Filth, all of it, staining his boots and his trousers and the sleeves of his rolled-up shirt, staining his hands and his nails and his blood and his soul. He might as well dig his grave and plant his corpse rather than spray seeds into the carefully-made furrows.
Perhaps something nice would grow out of it, a tree or something, made from his bones and watered by his blood. It seemed fitting, a thick and inanimate thing which turned its leaves to soak up the sun, as Rory often turned his face to do the same. (Not on that day, though, for not even its warm rays on his skin could soothe the restless, scathing bitterness.)
After some time he was struck by the curious feeling of being watched. The small hairs on the back of his neck pricked, a sense of being disturbed—something celestial out of alignment... He looked up from what he was doing to find a girl watching him. (Or was it a girl? She was small and slight, but her face seemed a little older...) She was closer than he liked, considering that he hadn't heard her, and the wolf within him bristled.
He didn't do much more than watch her, though, his gaze unreadable. “What’re you doing?” she asked, and his face didn't change. What does it look like? he wanted to snarl at her, rattled and tired, caged in a whole new way. "Spring planting," he ended up responding, sounding tired and unamused. Considering her size, she looked like Maea's long-lost and darker cousin. He had never seen her before, that was for certain. "Who are you?"
Perhaps something nice would grow out of it, a tree or something, made from his bones and watered by his blood. It seemed fitting, a thick and inanimate thing which turned its leaves to soak up the sun, as Rory often turned his face to do the same. (Not on that day, though, for not even its warm rays on his skin could soothe the restless, scathing bitterness.)
After some time he was struck by the curious feeling of being watched. The small hairs on the back of his neck pricked, a sense of being disturbed—something celestial out of alignment... He looked up from what he was doing to find a girl watching him. (Or was it a girl? She was small and slight, but her face seemed a little older...) She was closer than he liked, considering that he hadn't heard her, and the wolf within him bristled.
He didn't do much more than watch her, though, his gaze unreadable. “What’re you doing?” she asked, and his face didn't change. What does it look like? he wanted to snarl at her, rattled and tired, caged in a whole new way. "Spring planting," he ended up responding, sounding tired and unamused. Considering her size, she looked like Maea's long-lost and darker cousin. He had never seen her before, that was for certain. "Who are you?"
