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."
She stifles laughter, and Andras hears his blood say something vague, not quite words as much as a feeling, like scalding water pouring down his throat. "No problem," he says in a way that suggests it is very much a problem after all, with a wolflike smile and a simmering stillness, before she folds open the cover and Andras decides it is better to busy himself.
He crosses the room again, up the small platform to the chattering creature that leers at him much the same way he leers back at it, pulling another book from the shelf, one that just says Legends of Novus in what looks like handwritten script, not quite as old but still dusty yellow parchment bound in leather. The pages crackle as he flips it open.
The word Warden still rides him, loud and heavy, like a war gong. He is not sure what to do with it. He is not sure what it makes him. (Warden, obviously--but what does that mean? Can it be quantified? Does he care?) Ipomoea had looked at him with some definite expression, at the fog of his glasses, at the rising sun in their reflection. He had seen something, in him. Something pragmatic, violent, tenacious. He is not entirely sure where it is supposed to be, or how he is supposed to find it.
He hopes, in a way that Andras hopes for very few things at all, that it will come to him when he needs it most.
He hears Corrdelia's voice, loud enough that it crosses the room with it but not quite directed at him. Ah, Andras thinks-- the island.
He levels a long, still look at her. To hear him say it, this obsession is impetuous at best and suicidal at worst. It does not do, to play with gods. Many of them are uncaring. All of them are far too cunning for their own good.
Of course, this comes from Andras, who has been holed up in the library for months, reading and re-reading books on magic, gods, and the relationship between the two. This is why he plucks the book so easily off the shelf. This is why, when he hands it to her, and she takes it, he feels something strange in him that he can't quite name, like b "I didn't," he says, from across the room. "I was still at home. Fortunately, it sounds like."
She tries reading, again, and the little black pegasus crosses the room back toward her, before she looks up, desperate. Andras sighs. "It's a library. You can take it." He offers the book he is now holding, also: Legends of Novus. "This might be helpful, too. Seems you'll get through the first one in a hurry." It is a rare moment of kindness that is not begrudging, or carrying an undercurrent of tension. Though he is not very good at it, Andras smiles.
He crosses the room again, up the small platform to the chattering creature that leers at him much the same way he leers back at it, pulling another book from the shelf, one that just says Legends of Novus in what looks like handwritten script, not quite as old but still dusty yellow parchment bound in leather. The pages crackle as he flips it open.
The word Warden still rides him, loud and heavy, like a war gong. He is not sure what to do with it. He is not sure what it makes him. (Warden, obviously--but what does that mean? Can it be quantified? Does he care?) Ipomoea had looked at him with some definite expression, at the fog of his glasses, at the rising sun in their reflection. He had seen something, in him. Something pragmatic, violent, tenacious. He is not entirely sure where it is supposed to be, or how he is supposed to find it.
He hopes, in a way that Andras hopes for very few things at all, that it will come to him when he needs it most.
He hears Corrdelia's voice, loud enough that it crosses the room with it but not quite directed at him. Ah, Andras thinks-- the island.
He levels a long, still look at her. To hear him say it, this obsession is impetuous at best and suicidal at worst. It does not do, to play with gods. Many of them are uncaring. All of them are far too cunning for their own good.
Of course, this comes from Andras, who has been holed up in the library for months, reading and re-reading books on magic, gods, and the relationship between the two. This is why he plucks the book so easily off the shelf. This is why, when he hands it to her, and she takes it, he feels something strange in him that he can't quite name, like b "I didn't," he says, from across the room. "I was still at home. Fortunately, it sounds like."
She tries reading, again, and the little black pegasus crosses the room back toward her, before she looks up, desperate. Andras sighs. "It's a library. You can take it." He offers the book he is now holding, also: Legends of Novus. "This might be helpful, too. Seems you'll get through the first one in a hurry." It is a rare moment of kindness that is not begrudging, or carrying an undercurrent of tension. Though he is not very good at it, Andras smiles.
@corrdelia
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
