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 a moment where Andras entirely forgets to breathe, when this queen, this deity, is looking him dead in the eye and he can see for a single, shining moment that her heart tells her yes like his does and in a perfect mirror it also turns to no the longer she looks. If he swallows hard it is only after she turns to go, and if he has to take a moment to catch his breath it is buried in another nervous laugh.
He doesn't know if he's dangerous.
He doesn't know if he wants to be.
(He probably is. He probably does.)
"Great." Andras says, a word soaked in something unfamiliar, something that gathers in the walls as they move, first Isra and then Andras winding their way out of the alley and melting into the streets of Denocte. He thinks if she wanted she could turn them to salt, unravel the world molecule by molecule, picking at each and every corner until it is a series of threads laid out like a map or a war or a rope. And it both scares and delights him that he can't tell if she would turn the thread to a tapestry or a rope with which to hang her demons.
Can she feel him, staring at her? His eyes haven't left her back, her ankles, the trail of sharp edges she leaves in her wake. On step, and the copper bends under the smooth curve of his hooves. Another, and Andras is aware that they brush his ankles, laughing against his skin with the tinny voice of something bad, and hungry -- and he has to stop himself from climbing whole into their mouths, has to turn his mind away from the sting of broken skin and the hot prick of pain he feels when he steps wrong. It makes his head feel fuzzy and he doesn't stop to wonder why.
"I don't know," he answers after they have passed through the threshold, Andras lifting the fabric with one wing as he passes beneath it. He is still staring at her, at her ringing chain, at the strange curl of her horn.
He thinks he might find her beautiful, the way gods are beautiful, the way bruises are beautiful, the way one of her blades glides against the skin of his ankle and a drop or two of blood blooms against the black. "I want to see something interesting."
His beast hums along with hers but it is gnashing its teeth, and it is pressed up against the bars, begging.
"How did you do that?"
He doesn't know if he's dangerous.
He doesn't know if he wants to be.
(He probably is. He probably does.)
"Great." Andras says, a word soaked in something unfamiliar, something that gathers in the walls as they move, first Isra and then Andras winding their way out of the alley and melting into the streets of Denocte. He thinks if she wanted she could turn them to salt, unravel the world molecule by molecule, picking at each and every corner until it is a series of threads laid out like a map or a war or a rope. And it both scares and delights him that he can't tell if she would turn the thread to a tapestry or a rope with which to hang her demons.
Can she feel him, staring at her? His eyes haven't left her back, her ankles, the trail of sharp edges she leaves in her wake. On step, and the copper bends under the smooth curve of his hooves. Another, and Andras is aware that they brush his ankles, laughing against his skin with the tinny voice of something bad, and hungry -- and he has to stop himself from climbing whole into their mouths, has to turn his mind away from the sting of broken skin and the hot prick of pain he feels when he steps wrong. It makes his head feel fuzzy and he doesn't stop to wonder why.
"I don't know," he answers after they have passed through the threshold, Andras lifting the fabric with one wing as he passes beneath it. He is still staring at her, at her ringing chain, at the strange curl of her horn.
He thinks he might find her beautiful, the way gods are beautiful, the way bruises are beautiful, the way one of her blades glides against the skin of his ankle and a drop or two of blood blooms against the black. "I want to see something interesting."
His beast hums along with hers but it is gnashing its teeth, and it is pressed up against the bars, begging.
"How did you do that?"
@isra
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
