Rory
Bakshi was, in many ways, the embodiment of life within the barrier: sort of slow and steady. He was made to work diligently, to be patient, and to endure.
No wonder those two were going to take a crack at the barrier.
Rory had done it a few times too. It was unpleasant and utterly pointless, but at certain points in your life you were just so fed up with everything that you thought you could get through on sheer willpower and desperation.
He wondered if they'd tried before—if they knew the snap of the magic, and if they did, he wondered what sort of plan they had devised.
The steady two-beat rhythm of the pony's jog was the only sound in the barren, flat landscape. He resisted its peaceful lulling, doing his best to stay sharp. It was monotonous. Until—
"Hello–" one of the two figures called, his voice decidedly masculine, and lilting in a foreign fashion. The dim daylight glinted off something bright in the hands of the other; Rory tensed, and Bakshi, being the dumb horse that he was, merely looked concerned, but jogged on.
Likely that was the only reason they ever made it closer.
It was like—like—he didn't even know what. The weapon—he saw it was a weapon now, held by a woman who looked like she knew what she was on about—was finely made, putting his old pike to shame. Too fine to be of his world. Their clothes, while he could not make out the details, were different: the cut and the colors and the quality.
The way they held themselves was different. The question; the threat; their existence. They were
not
from
here
and his mind tried to understand the implications of this, but he was too shocked to think at all. It was just a ringing in his ears as he sat there on his unassuming, dusty pony: a man with a tousled blonde braid and a worn-and-patched greatcoat and a pike that looked like someone forgot how to care for it ten years ago.
Like the caged animal that dreams of freedom his first taste of it tasted like fear.
That was the first thing he registered after having stared at them for a good twenty seconds from the safe distance of ten-fifteen yards (Bakshi, being sensible if not very exciting, had stopped of his own accord): his heart was hammering, and it was a fine line between fear and elation.
His mouth was dry.
The left hand, gripping the worn leather reins, had white knuckles. The other hand he found covering his mouth. Slowly, and self-consciously, Rory let it fall to rest against his thigh. "Sweet Safrin," he whispered, the closest he had come to praying in a long, long time.
He took a deep breath. "I am Rory," he managed to say, feeling sick, sounding nervous; it was so unlike him, but he was rattled to the core. This—meeting people not from here—was something he'd daydreamed of as a child, among many other things. How they'd come and offer salvation and triumphantly he'd follow them out into the world beyond—a world he often thought they would've been better off having forgotten. It was hard to long for something you didn't know existed.
And now it was happening, only—he wasn't prepared—how could he have been?—and she was pointing a glaive at him in a very businesslike manner.
"How did you end up here?" he meant to demand, but it came out sounding weak and sickened, as if there was something very, very wrong.
Which, y'know, there was.
No wonder those two were going to take a crack at the barrier.
Rory had done it a few times too. It was unpleasant and utterly pointless, but at certain points in your life you were just so fed up with everything that you thought you could get through on sheer willpower and desperation.
He wondered if they'd tried before—if they knew the snap of the magic, and if they did, he wondered what sort of plan they had devised.
The steady two-beat rhythm of the pony's jog was the only sound in the barren, flat landscape. He resisted its peaceful lulling, doing his best to stay sharp. It was monotonous. Until—
"Hello–" one of the two figures called, his voice decidedly masculine, and lilting in a foreign fashion. The dim daylight glinted off something bright in the hands of the other; Rory tensed, and Bakshi, being the dumb horse that he was, merely looked concerned, but jogged on.
Likely that was the only reason they ever made it closer.
It was like—like—he didn't even know what. The weapon—he saw it was a weapon now, held by a woman who looked like she knew what she was on about—was finely made, putting his old pike to shame. Too fine to be of his world. Their clothes, while he could not make out the details, were different: the cut and the colors and the quality.
The way they held themselves was different. The question; the threat; their existence. They were
not
from
here
and his mind tried to understand the implications of this, but he was too shocked to think at all. It was just a ringing in his ears as he sat there on his unassuming, dusty pony: a man with a tousled blonde braid and a worn-and-patched greatcoat and a pike that looked like someone forgot how to care for it ten years ago.
Like the caged animal that dreams of freedom his first taste of it tasted like fear.
That was the first thing he registered after having stared at them for a good twenty seconds from the safe distance of ten-fifteen yards (Bakshi, being sensible if not very exciting, had stopped of his own accord): his heart was hammering, and it was a fine line between fear and elation.
His mouth was dry.
The left hand, gripping the worn leather reins, had white knuckles. The other hand he found covering his mouth. Slowly, and self-consciously, Rory let it fall to rest against his thigh. "Sweet Safrin," he whispered, the closest he had come to praying in a long, long time.
He took a deep breath. "I am Rory," he managed to say, feeling sick, sounding nervous; it was so unlike him, but he was rattled to the core. This—meeting people not from here—was something he'd daydreamed of as a child, among many other things. How they'd come and offer salvation and triumphantly he'd follow them out into the world beyond—a world he often thought they would've been better off having forgotten. It was hard to long for something you didn't know existed.
And now it was happening, only—he wasn't prepared—how could he have been?—and she was pointing a glaive at him in a very businesslike manner.
"How did you end up here?" he meant to demand, but it came out sounding weak and sickened, as if there was something very, very wrong.
Which, y'know, there was.
