stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
At least there was some sense in their heads: they were open to the idea of not rushing headlong into death. Rory considered it a small victory so bitter that it was hardly a victory at all.
Then, Ronin let slip a bit of news: it does not seem to be organic. Rory felt his eyes blink rapidly a couple of times, yet his head did not move, but the hand that somehow had stayed in a fist beneath his chin twitched. Not organic? He couldn't say that he was surprised to hear it, not even slightly. What else could explain its infallible sense of when someone approached? How it was always around? Never slept, never tired, never ate? No; that it was inorganic was not a surprise.
He just didn't know what it made it instead, nor how the information would help them defeat it. Inorganic or not, it was still lethal.
Then—
“You’ll stand a better chance with me.”
At that point, the voice was painfully familiar, but it usually lacked such sentiment. He associated it with discussing leather qualities, thickness and suppleness, how to combine cover with flexibility.
Claws of some sort glittered in the firelight, and Rory had deadpanned in her general direction, unsure of what he was feeling. Relief? Disbelief? Anger? Was he finally going insane, and hallucinating her at the back of the crowd?
She used the talons to lift the hood from her face, and Rory's lack of expression became a glare. "What the fuck, Wessex," he said, something like frustration snaking around the words. What was she doing here? She had been dead. Or hadn't she been dead? Had he just stood up here and delivered a whole load of bull, thinking she'd been shredded good and proper, just because he'd found one of her knives and some strips of her gear? Or had she actually somehow come back from death?
The combination of the subject and her sudden reappearance ignited something not entirely benign in him. They'd stand a better chance with her? Yeah, because it went so splendidly the last time she faced the monster—dying or not the thing had still got to her good. That much he knew, at least.
Then, Ronin let slip a bit of news: it does not seem to be organic. Rory felt his eyes blink rapidly a couple of times, yet his head did not move, but the hand that somehow had stayed in a fist beneath his chin twitched. Not organic? He couldn't say that he was surprised to hear it, not even slightly. What else could explain its infallible sense of when someone approached? How it was always around? Never slept, never tired, never ate? No; that it was inorganic was not a surprise.
He just didn't know what it made it instead, nor how the information would help them defeat it. Inorganic or not, it was still lethal.
Then—
“You’ll stand a better chance with me.”
At that point, the voice was painfully familiar, but it usually lacked such sentiment. He associated it with discussing leather qualities, thickness and suppleness, how to combine cover with flexibility.
Claws of some sort glittered in the firelight, and Rory had deadpanned in her general direction, unsure of what he was feeling. Relief? Disbelief? Anger? Was he finally going insane, and hallucinating her at the back of the crowd?
She used the talons to lift the hood from her face, and Rory's lack of expression became a glare. "What the fuck, Wessex," he said, something like frustration snaking around the words. What was she doing here? She had been dead. Or hadn't she been dead? Had he just stood up here and delivered a whole load of bull, thinking she'd been shredded good and proper, just because he'd found one of her knives and some strips of her gear? Or had she actually somehow come back from death?
The combination of the subject and her sudden reappearance ignited something not entirely benign in him. They'd stand a better chance with her? Yeah, because it went so splendidly the last time she faced the monster—dying or not the thing had still got to her good. That much he knew, at least.
