Andras Demyan
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
There is lightning in him--or something more than lightning, something more than thunder, something altogether different. Bigger. And he doesn't know what to do.
There is lightning in him and it is telling him to go, to fly, so he goes. Out the library doors, up, and up, and up through Viride's thick canopy and into the heavy cloud cover where he cannot see, cannot feel anything but the air rolling off his wings like thunder and the jagged blue light racing down his neck, his back, his legs, chased by an electric crackle. Oriens had wanted it to be better. Oriens had said, this will end your long-suffering rage, for better or worse. Andras had laughed.
Surely no magic dumping lightning down his back could dam the river of his racing heart. Surely his anger is too large for even his god to hold. Surely, surely. What is he without his anger? A time bomb. (What is he, with it? A Martyr? There are so many new questions when before his heart had either snarled no or screamed yes as simply as someone might choose an outfit, or a meal, or a seat.)
There is much to do in Delumine for a Warden these days. He should be holed up in the library, bent over maps or reading reports and lists until his head hurts from staring. He should be perched in one of Viride's old trees, crackling along with the leaves still clinging in spite of the cold winter wind. He should be on the hunt, searching for--something, either their fugitives or another rare corpse dismantled on the forest floor, purged of its valuable parts and left to rot, unceremoniously. There is so much to do. He cannot concentrate on any of it because his heart is singing and his skin is for once literally humming like it's always done in his head and he cannot hear the woods or its animals.
He can only hear himself, the roar of an engine, the hiss of a stick of dynamite waiting to go off. He has seen Isra and her black rage and it has sung back to him and it is because of this that Andras thinks, though he would never say it, he is a little frightened of what will happen when the fuse wears down.
Andras banks to the left, spiraling out of the cloud cover just out of Delumine's beckoning reach, gliding to a stop on the west end of Eluetheria in a wave of agitated snow. It is dark, almost midnight, but the plains' shining blanket reflects the moon's light back at it and even Andras does not have to struggle to see its gentle rises and dips laid out before him for miles. It is... peaceful. Quiet. The Warden draws a deep, cold breath and lets it go through clenched teeth. Then another. Then another.
He almost does not hear the crunching snow.
There is lightning in him and it is telling him to go, to fly, so he goes. Out the library doors, up, and up, and up through Viride's thick canopy and into the heavy cloud cover where he cannot see, cannot feel anything but the air rolling off his wings like thunder and the jagged blue light racing down his neck, his back, his legs, chased by an electric crackle. Oriens had wanted it to be better. Oriens had said, this will end your long-suffering rage, for better or worse. Andras had laughed.
Surely no magic dumping lightning down his back could dam the river of his racing heart. Surely his anger is too large for even his god to hold. Surely, surely. What is he without his anger? A time bomb. (What is he, with it? A Martyr? There are so many new questions when before his heart had either snarled no or screamed yes as simply as someone might choose an outfit, or a meal, or a seat.)
There is much to do in Delumine for a Warden these days. He should be holed up in the library, bent over maps or reading reports and lists until his head hurts from staring. He should be perched in one of Viride's old trees, crackling along with the leaves still clinging in spite of the cold winter wind. He should be on the hunt, searching for--something, either their fugitives or another rare corpse dismantled on the forest floor, purged of its valuable parts and left to rot, unceremoniously. There is so much to do. He cannot concentrate on any of it because his heart is singing and his skin is for once literally humming like it's always done in his head and he cannot hear the woods or its animals.
He can only hear himself, the roar of an engine, the hiss of a stick of dynamite waiting to go off. He has seen Isra and her black rage and it has sung back to him and it is because of this that Andras thinks, though he would never say it, he is a little frightened of what will happen when the fuse wears down.
Andras banks to the left, spiraling out of the cloud cover just out of Delumine's beckoning reach, gliding to a stop on the west end of Eluetheria in a wave of agitated snow. It is dark, almost midnight, but the plains' shining blanket reflects the moon's light back at it and even Andras does not have to struggle to see its gentle rises and dips laid out before him for miles. It is... peaceful. Quiet. The Warden draws a deep, cold breath and lets it go through clenched teeth. Then another. Then another.
He almost does not hear the crunching snow.
@Liam
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
