Rory
Rory's fingers briefly tightened around Bakshi's reins: who was she to come here and spit on generations of effort to get out? Who was she to come here and declare that she could break down this barrier which had trapped them for centuries? Some of Rory's friends had died hunting for a better life, and so many more had lain down their lives to teach them what they knew of their deadly cage.
How long could she have been in Caido? Hours? A day, at most? And already she stepped, with no concern, on hundreds of years of desperation and hope and sacrifice.
He chose diplomacy, and to not respond. Merely gave one of his shoulders a small noncommittal shrug, though there was something sad about his eyes.
Already rolling over.
Then she said something more: ”I’m already dead, technically, so this barrier of yours doesn’t scare me.” Rory found himself faltering for a moment, his gaze ceasing its roving to fix on her: again, his mind replayed the exactness of her movements, the deadliness of her grace. And in her face, sharp teeth spelled out an uncomfortable truth.
He knew about the Ascended, of course, but they were rare—he'd heard stories, passed down like the stories of a paradise beyond the barrier, of how some had blamed the Ascended for the Cataclysm. Rory didn't know the ins and outs of it, but it boiled down to the new and enhanced Ascended being blamed for the Proper Gods's wrath. For a time they had apparently even been hunted and killed, as if destroying them all would appease the Gods and remove the barrier.
He'd seen some. Met some. Spoken to some. If they were unloved by the Proper Gods, he couldn't blame them. He was hardly one of their favorites either.
But how was she one?
The surprise on his face had turned to thoughtfulness, but he felt ill at ease with the idea of Northaven sharing Gods with the Caido of old.
"A little bit of everything," he began, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sensation the revelation about Elyna had left on his skin. "Things that are very .. improbable. Too tall, too thin, moving in ways they shouldn't, too fast, too sharp. The one guarding the Spire is like that—just wrong and there's nothing else quite like it. Some are more like animals, or perhaps once even were animals, but they, too, are wrong somehow. I.. obviously do not know your frame of reference, but if Bakshi-" and here, he waved his free hand towards the pony "-looks normal to you, then you'll probably be able to discern what isn't normal when it comes for you. And some are not quite real; real enough to hurt you, but not real enough for you to hurt."
How long could she have been in Caido? Hours? A day, at most? And already she stepped, with no concern, on hundreds of years of desperation and hope and sacrifice.
He chose diplomacy, and to not respond. Merely gave one of his shoulders a small noncommittal shrug, though there was something sad about his eyes.
Already rolling over.
Then she said something more: ”I’m already dead, technically, so this barrier of yours doesn’t scare me.” Rory found himself faltering for a moment, his gaze ceasing its roving to fix on her: again, his mind replayed the exactness of her movements, the deadliness of her grace. And in her face, sharp teeth spelled out an uncomfortable truth.
He knew about the Ascended, of course, but they were rare—he'd heard stories, passed down like the stories of a paradise beyond the barrier, of how some had blamed the Ascended for the Cataclysm. Rory didn't know the ins and outs of it, but it boiled down to the new and enhanced Ascended being blamed for the Proper Gods's wrath. For a time they had apparently even been hunted and killed, as if destroying them all would appease the Gods and remove the barrier.
He'd seen some. Met some. Spoken to some. If they were unloved by the Proper Gods, he couldn't blame them. He was hardly one of their favorites either.
But how was she one?
The surprise on his face had turned to thoughtfulness, but he felt ill at ease with the idea of Northaven sharing Gods with the Caido of old.
"A little bit of everything," he began, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sensation the revelation about Elyna had left on his skin. "Things that are very .. improbable. Too tall, too thin, moving in ways they shouldn't, too fast, too sharp. The one guarding the Spire is like that—just wrong and there's nothing else quite like it. Some are more like animals, or perhaps once even were animals, but they, too, are wrong somehow. I.. obviously do not know your frame of reference, but if Bakshi-" and here, he waved his free hand towards the pony "-looks normal to you, then you'll probably be able to discern what isn't normal when it comes for you. And some are not quite real; real enough to hurt you, but not real enough for you to hurt."
