The fox's fur was still unbelievably smooth and soft, and for a brief moment his face lost its worry as he watched his fingers slip into the fluff—he was nothing more than Rory, lost in a moment, absorbed by the simple joy of a touch.
But then the worry came crashing back, and he pulled back his hand, pushing it back into the mitten and the snow.
The strip of leather he'd uncovered wasn't defined enough for him to be able to figure anything out by it. It was torn off a larger section, but the thickness and quality of it suggested some form of armor, which narrowed his list of probably victims significantly. He still knew those who wore it, and the lack of distinction kept him from sorting it into customer or friend. He needed more to go off, a piece that would clearly show the craftsmanship, maybe even the maker's mark, or just give away its use...
He had long ago learned not to assume anyone would help him, so once he'd risen he'd tried to put his heart on ice, to expect the fox to leave, its curiosity satisfied; it would hurt, but it wouldn't be a disappointment. It was safer to think he was all alone in this stupid endeavor.
But he had barely taken more than a few sweeping steps when the white creature elegantly trotted past him, ears quivering to every sound yet obviously cocked towards the Spire—just like Rory's would've been, had he had mobile ears.
Earlier that morning he had been happy, content, looking forward to the benign parts of the season when he had Luxere to sing for and coax closer—yet here he was, his anxious mind having slipped from its comforting nest and gone shrieking into the wild night. He felt dangerously fragile, his heart a fast and feral thing running out of his chest.
The sun slipped from behind the clouds, refracting in a million or more snow crystals, bright and dazzling, shimmering in the tears of gratitude sitting in the corners of Rory's eyes.
His fox-friend chose to stay, and help.
It warmed his heart.
The fox barked, and Rory hurried over to where it was digging, falling to his knees in the soft snow once again. He stuck his hands into the white mess, feeling for the frozen cloth the fox had in its jaws. Together, as Rory added his weight to tugging it free from the ground it likely had frozen to, they got it free; Rory nearly tipped over sideways, and had the circumstances been any different he would've laughed.
He would've liked playing in the snow with the fox, he thought, but instead he sat there with a piece of frozen cloth in his hand. It didn't offer him much insight either. Chewing on his lip again Rory nodded to the fox, then resumed his silent search, hoping to find more leather—he'd probably have an easier time identifying that—or some sort of weaponry. That was usually pretty individual and unique, too. Or maybe they'd even find what was left of the body, though judging from the torn clothing, the demon had done a pretty good job of ripping up whoever it was.
But then the worry came crashing back, and he pulled back his hand, pushing it back into the mitten and the snow.
The strip of leather he'd uncovered wasn't defined enough for him to be able to figure anything out by it. It was torn off a larger section, but the thickness and quality of it suggested some form of armor, which narrowed his list of probably victims significantly. He still knew those who wore it, and the lack of distinction kept him from sorting it into customer or friend. He needed more to go off, a piece that would clearly show the craftsmanship, maybe even the maker's mark, or just give away its use...
He had long ago learned not to assume anyone would help him, so once he'd risen he'd tried to put his heart on ice, to expect the fox to leave, its curiosity satisfied; it would hurt, but it wouldn't be a disappointment. It was safer to think he was all alone in this stupid endeavor.
But he had barely taken more than a few sweeping steps when the white creature elegantly trotted past him, ears quivering to every sound yet obviously cocked towards the Spire—just like Rory's would've been, had he had mobile ears.
Earlier that morning he had been happy, content, looking forward to the benign parts of the season when he had Luxere to sing for and coax closer—yet here he was, his anxious mind having slipped from its comforting nest and gone shrieking into the wild night. He felt dangerously fragile, his heart a fast and feral thing running out of his chest.
The sun slipped from behind the clouds, refracting in a million or more snow crystals, bright and dazzling, shimmering in the tears of gratitude sitting in the corners of Rory's eyes.
His fox-friend chose to stay, and help.
It warmed his heart.
The fox barked, and Rory hurried over to where it was digging, falling to his knees in the soft snow once again. He stuck his hands into the white mess, feeling for the frozen cloth the fox had in its jaws. Together, as Rory added his weight to tugging it free from the ground it likely had frozen to, they got it free; Rory nearly tipped over sideways, and had the circumstances been any different he would've laughed.
He would've liked playing in the snow with the fox, he thought, but instead he sat there with a piece of frozen cloth in his hand. It didn't offer him much insight either. Chewing on his lip again Rory nodded to the fox, then resumed his silent search, hoping to find more leather—he'd probably have an easier time identifying that—or some sort of weaponry. That was usually pretty individual and unique, too. Or maybe they'd even find what was left of the body, though judging from the torn clothing, the demon had done a pretty good job of ripping up whoever it was.
