Oh, how he wished to forget where he was, to have his findings erased from his mind; to instead bury his hands in the thick, soft fur of the fox, and press his face against it. To drift away in the winter-fur scents and wake up somewhere else, where nothing was wrong, where he would be able to deliver his finished goods without first having to dig up the shreds of a friend—
He could just leave. He could just go get Talys, get the hell out of there, but he wouldn't forget. Wouldn't forgive. He'd just end up rolling out of bed under the coldest starlight, padding quietly to not disturb his sister, donning his winter gear and disappearing into the darkness to finish what he had begun here.
So he might as well go on, until he either found something definite, or it became too dangerous.
He trusted the fox's senses more than he did his own, so he drifted away from where it searched, to cover ground it did not. He blinked against the light and against his emotions, dragging his feet along the ground, something starting to slot into place in his mind because he had found himself beginning to think he knew someone who wore a cloak cut from that fabric.
He didn't know when it had happened, but his mind had taken up the chant not Wessex, not Wessex, not Wessex. The moment his toes felt a bump in the snow he stopped, glancing over at the Spire.
Deepfrost was always the season it was the most difficult to make out how far away he was; his landmarks were all covered.
He was too close for comfort, but he shouldn't be close enough to be in danger...
With his senses straining to catch sight or sound of the demon Rory dropped down in the snow, trying to work the slightly larger object loose from the snow and whatever fluids had frozen it to the ground.
He could just leave. He could just go get Talys, get the hell out of there, but he wouldn't forget. Wouldn't forgive. He'd just end up rolling out of bed under the coldest starlight, padding quietly to not disturb his sister, donning his winter gear and disappearing into the darkness to finish what he had begun here.
So he might as well go on, until he either found something definite, or it became too dangerous.
He trusted the fox's senses more than he did his own, so he drifted away from where it searched, to cover ground it did not. He blinked against the light and against his emotions, dragging his feet along the ground, something starting to slot into place in his mind because he had found himself beginning to think he knew someone who wore a cloak cut from that fabric.
He didn't know when it had happened, but his mind had taken up the chant not Wessex, not Wessex, not Wessex. The moment his toes felt a bump in the snow he stopped, glancing over at the Spire.
Deepfrost was always the season it was the most difficult to make out how far away he was; his landmarks were all covered.
He was too close for comfort, but he shouldn't be close enough to be in danger...
With his senses straining to catch sight or sound of the demon Rory dropped down in the snow, trying to work the slightly larger object loose from the snow and whatever fluids had frozen it to the ground.
