Rory
She reminded Rory of a cougar, contemplating the pounce.
He reminded Rory of a fox kit, all eagerness and innocence.
They were opposing forces, and Rory was caught between them—an unwitting sparrow suddenly snatched from the sky by two struggling hawks. His eyes went from the brilliant smile of the man to the threatening posture of the woman, back and forth, as he awaited an answer that did not quite come. Just a question, one that could mean anything except this: that they were from Caido. Rory had a feeling that if anyone lived outside the barrier, they knew about this place, about the Spire, about the wastelands they couldn't cross into.
But before he had much of a chance to answer, the man pulled something—something green—from his pocket and advanced, even as the woman shushed him.
If it hadn't been for her he might've stayed put.
But between her hostility and the glaive Rory wasn't taking any chances. He shifted his weight and backed the pony up, trying to maintain the ten yards between them; Bakshi looked a little offended, but true to his nature, didn't question. Just raised his small, hard hooves and stepped back across the lifeless earth. "Stay where you are," he told Remi in a voice that shook a little, his nervous gaze flitting back to Elyna when she leveled the glaive towards them.
It wasn't the first time Rory had been threatened. This side of the barrier, you ran out of first times for things pretty fast.
But boy did he hate it. He was there on poor Bakshi, heart cold, mind cold, numb and worried and anxious and angry all at the same time, as the loathsome woman even called him out on his name, and ended by feinting a blow—sort of toothless at the distance, but her prowess with the weapon was not lost on him—towards them. Towards Bakshi, maybe. He didn't know. It'd been aimed low.
Rory took a deep, steadying breath. He knew—from experience—that the best thing to do was comply.
Worm.
He didn't want to risk Bakshi's health, but he was a, well, a power card: Bakshi was an advantage to whoever had him, and Rory was too muddled to figure out which path would be the safest for the pony. Had it been his favorite mare, well, she was smart enough to realize that the woman was bad news and he could've counted on her to run off at least a little ways if he chased her off, but Bakshi? Bakshi would, at most, trot ten yards away and look offended and then get horribly killed.
"I will get off," he called out, knowing that he was gambling with wolves, "and for the entire time my feet are on the ground, so will your glaive be. And you will not come closer." He felt sick, but he mustered what force he could and stared at her, waiting for some sort of agreement—or attack, in which case he was going to make the most of his carefully curated ten yard safety gap and try to get at least the horse out.
He reminded Rory of a fox kit, all eagerness and innocence.
They were opposing forces, and Rory was caught between them—an unwitting sparrow suddenly snatched from the sky by two struggling hawks. His eyes went from the brilliant smile of the man to the threatening posture of the woman, back and forth, as he awaited an answer that did not quite come. Just a question, one that could mean anything except this: that they were from Caido. Rory had a feeling that if anyone lived outside the barrier, they knew about this place, about the Spire, about the wastelands they couldn't cross into.
But before he had much of a chance to answer, the man pulled something—something green—from his pocket and advanced, even as the woman shushed him.
If it hadn't been for her he might've stayed put.
But between her hostility and the glaive Rory wasn't taking any chances. He shifted his weight and backed the pony up, trying to maintain the ten yards between them; Bakshi looked a little offended, but true to his nature, didn't question. Just raised his small, hard hooves and stepped back across the lifeless earth. "Stay where you are," he told Remi in a voice that shook a little, his nervous gaze flitting back to Elyna when she leveled the glaive towards them.
It wasn't the first time Rory had been threatened. This side of the barrier, you ran out of first times for things pretty fast.
But boy did he hate it. He was there on poor Bakshi, heart cold, mind cold, numb and worried and anxious and angry all at the same time, as the loathsome woman even called him out on his name, and ended by feinting a blow—sort of toothless at the distance, but her prowess with the weapon was not lost on him—towards them. Towards Bakshi, maybe. He didn't know. It'd been aimed low.
Rory took a deep, steadying breath. He knew—from experience—that the best thing to do was comply.
Worm.
He didn't want to risk Bakshi's health, but he was a, well, a power card: Bakshi was an advantage to whoever had him, and Rory was too muddled to figure out which path would be the safest for the pony. Had it been his favorite mare, well, she was smart enough to realize that the woman was bad news and he could've counted on her to run off at least a little ways if he chased her off, but Bakshi? Bakshi would, at most, trot ten yards away and look offended and then get horribly killed.
"I will get off," he called out, knowing that he was gambling with wolves, "and for the entire time my feet are on the ground, so will your glaive be. And you will not come closer." He felt sick, but he mustered what force he could and stared at her, waiting for some sort of agreement—or attack, in which case he was going to make the most of his carefully curated ten yard safety gap and try to get at least the horse out.
