Rory
This: for centuries—or so the story went—the status quo had been kept. The unfortunate few trapped by the barrier lived and bred and died, every idea thought, every theory tested, every last drop of creativity exhausted. There was no coming out. There was no getting in. There was only the constant, slow change of seasons, the hazy world beyond their invisible wall a constant siren song that had driven some to death over the long, long years.
There was only the tenacity of their spirits, the never-ending slog of keeping alive, today, tomorrow, day after tomorrow, today, tomorrow...
They lived on dreams and memories and stories and vague, half-buried hopes, but no one tried anything anymore.
Rory frequently wondered about it: how they accepted their existence, merely put their heads down and went on, and on, and on. Lived and bred and died. Waiting for the gods of nearly-silent shrines to save them.
But how long was it going to take?
The scruffy bay pony he was astride was an older gelding, sturdy and steady; not Rory's favorite, for she had an abscess in her left hind hoof, but he was good enough. Forward, but lacking initiative. Pleasant, uncomplicated, but not exactly someone to converse with. He seemed to accept and agree to absolutely everything Rory asked, and it frustrated him.
Still, he was a good choice for this type of thing—he'd been out here before, and while his ears were moving perhaps a tad more than usual, he didn't spook. There was just.. something about the borderlands. And that was why Rory was armed with a crude but serviceable pike.
And while weird things sometimes happened out here, there weren't exactly supposed to be people out here.
Bakshi—the pony—had suddenly pricked his ears and raised his head, and out of habit Rory's eyes went in the pony's direction.
And.
Like.
What.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes, staring out across the expanse of flat and deserted land, and what remained the only thing he could properly think.
Because that thing over there, taking his pony's attention, looked like people. Two of them. They weren't supposed to be there; least of all were they supposed to be standing still. Not that it really was Rory's business—he figured they were just two more lost idiots going to try their luck with the barrier—but.. Eh. If they went and got themselves killed, it'd be good if he could tell someone who they were, at least. While you sort of knew someone who knew someone who knew someone until you knew someone who knew everyone, Rory didn't know the name and face of everyone.
So he clicked to Bakshi, who obediently fell into a trot, and without the slightest idea of what he was getting himself into, Rory approached the strangers.
He'd be in for a hell of a surprise once he was close enough to see that they definitely weren't from around these parts.
There was only the tenacity of their spirits, the never-ending slog of keeping alive, today, tomorrow, day after tomorrow, today, tomorrow...
They lived on dreams and memories and stories and vague, half-buried hopes, but no one tried anything anymore.
Rory frequently wondered about it: how they accepted their existence, merely put their heads down and went on, and on, and on. Lived and bred and died. Waiting for the gods of nearly-silent shrines to save them.
But how long was it going to take?
The scruffy bay pony he was astride was an older gelding, sturdy and steady; not Rory's favorite, for she had an abscess in her left hind hoof, but he was good enough. Forward, but lacking initiative. Pleasant, uncomplicated, but not exactly someone to converse with. He seemed to accept and agree to absolutely everything Rory asked, and it frustrated him.
Still, he was a good choice for this type of thing—he'd been out here before, and while his ears were moving perhaps a tad more than usual, he didn't spook. There was just.. something about the borderlands. And that was why Rory was armed with a crude but serviceable pike.
And while weird things sometimes happened out here, there weren't exactly supposed to be people out here.
Bakshi—the pony—had suddenly pricked his ears and raised his head, and out of habit Rory's eyes went in the pony's direction.
And.
Like.
What.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes, staring out across the expanse of flat and deserted land, and what remained the only thing he could properly think.
Because that thing over there, taking his pony's attention, looked like people. Two of them. They weren't supposed to be there; least of all were they supposed to be standing still. Not that it really was Rory's business—he figured they were just two more lost idiots going to try their luck with the barrier—but.. Eh. If they went and got themselves killed, it'd be good if he could tell someone who they were, at least. While you sort of knew someone who knew someone who knew someone until you knew someone who knew everyone, Rory didn't know the name and face of everyone.
So he clicked to Bakshi, who obediently fell into a trot, and without the slightest idea of what he was getting himself into, Rory approached the strangers.
He'd be in for a hell of a surprise once he was close enough to see that they definitely weren't from around these parts.
