They stand chest to chest, for a moment, all heat and lightning and bottomless prayers to violence. Andras is surprised when he feels cold as Zayir darts away. He is full of radio static that crawls in on all of his edges-- how does anyone see, how does anyone breathe, if they are not like this, beaten and bloody in the hot sun and the sand?
His head is slowly clearing. Where there was that singing, boiling rage he is filling now with exhaustion. Andras ducks his head and spreads his wings in a sort of curtsy, before tucking them over his back with a notable wince.
"Good." he says, grinning the way dogs do, lips curled into something too manic to be a snarl and too savage to be just a grin. He says this next bit with more affection than he means to: "Don't fuck with us, then."
He feels right at this moment. Alive. Whole. It would be worrying if he knew himself less. "You should come by, though. This was fun." He laughs, high and wild. It is the sort of boundless joy most people only hope for.
i am being perfectly fucking civil
@zayir
