--Unthinkable. Impossible.
But he knows it when the king turns his head. Knows it when it lands like a spear in his chest and Andras has to gulp stormwind to keep from suffocating. Maybe, he echoes, a sound punctuated by the nearing crack of thunder, the percussive slap of raindrops on their backs and their heads and and their forest.
Po asks how is Emersyn? and stares at him the way Andras stares: searching, for something. And it is never something good.
The rain is falling in fast, heavy drops now that the storm has rolled into Delumine. Andras stares at Ipomeoa with incredulity-- at first he is mad, an anger that bursts red behind his eyes, anger that swells in his chest and comes out as lightning when he breathes. "You're kidding." says the warden, as his forelock stick to his face-- but Andras looks at him, a man haunted, a man that is tired and angry and filled with the same bone-deep ache, and he knows.
"...You're not kidding." It sounds loud when he says it, like the storm takes his voice and rumbles along. "She seems fine." He looks to his king like a question, but he knows the answer. It doesn't quite hit him the way it should, more of a dull knocking on Andras' walls. Shock? he wonders. Andras looks at himself and Ipomoea and sees their baggy eyes, sees the dull coats, and look of almost suffocating frustration. Andras thinks of Emersyn-- poised, serious, patient. She seems fine.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
"What are you going to do?"
But he knows it when the king turns his head. Knows it when it lands like a spear in his chest and Andras has to gulp stormwind to keep from suffocating. Maybe, he echoes, a sound punctuated by the nearing crack of thunder, the percussive slap of raindrops on their backs and their heads and and their forest.
Po asks how is Emersyn? and stares at him the way Andras stares: searching, for something. And it is never something good.
The rain is falling in fast, heavy drops now that the storm has rolled into Delumine. Andras stares at Ipomeoa with incredulity-- at first he is mad, an anger that bursts red behind his eyes, anger that swells in his chest and comes out as lightning when he breathes. "You're kidding." says the warden, as his forelock stick to his face-- but Andras looks at him, a man haunted, a man that is tired and angry and filled with the same bone-deep ache, and he knows.
"...You're not kidding." It sounds loud when he says it, like the storm takes his voice and rumbles along. "She seems fine." He looks to his king like a question, but he knows the answer. It doesn't quite hit him the way it should, more of a dull knocking on Andras' walls. Shock? he wonders. Andras looks at himself and Ipomoea and sees their baggy eyes, sees the dull coats, and look of almost suffocating frustration. Andras thinks of Emersyn-- poised, serious, patient. She seems fine.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
"What are you going to do?"
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
