It is just before dawn. The woods are as black as the pocket of a dead star, smothered by the canopy. The only light for miles is his, each tooth of lightning biting at the barks of old trees, veins of blue light so loud it hurts to hear.
Andras is hungry for some black and nameless thing, an ache that defies his language but grows from the cauldron of his rage and breaks across his skin at a rising volume; at first it is just a hum below the screech of coyotes and the persistent song of birds that sing through the night, but as he walks it swells into something louder, the mechanical hum of a sub-station, a crackling rumble that turns the whole of Viride to silence.
The time has come and gone for patience, and diligence, and poise. It sits behind him, in an empty city with long tables and white, clean stone. He has no more patience for bookstores and carefully cultivated gardens. It is a time for teeth and bone, blood and bruise, for savage things to beat their feet on the deer tracks like thunder.
It is time to become a calamity.
When he sees her the machinery of him locks into place, a loud thunk that rattles through him like stormwind. She is a strange violet in the branches of light arching off his back, his wings, his face. The sharp spear of her horn cuts the black reflected on black of his lenses when he looks at it. He draws a sharp breath, almost a gasp.
Andras swallows the grin that crawls up from his throat. His skin crackles like wildfire, the buzz of his rage growing louder, and louder, and louder. A familiar panic settles deep in his bones. The promise of something bad, bad, bad.
"Ah, here she is." he says. His mouth twitches.
Perfect.
Andras is hungry for some black and nameless thing, an ache that defies his language but grows from the cauldron of his rage and breaks across his skin at a rising volume; at first it is just a hum below the screech of coyotes and the persistent song of birds that sing through the night, but as he walks it swells into something louder, the mechanical hum of a sub-station, a crackling rumble that turns the whole of Viride to silence.
The time has come and gone for patience, and diligence, and poise. It sits behind him, in an empty city with long tables and white, clean stone. He has no more patience for bookstores and carefully cultivated gardens. It is a time for teeth and bone, blood and bruise, for savage things to beat their feet on the deer tracks like thunder.
It is time to become a calamity.
When he sees her the machinery of him locks into place, a loud thunk that rattles through him like stormwind. She is a strange violet in the branches of light arching off his back, his wings, his face. The sharp spear of her horn cuts the black reflected on black of his lenses when he looks at it. He draws a sharp breath, almost a gasp.
Andras swallows the grin that crawls up from his throat. His skin crackles like wildfire, the buzz of his rage growing louder, and louder, and louder. A familiar panic settles deep in his bones. The promise of something bad, bad, bad.
"Ah, here she is." he says. His mouth twitches.
Perfect.
sleep like dead men, wake up like dead men
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
