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."
He sees Mateo, and the way he looks at Andras - which is to say, the way he doesn't; if Andras reacts at all it is only visible in the slight shift in the angle of light bounced off his lenses, as if to dare him. Hurt me, it says. Hit me. please. He cannot tell which he wants more: this trembling voice, the uncomfortable shifting of weight - or that attention turned on him, full of ire and pride.
But before he can start, before he can open his hateful mouth and beg, Ipomoea says, Warden.
Andras' molars squeak as his jaw twitches. The word sounds heavy, and noble - not for savage little shits like Andras, who are either a bleak, grim face or wolfish smiles with sneering lips and too much teeth.
Thank you, he says, but maybe not out loud, and glances in Mateo's direction before walking back into the morning fog - another pegasus in tow.
For all the parts of him saying yes with a kind of glee he can only describe as unholy, there other parts, unfathomably small crevices that are whispering their worries into the marrow of his bones, his singing blood, that crackling rage that lives under his skin. Even after the meeting the city is quiet except for the clatter of their footsteps and a hushed voice or two that say why? or how? and bend their necks when Andras looks them directly in the eye.
And perhaps this is why Ipomoea said the word. Perhaps it because Andras is unapologetic and savage. Perhaps it is because of the singing hate. He doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to.
Andras cuts through the city with the practiced grace of a bird in flight and the clenched teeth of a dog waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is only when he reaches the steps of a small, two-story inn at the edge of the city center, already rumbling with the clank and drone of cooking and cleaning, that he turns to look across at the Court with its pale stone and its flower boxes hung in the window -- but instead he sees Mateo.
Figures.
Andras tucks his wings tight against his side, as if to steel himself. Now even Mateo calls him Warden and Andras isn't sure if the hot prickling of his skin is shame or anger - or some unfortunate blend of both.
Either way, the look the warden gives the champion is withering. "Andras," he corrects, "It's a pleasure."
And it isn't, and it's obvious it isn't, really, but here they are on the steps of the inn nonetheless.
"And you're our champion of community," Andras says, with a voice that sounds as stiff as he looks, "so you're here to... what? Commune? With me? I doubt that'll be fun for you."
But before he can start, before he can open his hateful mouth and beg, Ipomoea says, Warden.
Andras' molars squeak as his jaw twitches. The word sounds heavy, and noble - not for savage little shits like Andras, who are either a bleak, grim face or wolfish smiles with sneering lips and too much teeth.
Thank you, he says, but maybe not out loud, and glances in Mateo's direction before walking back into the morning fog - another pegasus in tow.
For all the parts of him saying yes with a kind of glee he can only describe as unholy, there other parts, unfathomably small crevices that are whispering their worries into the marrow of his bones, his singing blood, that crackling rage that lives under his skin. Even after the meeting the city is quiet except for the clatter of their footsteps and a hushed voice or two that say why? or how? and bend their necks when Andras looks them directly in the eye.
And perhaps this is why Ipomoea said the word. Perhaps it because Andras is unapologetic and savage. Perhaps it is because of the singing hate. He doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to.
Andras cuts through the city with the practiced grace of a bird in flight and the clenched teeth of a dog waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is only when he reaches the steps of a small, two-story inn at the edge of the city center, already rumbling with the clank and drone of cooking and cleaning, that he turns to look across at the Court with its pale stone and its flower boxes hung in the window -- but instead he sees Mateo.
Figures.
Andras tucks his wings tight against his side, as if to steel himself. Now even Mateo calls him Warden and Andras isn't sure if the hot prickling of his skin is shame or anger - or some unfortunate blend of both.
Either way, the look the warden gives the champion is withering. "Andras," he corrects, "It's a pleasure."
And it isn't, and it's obvious it isn't, really, but here they are on the steps of the inn nonetheless.
"And you're our champion of community," Andras says, with a voice that sounds as stiff as he looks, "so you're here to... what? Commune? With me? I doubt that'll be fun for you."
@mateo
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
