He felt numb, distant, confused—something in his heart and mind whispered that until he found her body it wasn't true, she could still be okay, but—but—
Rory knew what it looked like when the demon got hold of someone. Most in Caido had seen someone die in one gruesome way or another. He was no exception, and as he sat there with her knife in his lap he knew that it had got hold of her, and no one survived that. He hadn't got the details out of Ronin, but he was fairly sure that if the demon had got hold of him, he, too, would've been busy freezing into strips of dried flesh by now.
It certainly wasn't the first friend he'd lost to the monster, and he doubted it would be the last.
Had she died alone? Had it been quick, at least? Had she been afraid?
He couldn't imagine Wessex afraid of anything; he could imagine it about as much as he could imagine her dead. But then again, he hadn't been able to imagine his mother dead either, but she was, too.
Slowly, uncertainly, he let out a long, sad sigh. He didn't cry—he felt as if he should, though, that someone should cry over lonely, ferocious Wessex—but he felt .. empty. Bewildered, somehow.
Still not quite thinking he put his nearest hand on the fox's back, at first just holding it there, wondering what it was about this tiny creature that moved him so—guessing it was something about its captivating eyes, the way it seemed more spirit than Attuned. Wondering, too, what it was that compelled the stranger to stay, to help, to comfort, resting its head across his leg.
Rory didn't say anything else for a while, but bit by bit, his hand came back to life. At first it was just absentminded, small pets and strokes, but after some time he pulled his hand from his mitten and experimentally ran his fingers deep into the fur. He still didn't look at the fox, as if his head was still frozen in the direction of the Spire. And truth to be told, it felt a bit like he had forgotten how to move.
And boy, was he getting cold, his sweat cold against his skin, the sun behind cloud covers again. Heaving another deep sigh—calm, collected, resigned—he finally convinced his head to tilt down, looking at the fox. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying." Then he bit his lip again, taking a long, last look at the Spire. "I was headed into town, I.. should get going, maybe stop by and see if Ronin and Remi found anything out..." He lifted his still-mittened hand, rubbing it against his forehead, still holding the knife by the hilt. Then, with—if allowed—a final scratch to the fox's shoulders, Rory stood up again. His muscles ached and his joints felt stiff. He looked down towards his small friend again. "Where were you headed?"
Rory knew what it looked like when the demon got hold of someone. Most in Caido had seen someone die in one gruesome way or another. He was no exception, and as he sat there with her knife in his lap he knew that it had got hold of her, and no one survived that. He hadn't got the details out of Ronin, but he was fairly sure that if the demon had got hold of him, he, too, would've been busy freezing into strips of dried flesh by now.
It certainly wasn't the first friend he'd lost to the monster, and he doubted it would be the last.
Had she died alone? Had it been quick, at least? Had she been afraid?
He couldn't imagine Wessex afraid of anything; he could imagine it about as much as he could imagine her dead. But then again, he hadn't been able to imagine his mother dead either, but she was, too.
Slowly, uncertainly, he let out a long, sad sigh. He didn't cry—he felt as if he should, though, that someone should cry over lonely, ferocious Wessex—but he felt .. empty. Bewildered, somehow.
Still not quite thinking he put his nearest hand on the fox's back, at first just holding it there, wondering what it was about this tiny creature that moved him so—guessing it was something about its captivating eyes, the way it seemed more spirit than Attuned. Wondering, too, what it was that compelled the stranger to stay, to help, to comfort, resting its head across his leg.
Rory didn't say anything else for a while, but bit by bit, his hand came back to life. At first it was just absentminded, small pets and strokes, but after some time he pulled his hand from his mitten and experimentally ran his fingers deep into the fur. He still didn't look at the fox, as if his head was still frozen in the direction of the Spire. And truth to be told, it felt a bit like he had forgotten how to move.
And boy, was he getting cold, his sweat cold against his skin, the sun behind cloud covers again. Heaving another deep sigh—calm, collected, resigned—he finally convinced his head to tilt down, looking at the fox. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying." Then he bit his lip again, taking a long, last look at the Spire. "I was headed into town, I.. should get going, maybe stop by and see if Ronin and Remi found anything out..." He lifted his still-mittened hand, rubbing it against his forehead, still holding the knife by the hilt. Then, with—if allowed—a final scratch to the fox's shoulders, Rory stood up again. His muscles ached and his joints felt stiff. He looked down towards his small friend again. "Where were you headed?"
