[P] [spring] the fist and the fire

[Andras]

AND I KNOW THAT ROME WASN'T BURNT IN A DAY
BUT IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK

S

ometimes a hand doesn't know it's a hand until it's too late.

Andras stands at the brink of the meadow, the line drawn on a map between the wide-open sky and the last dewey tree. He is a shadow among a line of long afternoon shadows cast by the sinking sun, the time just before golden hour when the world holds its breath in waiting. He, too, is holding his breath.

In the clearing: long oak tables already spotted with thick, red and blue paint, the heavily pigmented sort used for body art, or war paint. There is a small smattering of faces, just bodies to him, with no names. He wonders if they are his people. He wonders if they are from Denocte, or the desert, or the coast. He wonders why he must wonder-- probably because he is here, at the brink of the meadow, watching from the gathering dark, as usual.

It's like pulling his own teeth, waiting for the sun to set and the course to be finished, burning rings and wide squares of smouldering coal that will soon roar to life. It's the sort of thing that makes savage animals giddy with anticipation. It's the sort of thing that makes Andras' skin crawl with the want.

Sometimes a hand is just a hand, palm-up, fingers curled forward in beckoning. Sometimes a hand has to be something else.

Andras wants to be the hand, as he stalks out of the treeline and picks up a jar full of brushes, some thick and some almost impossibly slender. He wants it as he sets the jar and the brushes aside and pulls one, medium-sized and square, and dips it in a pot of bright, red-orange paint. He wants it as he pulls it back out and it drips on the grass at his feet. He starts to forget, just a bit, when he touches the brush to his knees, painting a wet, red circle on each. The brush shakes as he sets it back down.

Sometimes a hand just can't be a hand. Sometimes a hand is only a fist.
Often, Andras is only a fist.

"Welcome," he says as her footsteps near his place in the clearing. His voice is thick with the strain of composure. He does not look at her because he is watching the brush, tremble, and wondering if it is with this giddy joy or something else. "having fun yet?"

@morrighan | speaks

ANDRAS, WARDEN OF DELUMINE

art & html

[Morrighan]

- ✦ -

A

s they make their trek to Delumine, Morrighan can't help but take in a few extra deep breaths. Smelling this fresh air is like a miracle after all hell broke loose on the island. She's kept Maeve closer to her ever since their return and she's vowed to never go there again. The girl had been quick to agree and the look of trauma never seemed to leave her eyes. It broke Morr's heart and she's been trying to do everything she can to make her feel better. Thankfully, it seems like this trip has brought a little bit of the girl's spark back. While it won't permanently cure whatever she went through on the island, at least it'll be a good distraction.

This is what she tries to focus on during their travels and not the fear that keeps creeping in. It always feels like everything goes wrong when she leaves Denocte and she just generally feels uncomfortable leaving home. So just making this journey to the other Court is difficult for the Regent. But just as it's her duty towards Maeve, it is for her Court too. She knows how much this festival means to many of them. She briefly thinks of her meeting with Po too and how she'll have to look for the Sovereign before they leave. He might be happy to see that she followed through.

When they arrive, at least at first, Morr's troubles wash away. She is comforted by the presence of the bonfires and the smell of smoke in the air. For a moment she closes her eyes and takes it all in, but then her eyes snap open when she realizes how bad this is for Maeve. The girl is already trying to hide under her mom's legs but she's getting too big for that. Morr laughs and nudges her forward so they can get away from the fire as best they could. Along the edge of the forest seems to be the safest and it looks like others are getting together to do different crafts. She nudges for Maeve to play with the kids, but doesn't stray too far so she can keep an eye on her.

The music is playing around them, but she's mostly tuned it out. She's become more distracted by those who are painting on themselves instead of canvases, which in itself confuses her. All the festivals she can remember involved painting on something not your own body. Way back before Novus, some would paint in war colors before battle, but still that hadn't been anything as elaborate as this.

A man's voice gets her attention and she turns to see a pegasus with glasses who has painted circles on his knees. An… interesting choice, she thinks.

"Well, we just got here, so I suppose it's too early to tell," she answers him with brutal honesty. She's here more for Maeve than anyone else, but maybe the Dawn Court would surprise her. They've already made quite an impression.

"Are you… trying to make it look like you have your glasses on your knees?" she asks then, referring to his paint design choice. While it sounds a bit like an insult, she's actually curious. After all, it seems far from war paint.

Morr then goes to grab her own supplies for painting, but there's also jewels and other random trinkets here. She really doesn't understand what they're supposed to do with this.

✦

i've lost a part of me ; tell your friends to sharpen their teeth

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