the closest thing to home is you [Seasonal Event]

It’s dark. It’s always dark. To see Wessex in the daylight is to either be extraordinarily close to her (spoiler alert: no one has been, since Magrethe died), close enough to see her weaknesses, or to watch her turn to ash. And as she ain’t taking any chances, Wessex has been busy since her resurrection. It can all easily be called legitimate work: moving her little cabin, re-doing the camouflage for the season, stopping up the cracks and making sure the creaks and groans are minimized. The human in her dies hard. The Ascended in her knows she doesn’t need to do all this now, that the fear of LongNight should be lessened and filled with a glorious gallivanting for seven days and seven nights as her kind takes center stage, for once. They are not like them. But they can still die. And no one really knows what lurks in the alien darkness. Eventually, she runs out of mindless prep work and finds her thoughts rather annoyingly focused on someone else. Wessex scoffs to herself and she grabs some carrots and another small bag of hay, knowing exactly where she’ll end up and who she hopes will be there. He is predictable in his preparations. He should be easy to find. Looking for telltales signs of Rory’s shaggy little pony, Wessex heads towards the Field, masochistically looking for the conversation she knows they must have. He is the only one firmly in her corner, she thinks to herself. As much as she couldn't care less for the Outlanders, she imagines they don't give a fuck about her either. So, she can’t afford to lose Rory, and it kills her to admit it to herself. Still, he is not Magrethe.   WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires

[ Hnngh Wessex <3 And yeah Rory is so predictable you even knew where I was going to make the thread before you beat me to it xDD ]

He had finally gotten around to all the preparations he had been neglecting: snow moss, and other suitable materials, had been carted in from the surrounding forest, and he had set about to sound-proofing the cottage. He had grown up in that house, so he knew it intimately: while he tested every floorboard and hinge for squeaking, he still knew beforehand which ones would need seeing to. He oiled the hinges for the door leading to the Long Night outhouse (strategically placed next to the cottage and accessible via a door from inside). He hauled out the blackout window covers, making sure that they were all whole and accounted for. He went over the big barn he housed the goats and ponies in during the seven days of darkness, ensuring that the precious hay was still serviceable as feed and that he had enough of it.

He checked the other outbuildings—that they could all be closed properly, that all doors and covers were fastened so no errant wind could wave them about and squeak into the dark. He checked his food stores. He checked and cleaned the tanks for storing water indoors. He checked his firewood stores (not big enough). But he still had time.

And through it all, his sister shone with her lack of presence. She had baked bread with him one afternoon. They had laughed and talked as if nothing at all was happening, that she wasn't drifting further away on whatever ruinous path that guy had set her down on before ditching her.

Then she had disappeared again, and it was like a knife in his heart.

So he had grabbed some carrots and gone out in the dark, alone, bringing not even a pony with him. What he still needed was light, and light was easiest to hunt for in the dark: their antlers glowed and out on the fields, he could easily spot them as they browsed the snow for food.

Luxere were usually the least of his problems. Once convinced to come home with him they were usually happy to stick around, satisfied by sharing hay and rye with the goats and ponies, kept content by the laughter and snatches of song drifting from the cottage—but this year was not like other years.

This year Rory was alone and sad and tired, and he did not take any joy in the Long Night preparations, so he did not sing.

What if he'd struggle to keep the Luxere by the homestead..?

He felt sick at the idea of it: the monsters breaking into the barn, slaughtering and scattering the herd. And if it happened—he'd be powerless to stop it. He'd just have to wait until the sun rose again and go out and witness what destruction they had wreaked in his life.

It was with such pleasant and uplifting thoughts in his head that he found himself singing sad nonsense about better times to a couple of Luxere regarding him with large, dark eyes out on the Fields.

In the end, it isn’t the signs of a pony that Wessex follows, but the charming,mostly on-key song that drifts across the empty field. She’s quietly grateful to find him out and about at night, knowing that its chill is difficult for many to stand - and even though the Luxere are easier to find in the dark, it is often a bitterly unpleasant task. Once she spots the glowing reindeer, Wessex slows her pace to a cautious amble, holding her offerings out in front of her so as to do her best not to scare the gentle beasts off. Now, the Ascended woman is no singer - she never will be - but she does try to hum quietly under her breath instead of coming forward with nothing at all. Whether or not it helps is another thing entirely as her alto tones have never been desired around a post-dinner fire. For whatever reason - it’s probably entirely because of Rory, everyone seems to like him - the Luxere hang around as Wessex draws close enough to talk to the man. She doesn’t say anything, though, preferring to open up one of her treat bags and letting the smell waft towards the animals first. The first thing on her tongue is a question about herself, but after opening her mouth to ask it, she suddenly swallows the words and tries again. Rather awkwardly. “You alright?” she asks, peeking at him through her peripheral vision. She tries to keep it casual, but damn, it’s a loaded question. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

<3 Rorrryyyyy too

stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires

It was a relief to be out in the bitter cold, to be away from his haunted memories, to sing whichever words came into his mind and watch the Luxere. Reading their body language. Moving a little closer whenever they allowed him to. He was patient, absorbed by his task, and knowing that as long as he took his time, they usually allowed him to come close enough to touch after a while. And once that happened, well, most of them learned to enjoy a good shoulder scratch, and the particularly bold ones allowed his hands to travel up their throats and scratch the difficult spots along their jaw.

But they were far away from that yet, for he had not been singing to them for terribly long when their attention wandered. Ears pricked and their heads raised, watching someone else approach. Rory, still singing (though, self-consciously, his voice shaped the words of an old Long Night lament instead of therapeutic complaints about loneliness), turned his head to see who came.

To his surprise, it was Wessex who moved through the night, with a surprising regard for the skittish light-bearing creatures. He could hear the wordless hum of her voice, see the feed bag slung over her shoulder, the care she took to not barge in and simply startle them.

He supposed even someone as hard as Wessex knew the wisdom of being favored by the deer. Just because you're tough as nails doesn't mean you have to pick a fight with every pack of Long Night monsters you come across.

She came to a standstill beside him, opening up one of the bags. The smell of hay was strong, tickling his nose with familiarity. The scent was familiar to the Luxere as well, and one of them took a curious step closer. Rory smiled a little as he fell silent.

For a time it was just that: their breathing and the Luxere's breathing, and the occasional, hesitant step closer.

He had thought that seeing Wessex again would bring back the complicated mood he'd found himself in during the meeting, but it didn't. While it was her fault that she had gone and got herself killed, it wasn't her fault that he'd found her things just hours before her resurrection. That everyone had cried for the Demon's death even before her dramatic entrance was none of her doing, but he still thought she could've had a bit more respect towards the creature that had just killed her, instead of going all oh yeah let's kill it, this time it'll surely go so much better, because I already died to it once!.

But all he felt was a strange sort of relief and gratitude, as if some things were still the same, were still .. okay.

“You alright?” she finally asked, and Rory licked his lips before answering. "Not really," he answered truthfully; he doubted she'd know what to do with the confession anyway. He kept his eyes on the Luxere. "But it's fine. And ..you? How are you?" Oh, never had he thought that he'd stand on a field in the dark with Wessex of all people, and having license to ask her how she was doing on top of that.

Oh, she’ll do her best to pick her battles better, from now on. Now that things seem to be coming to a head, now that there are strangers in their world and Monsters to fight, now that something seems to have jolted Caido awake from centuries of complacent (if dangerous and difficult) slumber. Now, now that everyone is gone, there is the promise of a future, and some part of Wessex would gladly take on all the Gods if it would mean Magrethe could see this promise brought to fruition. Even though there’s no guarantee that she’ll live to see it. There is only the word of the child-God, her maker, and it is balanced against the knowledge that deities are fickle creatures. Which, in turn, is measured against her second life. Sometimes the calculations end up in the black and sometimes they end up in the red; through it all, Wessex maintains the belief that she can only rely on herself. And so she will not apologize for her dramatic entrance, for her bravado in the face of another potential death. Because Wessex learns from her mistakes. And she will not put herself in a position to die again, even it means sacrificing Outlanders to save her own skin. She hands the hay bag over to Rory, knowing full well that Luxere are not fond of her. When she was human, back when she’d just started to make a living out of violence, she’d thought for a year or two that they could see inside her soul. That was just the guilt talking and she overcame it soon enough. Maybe it was the blood on her hands, or the fact that something else now flows through her veins, but this year is particularly difficult. None of them want to come near her, and though she knows she needs to talk to Rory before LongNight, she is keenly aware that she might be jeopardizing his chances. So let him be the big draw - she decides to sit - after all you don’t really need to look at someone to talk to them. “Fine. I’m alive, right?” A soft chuckle and then a wince. “Too soon, I know. You, ah… all set for LongNight? Need anything? Or… “ a long pause as she struggles to even ask the question. ”... company?” She didn’t know she would ask that, but out it comes, and it probably surprises her, too. And of course, she’s torn. No one knows what kind of monsters lurk in the week of night, no one knows if the Ascended can fight them, and better yet, no one knows if anyone can stand Wessex for a week. So, you know, there’s a lot of new experiences for Wessex this year.   WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires

It was both surprising and the most natural thing in the world when Wessex handed him the hay bag. He took it barely without noticing, putting one hand in it to rustle the dried blades of grass and help the scent waft into the placid night air. His breath puffed into white clouds.

He could see the Luxere think, their jaws moving, their eyes moving, blinking, ears flicking, weighing the risks against the rewards. Another hesitant step closer, lured by the delicacy. It was all about finding out what they responded to, and the same could be applied to conversations with humans: find out their triggers, what made them wary, what drew them in, and it was rather easy to manipulate an encounter. At least, in theory—trying to think about how their eyes and shoulders changed when they were busy threatening you was stressful and rarely went well.

“Fine. I’m alive, right?” Wessex said after sitting down, and Rory grimaced. If Ascended were even alive to begin with.. but it seemed cruel to take a jab at her choices when they had clearly saved her life, and when he had no issue with it anyway. At least, he didn't think he had. He had never put much stock in the stories of Ascended being the monsters who brought this curse down upon them all, but he couldn't say he knew a whole lot about the race. Few had ever come his way.

But it seemed she was there for a reason, and strangely enough, that reason seemed to be him. First she asked how he was doing—when had she ever done that before, honestly—and now she inquired about his Long Night preparations. And whatever it was she wanted to get out past her teeth, it was difficult. Rory, rather merciless, tilted his face down at her and raised an eyebrow. He couldn't help himself: it wasn't every day you got to watch Wessex struggle with .. feelings? Basic decency? Compassion? Whatever it was that drove her tonight.

When she finally got the word out his other eyebrow joined the first. "Wessex," he said, amused, his voice light and very surprised—yet a smile was spreading across his face, and he laughed a little, though kindly, if such a thing was possible. "Are you—are you..?" He couldn't believe it. Wessex of all people? What had getting killed done to her?

But he decided to spare her the torment of having to actually answer that unfinished question, unless she chose to do it in the few seconds he was quiet. "I appreciate it. I really do. I'm quite ready, just trying to charm a few more of our glowing friends. Amalia will be coming over to stay with me. So..?" So if she was okay with that...

He looked back to the Luxere and made a clicking noise to catch their attention again, once more rustling the hay in the bag. It earned him a few more steps. Content with that, he glanced down at Wessex again. "What about you?"