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+---- Thread: [AW] we're building nothing (/showthread.php?tid=4122)
we're building nothing - Andras - 10-08-2019
ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Andras is a fist, clenched tight like the set of his jaw, teeth grinding. A walking threat.
If he were anything but a fist, if he were an open palm - soft, trembling with the effort of touching things without touching them at all (instead of the vigorous trembling of a thing trapped within itself) - things may have been different. But things are not different. Andras is not an open palm, he is not soft and calm and wholesome. He is a coiled spring, a crackling wire, a black spot on the face of Delumine. And he is sorry.
He had spent some time watching, perched in Viride's tall trees, wings tucked carefully against his side, still as a crow and twice as silent. He has found he does not like the river, or the moss, or most of the people. He has found that he does like the library, and tucked himself away in among the shelves and the old, gnarled tables and the smell of dry parchment, even when everything else never stops smelling like rain.
So he stays in the library, holed away in an off-center study room: piled high with pillows and balled parchment smeared with graphite and ink, the table pushed unceremoniously against the wall and on it, a spilled bag and its contents - scraps of fabric, old leaves, small and empty bottles.
But today Andras is elsewhere buried in old scripts, things written so long before he was born that he worries that they will break apart as he unrolls them. He's spent hours so far, browsing the shelves, pulling one ancient piece of paper, skimming it, shuffling it back into its original home, and then moving on to pull out another. He isn't sure what he's looking for. He doubts it is here, if he did know.
He plucks a thin volume from the shelf and opens it, periodically glaring over the top of his glasses at a couple laughing on the other end of the room - the sound is grating. When they finally pass into the next room, Andras returns to his book with a sigh, paging through one or two pages before finding his place and settling in to read.
That is, until he catches a shape in his periphery.
Andras closes the book with an audible snap, glances upward. He feels like a fist.
He feels like his own clenched teeth.
"What do you want?" It isn't really a question. It isn't really a threat, either. It's a genuine question, strung tight by his gritting teeth. He is sorry - kind of.
If he were anything but a fist, if he were an open palm - soft, trembling with the effort of touching things without touching them at all (instead of the vigorous trembling of a thing trapped within itself) - things may have been different. But things are not different. Andras is not an open palm, he is not soft and calm and wholesome. He is a coiled spring, a crackling wire, a black spot on the face of Delumine. And he is sorry.
He had spent some time watching, perched in Viride's tall trees, wings tucked carefully against his side, still as a crow and twice as silent. He has found he does not like the river, or the moss, or most of the people. He has found that he does like the library, and tucked himself away in among the shelves and the old, gnarled tables and the smell of dry parchment, even when everything else never stops smelling like rain.
So he stays in the library, holed away in an off-center study room: piled high with pillows and balled parchment smeared with graphite and ink, the table pushed unceremoniously against the wall and on it, a spilled bag and its contents - scraps of fabric, old leaves, small and empty bottles.
But today Andras is elsewhere buried in old scripts, things written so long before he was born that he worries that they will break apart as he unrolls them. He's spent hours so far, browsing the shelves, pulling one ancient piece of paper, skimming it, shuffling it back into its original home, and then moving on to pull out another. He isn't sure what he's looking for. He doubts it is here, if he did know.
He plucks a thin volume from the shelf and opens it, periodically glaring over the top of his glasses at a couple laughing on the other end of the room - the sound is grating. When they finally pass into the next room, Andras returns to his book with a sigh, paging through one or two pages before finding his place and settling in to read.
That is, until he catches a shape in his periphery.
Andras closes the book with an audible snap, glances upward. He feels like a fist.
He feels like his own clenched teeth.
"What do you want?" It isn't really a question. It isn't really a threat, either. It's a genuine question, strung tight by his gritting teeth. He is sorry - kind of.
RE: we're building nothing - Galilea - 10-08-2019
How strange it all was. Once a girl leaping over obstacles upon her steed, but now she was what she had rode... a horse. It had not been long since the young woman awoke. Her shoulder stung with a new scar in the shape of an X. When Galilea rose, her legs wobbled as if she had never learned to walk properly. The galaxy painted mare was like a new born filly. But would this stop Lea from figuring out what world she had been transported to? Absolutely not.
Leaning against trees as she made her way unknowingly closer to a world full of books, Galilea thought about her past. It was fuzzy, but just clear enough for her to understand that whoever placed her here was merciful. She should be dead, but somehow her heart still beat. Galilea had little recollection of the family who raised her and the man who loved her. All that was on her mind was understanding why she was here, and if she was the only one.
Soon enough, bi-color eyes laid upon a collection of books. At least something remained somewhat the same. It was an odd feeling... a pull that beckoned for Galilea to venture closer. In fact, she did. Shorter legs carried the mare closer and closer until a voice rung out. Immediately stopping in her tracks, ears perked towards the stranger. Oh! Maybe it was someone who could assist her? Maybe a fellow philosopher who understood the laws on magic? Hopeful (for once in her life), Galilea spoke up, "Answers Sir," she replied. The woman had yet to lay eyes upon the other's face, but his voice was deeper than the average female, but do forgive her stranger if she is mistaken.
RE: we're building nothing - Andras - 10-08-2019
ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Merciful.
Sure.
If walking on swords was merciful. If a world as heavy as it is vast is merciful. If the overwhelming sense of ennui is merciful, then yes. Sure. Her gods or whatever powers-that-be dumped Galilea here were merciful in doing so. Andras would beg to differ.
The pegasus is still for a moment, glaring down the bridge of his nose as she draws closer. If he had her answers (he doesn't) he probably would not say.
"You don't say." he says through clenched teeth. There is a palpable tension around him. There always is.
But he sees her. He has never seen anything that looks so lost, that looks like it can barely stand on its own legs. She looks like a child, he thinks. Something newly born, dumped in the library by... who? Oriens? Oriens doesn't strike Andras as the type. But he's been wrong before.
So, fine. Andras inhales, holds it for a moment, breathes it out in a sharp sigh while setting his book down on the table, more gently than he does almost anything else. He pities her. If she is looking for answers she has come to the right place, but probably the wrong person. But he cannot snap at someone like her. He cannot lash out at someone that needs his help... gods on know he could appreciate someone doing him the same favor.
"I don't know what answers you're looking for," says Andras, gesturing with one wing as if it were a hand, beckoning her to join him at the table. His face is dark with doubt. "But I'll do what I can."
@galilea
Sure.
If walking on swords was merciful. If a world as heavy as it is vast is merciful. If the overwhelming sense of ennui is merciful, then yes. Sure. Her gods or whatever powers-that-be dumped Galilea here were merciful in doing so. Andras would beg to differ.
The pegasus is still for a moment, glaring down the bridge of his nose as she draws closer. If he had her answers (he doesn't) he probably would not say.
"You don't say." he says through clenched teeth. There is a palpable tension around him. There always is.
But he sees her. He has never seen anything that looks so lost, that looks like it can barely stand on its own legs. She looks like a child, he thinks. Something newly born, dumped in the library by... who? Oriens? Oriens doesn't strike Andras as the type. But he's been wrong before.
So, fine. Andras inhales, holds it for a moment, breathes it out in a sharp sigh while setting his book down on the table, more gently than he does almost anything else. He pities her. If she is looking for answers she has come to the right place, but probably the wrong person. But he cannot snap at someone like her. He cannot lash out at someone that needs his help... gods on know he could appreciate someone doing him the same favor.
"I don't know what answers you're looking for," says Andras, gesturing with one wing as if it were a hand, beckoning her to join him at the table. His face is dark with doubt. "But I'll do what I can."
@galilea