Billy-Ray stopped, stunned. He wasn't quite sure why; it wasn't as if he'd never heard those words directed at him before, and this wouldn't even be the first time he'd seen such a visceral reaction to being pulled underground. But that was it, wasn't it? The reaction wasn't to being pulled underground. Gabe obviously hadn't enjoyed it, not with the way his expression twisted every so often during the journey, but he'd stayed rational. Coherent. Annoyingly so, in fact. Nor could the reaction have been to Billy-Ray himself, for those exact same reasons.
Billy-Ray was more stunned because of how sudden the behaviour was. Like Gabe was reacting to the stone room, instead of anything that had just happened to him. That was insulting, that was.
But the revulsion in his voice was very real, and very much there, and after a few moments, it abruptly clicked in Billy-Ray's mind. The only thing, he realised, that had changed between their last conversation - if you could call it that - and collapsing here was that Billy-Ray had essentially needed to go on a mental killing spree just to stay conscious.
And if there was one thing experience had taught him, it was that most folks were repulsed by the idea of murder. Surely anyone who hung around with Pleasant would feel the same way - even though anyone who hung around with Pleasant should really also be used to it, in more ways than one.
... Well, shit. Billy-Ray had just brought home a mind-reader. That was just perfect.
Then again... it did mean that he had directly caused the crying, inadvertently though it might have been. And that put the situation squarely back into Billy-Ray's comfort zone. Now it made sense. Now he knew exactly how to handle it.
And he was already getting an idea - a perfect way to control a man whose power level and abilities remained mysterious. Honestly, if the guy got like this every time Billy-Ray needed to center himself, it would be so easy. Even now, Billy-Ray couldn't quite prevent more images flooding his mind as the real pain finally began to settle into his stomach - not that he would want to, even if he could.
The Texan raised his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender and backed off, an intention that might have seemed completely genuine were it not for the wide grin. Or his deliberate thoughts, if his guess was right. "Mind of a sociopath a little much?" he asked, a measure of glee creeping into his tone. "I get that. Well, not really, but I've been told time and time again I'm a bit of a handful. You ain't gonna pass out on me, are ya?" he added thoughtfully. That wouldn't be any fun at all.
~~
The tea had been left over from a church event several weeks ago, although Father O'Reilly didn't object when Solomon found it. If tea even had an expiration date, he was sure this one hadn't passed it. And as far as the priest knew, no one else was going to be drinking it.
And he didn't even know where the fruitcake came from. Church donation, perhaps? Filling, though, and that would be what Solomon needed.
He couldn't help a small smile when he saw the sorcerer automatically setting places for two, moving around the kitchen as confidently as if it was his own. Manners, it seemed, were not sacrificed along with the faith, and could be prevalent even in a world of people who took magic for granted. Father O'Reilly wasn't quite sure why they wouldn't be, but the sight was heartening all the same.
He knew all too well the feeling of needing to occupy one's hands, as well, and so he didn't interfere. He simply sat down and watched, expression unchanging until he saw the way Solomon was looking at the knife, and then he frowned. Not with disapproval, exactly, but with pity.
His first and most surprising feeling was amusement; amusement at the idea of a sorcerer having nothing to rely on but a breadknife. The thought quickly faded, however, and was replaced by a certain kind of practicality. Someone managing to kill Solomon Wreath was obviously to be avoided at all costs, and to that end, he could understand the desire for any kind of tool to use in self-defense. But there had to be a better way. A more peaceful way.
After a moment, Father O'Reilly spoke. "Do you really think that will help?"
no subject
Billy-Ray was more stunned because of how sudden the behaviour was. Like Gabe was reacting to the stone room, instead of anything that had just happened to him. That was insulting, that was.
But the revulsion in his voice was very real, and very much there, and after a few moments, it abruptly clicked in Billy-Ray's mind. The only thing, he realised, that had changed between their last conversation - if you could call it that - and collapsing here was that Billy-Ray had essentially needed to go on a mental killing spree just to stay conscious.
And if there was one thing experience had taught him, it was that most folks were repulsed by the idea of murder. Surely anyone who hung around with Pleasant would feel the same way - even though anyone who hung around with Pleasant should really also be used to it, in more ways than one.
... Well, shit. Billy-Ray had just brought home a mind-reader. That was just perfect.
Then again... it did mean that he had directly caused the crying, inadvertently though it might have been. And that put the situation squarely back into Billy-Ray's comfort zone. Now it made sense. Now he knew exactly how to handle it.
And he was already getting an idea - a perfect way to control a man whose power level and abilities remained mysterious. Honestly, if the guy got like this every time Billy-Ray needed to center himself, it would be so easy. Even now, Billy-Ray couldn't quite prevent more images flooding his mind as the real pain finally began to settle into his stomach - not that he would want to, even if he could.
The Texan raised his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender and backed off, an intention that might have seemed completely genuine were it not for the wide grin. Or his deliberate thoughts, if his guess was right. "Mind of a sociopath a little much?" he asked, a measure of glee creeping into his tone. "I get that. Well, not really, but I've been told time and time again I'm a bit of a handful. You ain't gonna pass out on me, are ya?" he added thoughtfully. That wouldn't be any fun at all.
~~
The tea had been left over from a church event several weeks ago, although Father O'Reilly didn't object when Solomon found it. If tea even had an expiration date, he was sure this one hadn't passed it. And as far as the priest knew, no one else was going to be drinking it.
And he didn't even know where the fruitcake came from. Church donation, perhaps? Filling, though, and that would be what Solomon needed.
He couldn't help a small smile when he saw the sorcerer automatically setting places for two, moving around the kitchen as confidently as if it was his own. Manners, it seemed, were not sacrificed along with the faith, and could be prevalent even in a world of people who took magic for granted. Father O'Reilly wasn't quite sure why they wouldn't be, but the sight was heartening all the same.
He knew all too well the feeling of needing to occupy one's hands, as well, and so he didn't interfere. He simply sat down and watched, expression unchanging until he saw the way Solomon was looking at the knife, and then he frowned. Not with disapproval, exactly, but with pity.
His first and most surprising feeling was amusement; amusement at the idea of a sorcerer having nothing to rely on but a breadknife. The thought quickly faded, however, and was replaced by a certain kind of practicality. Someone managing to kill Solomon Wreath was obviously to be avoided at all costs, and to that end, he could understand the desire for any kind of tool to use in self-defense. But there had to be a better way. A more peaceful way.
After a moment, Father O'Reilly spoke. "Do you really think that will help?"