Rory
"I won't bet on it," he responded lightly to Remi, and while he didn't quite hold any hard feelings over the whole thing, he wasn't one to trust blindly or believe in the best. Sure, he'd be happy to never be threatened in such a way by her—or anyone else for the matter—again, but he wouldn't stake his life on it. Far from it.
The other man—still nameless in Rory's book—surprised him then; not with his apology or the shallow bow (though Rory certainly wasn't used to such a thing, and likely look startled for a split second), but with what he said. He had faced off with the monster—and survived? Was it the same one? But what else would it have been? Rory said nothing as the man came up to the pony, but followed the suggestion and had Bakshi walk a couple of paces back.
And there was something about Remi that seemed too open, too naive, too defenseless and far too trusting: the way he had gone all the way to the Outskirts with only Elyna, the way he seemed to want to trust Rory. The way he sat by the Spire, sketching and thinking.
Rory wanted both to shake it out of him, and preserve it.
"You survived? How?" he finally managed to say, blue eyes keen as they landed on the stranger. Then, as if to postpone an eventual answer, Rory decided it was time to prove he wasn't part of his pony, so he swung a leg over its withers and slid off. Maybe this would be the day he got eaten by Outlanders for being too trusting, but he was equal parts wary and equal parts sick of being wary.
"The monster doesn't eat, sleep, shit, or age, at least we've never seen signs of it, and no one ever has. And the Spire, well.. some theorize there's a door, that the outline there is a door. Problem is, you can't get past the monster. As to what's inside, I've heard everything from our sins and failures to the Old Gods to paradise to.. I don't know, all the goats you could ever need. Riches. The dead. Death itself. Amazing things. Horrible things."
And something in his face fell then, and he frowned as he looked towards the imposing building. Three hundred years, and no one had been able to find any answers—and there he stood, wanting to apologize to these two well-spoken and well-dressed gentlemen that he couldn't be of more help.
Something about the Northaveners appearance put some things into perspective.
"It's really quite pitiful, huh? Trapped for three centuries and we have nothing to show for it..."
The other man—still nameless in Rory's book—surprised him then; not with his apology or the shallow bow (though Rory certainly wasn't used to such a thing, and likely look startled for a split second), but with what he said. He had faced off with the monster—and survived? Was it the same one? But what else would it have been? Rory said nothing as the man came up to the pony, but followed the suggestion and had Bakshi walk a couple of paces back.
And there was something about Remi that seemed too open, too naive, too defenseless and far too trusting: the way he had gone all the way to the Outskirts with only Elyna, the way he seemed to want to trust Rory. The way he sat by the Spire, sketching and thinking.
Rory wanted both to shake it out of him, and preserve it.
"You survived? How?" he finally managed to say, blue eyes keen as they landed on the stranger. Then, as if to postpone an eventual answer, Rory decided it was time to prove he wasn't part of his pony, so he swung a leg over its withers and slid off. Maybe this would be the day he got eaten by Outlanders for being too trusting, but he was equal parts wary and equal parts sick of being wary.
"The monster doesn't eat, sleep, shit, or age, at least we've never seen signs of it, and no one ever has. And the Spire, well.. some theorize there's a door, that the outline there is a door. Problem is, you can't get past the monster. As to what's inside, I've heard everything from our sins and failures to the Old Gods to paradise to.. I don't know, all the goats you could ever need. Riches. The dead. Death itself. Amazing things. Horrible things."
And something in his face fell then, and he frowned as he looked towards the imposing building. Three hundred years, and no one had been able to find any answers—and there he stood, wanting to apologize to these two well-spoken and well-dressed gentlemen that he couldn't be of more help.
Something about the Northaveners appearance put some things into perspective.
"It's really quite pitiful, huh? Trapped for three centuries and we have nothing to show for it..."
