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."
Septimus turns, and greets Andras with a long, level stare. He has eyes like old leaves, eyes like the shells of beetles or blocks of raw jade. For a long moment this is all that passes between them, silence and tension like Andras is not the only coiled spring, not the only dam just barely holding back his gushing heart. He does not look away, but Septimus does--a motion that scatters light off the gems hanging from his antlers and snow off the red curve of his back.
The breath Andras lets out is audible: not quite a sigh, not quite a huff, just a loud expulsion of air, like breathing is a conscious effort and to stay alive and sane is a strain on the body. Sometimes it does feel that way.
I'm-- Septimus stammers, and the light shifts in Andras' glasses as he follows the other's gaze toward a spot in the middle distance where there are tiny, almost imperceptible ripples in the blanket of snow and Andras doesn't see these (he does not wear the glasses as a fashion statement) but he does see the path of naked branches as if something had brushed through and displaced the snow that had covered the few dead leaves that remained. His first thought is, this must be the way Septimus came. His second thought is, there are none of the telltale crescent prints that might suggest his passing.
When their eyes meet again, Andras does not look amused. Curious, maybe. Concerned, even. But not amused.
I'm trying to communicate with one of the creatures on this island.
Andras exhales audibly again and this time it is a sigh.
"Interesting." he says, and it is unclear whether or not he does find it interesting, of if he's saying "interesting" in the way a jilted lover might, full of suspicion and bile.
And he is inclined to believe Septimus - it would be ridiculous not to, as if Andras himself has not been holed up in the library for months, paging his way through book after book on magic and its relation to the body, magic and its relation to the soul, magic and its relation to--well, him. He has his suspicions about the bubbling thing in him, the hungry, angry thing that sang to Isra's. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.
Andras sighs again, takes his glasses off to rub the feathers of one inky wing against the lenses, and leers back up at Septimus before replacing them. He says, "Let's go find it then." And stretches out one night-dark wing that looks so much darker still against the snow, ushering Septimus to take the lead.
The breath Andras lets out is audible: not quite a sigh, not quite a huff, just a loud expulsion of air, like breathing is a conscious effort and to stay alive and sane is a strain on the body. Sometimes it does feel that way.
I'm-- Septimus stammers, and the light shifts in Andras' glasses as he follows the other's gaze toward a spot in the middle distance where there are tiny, almost imperceptible ripples in the blanket of snow and Andras doesn't see these (he does not wear the glasses as a fashion statement) but he does see the path of naked branches as if something had brushed through and displaced the snow that had covered the few dead leaves that remained. His first thought is, this must be the way Septimus came. His second thought is, there are none of the telltale crescent prints that might suggest his passing.
When their eyes meet again, Andras does not look amused. Curious, maybe. Concerned, even. But not amused.
I'm trying to communicate with one of the creatures on this island.
Andras exhales audibly again and this time it is a sigh.
"Interesting." he says, and it is unclear whether or not he does find it interesting, of if he's saying "interesting" in the way a jilted lover might, full of suspicion and bile.
And he is inclined to believe Septimus - it would be ridiculous not to, as if Andras himself has not been holed up in the library for months, paging his way through book after book on magic and its relation to the body, magic and its relation to the soul, magic and its relation to--well, him. He has his suspicions about the bubbling thing in him, the hungry, angry thing that sang to Isra's. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.
Andras sighs again, takes his glasses off to rub the feathers of one inky wing against the lenses, and leers back up at Septimus before replacing them. He says, "Let's go find it then." And stretches out one night-dark wing that looks so much darker still against the snow, ushering Septimus to take the lead.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
