and pulled out a strip of leather.
Definitely bad. Definitely looked like someone had been torn to shreds. Not too unusual, but if it was someone he knew, he wanted to know. "So I'm looking for.. pieces.. to see if I can identify anything..."
He was self-conscious and stupidly worried about something that had already happened, a sick feeling in his gut, messing with his brain. Rather brusquely he stood up, resuming his search, sweeping his feet through the snow.
