It’s not a tricky thing for Orym to notice, a familiar gleam in a familiar place. A familiar twinge in his heart. Between writer’s knuckles dressed in what are most likely magical rings, the mage, Caleb, carries a simple band that doesn’t hold quite the same spotless shine as the others. Well worn. Well loved.
On the way out to what absolutely will be the most successful mission of his short life, Orym taps Caleb’s knee, the both of them the last ones left in the tent. Immediately, Caleb turns and bends in the respectable way taller folks do when they live around shorter folk for a while.
So Orym clears his tight throat and puts on his best reassuring smile.
“We’ll, uh. We’ll make sure you get home safe to your family, after all this.”
And what a collection of expressions that gets. That was definitely a nerve.
With a pressed mouth that’s probably a smile, Orym gets a quiet nod back.
And then Caleb crouches without overshooting, like he’s practiced at it. He sets a firm hand to Orym’s shoulder. Despite the confidence, it’s hard to miss the way that hand trembles, just a bit.
“Keep that stone the spooky one has. Let us know, the moment you need help. If need be, you run, you regroup. Ja?”
He’s gotten a little better at that, leaning on the rest. He’s still got more work to do. So Orym smiles again, this one feeling even more genuine.
“Yeah. Good luck with your stuff, magic man.”
“You as well, my friend.”
A last shared look of something that’s as strange as it is familiar, and Orym takes off, following his friends to their fate.
