Redsand Canyon days of creation

it was a long, slow few moments before colin acknowledged their presence with a nod of his head, and another long, slow few moments after. but renard had time. didn’t they all have time now, idling at the bottom of the canyon while donovan hung himself in front of the court like an injured deer before a crowd of hungry wolves?

there was still amusement to be found in their situation. they themselves were more amused than annoyed, even now. did it matter if the saints faltered and died in the dust? right here? hardly. but what interest could they pull out of a body motionless on the ground? what was left to build it into beyond a grave?

they heard finley only a moment before she spoke. the rustle of grass betrayed her; she was not trying to be quiet as she stood there, meeting their eyes when they turned in her direction. their locked gaze lingered – renard remembered their last conversation as surely as she did – even as the greeting left her mouth.

colin’s reply was a weak and dying thing. it faltered the moment it got off the ground, and with renard’s eyes on it, spun into a polite and hungry silence.

their gaze turned between colin and finley, finley and colin; there was something hiding there, just out of reach. renard wanted it; wanted to draw it out in the open, out of the shadows, where they could find the best place to sink their teeth in to the bone.

finley looked at them, and they looked, smiling, back. they inclined their head in colin's direction, a silent invitation to reply. their eyes did not leave hers.