He chirred softly as Rory held back tears, knowing the rush of emotion that such speech-making could cause, the fear and the exultation of holding the mob in hand and guiding it to one’s will. Suspecting, too, that the words against Outlanders would have struck deeper had the hunter not warned him in advance that they weren’t meant for him. To stir the crowd and give direction to the beast he had created the words had been needed, and Jigano, once a master of oratory, was not so hypocritical as to blame his friend for saying whatever had been needed in the moment. Though his beak was large and fierce, the raven had been gentle as he leaned against Rory’s cheek, stealing that moment for them alone before the man who had become a leader was forced back into the role he had taken upon himself – for the good of his people.
He had stood watch over his friend in the moments of sleep the blond had snatched, and accompanied him on his shoulder as he made his rounds, dozing when he could. Amalia’s presence earned another soft chirr of welcome, a quiet pulse of emotion slipping past his guard and into the Attuned link at the arrival of another of his friends. He grew silent at her words, however, uncertain that he agreed with her completely. Dark eyes blinked solemnly at his fellow Loreseeker before Maea’s voice caught his attention and he cocked his head at the pale woman, hearing bitterness hidden in the common sense of her words. Who could stop an Ascended assault at night?
And then fear almost became reality as the woman – Wessex, he now knew – abandoned all pretense of conversation and stormed off like a teenager having a tantrum at being denied immediate permission to do something foolhardy, sweeping her fellow Ascended in her wake.
That one is going to be trouble, he thought softly to himself, thoughAmalia might catch the edges of it.
Roana’s approach was almost missed in the flurry of conflicts growing among the naturals as the mob began to split and crack beneath its own weight and the draw of too many different desires. Some were adamant about no one getting into the Spire - ever. He was surprised that the Wordsworth woman was among those least flexible minds, but even Maea was fatalistic. She offered no suggestions of her own, only a grim reminder that their piety was no shield against Outlander force of arms or Ascended speed, should either or both parties decide to breach their milling barricade.
A barricade which would slip away in ones and threes and fives as the weather turned wet and the business of plowing and planting and feeding their families drew the defenders away until, in a few days, barely a handful might remain. All it required was patience on the part of anyone who wanted to enter the Spire… and the only thing in their favor so far was the lack of that virtue displayed by both Roana and Wessex.
He was no longer an Oracle, no longer a mediator between the mortal and divine. No longer a hero, not to himself or anyone else. But still, when Amalia dropped to her knees he was moved. He had been through too much with her, seen too much. He croaked softly, tensing and flipping his wings to join his friend; as they had prayed before and been answered, so they might pray again—
Evie joined her first, and the redhead’s prayer was decidedly different. Where Amalia sought guidance the apothecary sought vindication in a mind already made up and an opinion that Jigano wondered if even the gods could sway. But still, he bowed his white-feathered head and pressed close to Rory, lending his spirit to theirs, and perhaps the young woman who had met two gods at his side would hear a whisper of a prayer in the back of her mind.
Ludo, Safrin, you who guide them in darkness and in light, you who were left as lost and bereft as they were, who stand apart but bound by bonds of love and duty both to these people who love and fear and need you… Please hear Amalia. Please hear me. We balance on the edge of salvation… or destruction. Please, lend us the gift of your presence, and the honesty of what you truly desire of this moment in history. To change… or to stagnate? Obedience… or love?
He had stood watch over his friend in the moments of sleep the blond had snatched, and accompanied him on his shoulder as he made his rounds, dozing when he could. Amalia’s presence earned another soft chirr of welcome, a quiet pulse of emotion slipping past his guard and into the Attuned link at the arrival of another of his friends. He grew silent at her words, however, uncertain that he agreed with her completely. Dark eyes blinked solemnly at his fellow Loreseeker before Maea’s voice caught his attention and he cocked his head at the pale woman, hearing bitterness hidden in the common sense of her words. Who could stop an Ascended assault at night?
And then fear almost became reality as the woman – Wessex, he now knew – abandoned all pretense of conversation and stormed off like a teenager having a tantrum at being denied immediate permission to do something foolhardy, sweeping her fellow Ascended in her wake.
That one is going to be trouble, he thought softly to himself, though
Roana’s approach was almost missed in the flurry of conflicts growing among the naturals as the mob began to split and crack beneath its own weight and the draw of too many different desires. Some were adamant about no one getting into the Spire - ever. He was surprised that the Wordsworth woman was among those least flexible minds, but even Maea was fatalistic. She offered no suggestions of her own, only a grim reminder that their piety was no shield against Outlander force of arms or Ascended speed, should either or both parties decide to breach their milling barricade.
A barricade which would slip away in ones and threes and fives as the weather turned wet and the business of plowing and planting and feeding their families drew the defenders away until, in a few days, barely a handful might remain. All it required was patience on the part of anyone who wanted to enter the Spire… and the only thing in their favor so far was the lack of that virtue displayed by both Roana and Wessex.
He was no longer an Oracle, no longer a mediator between the mortal and divine. No longer a hero, not to himself or anyone else. But still, when Amalia dropped to her knees he was moved. He had been through too much with her, seen too much. He croaked softly, tensing and flipping his wings to join his friend; as they had prayed before and been answered, so they might pray again—
Evie joined her first, and the redhead’s prayer was decidedly different. Where Amalia sought guidance the apothecary sought vindication in a mind already made up and an opinion that Jigano wondered if even the gods could sway. But still, he bowed his white-feathered head and pressed close to Rory, lending his spirit to theirs, and perhaps the young woman who had met two gods at his side would hear a whisper of a prayer in the back of her mind.
Ludo, Safrin, you who guide them in darkness and in light, you who were left as lost and bereft as they were, who stand apart but bound by bonds of love and duty both to these people who love and fear and need you… Please hear Amalia. Please hear me. We balance on the edge of salvation… or destruction. Please, lend us the gift of your presence, and the honesty of what you truly desire of this moment in history. To change… or to stagnate? Obedience… or love?
