He likes the festival, he thinks-- as much as Andras can like anything. It is comforting to see Delumine so full of life when it is usually sleepy and still. More and more the lights, and the dancing, the art, and the music feels like the country gasping for air after sinking so long in the terrible, entirely hellish year they've had.
He feels like he's watching it gasp, watching its lungs fill, and then, like nothing had happened at all, the Dawn Court moves on-- and Andras tries, also, but Andras is a creature of habit, and it is hard to replace the sense of purpose he had with whatever he is meant to do now.
Still, he thinks. It is better than the alternative.
It is perhaps because of this--the lights, the dancing, the art, the music--that when he hears a voice say good evening to him there is nothing but a quick flash of lightning to betray his annoyance. When the man approaches Andras is watching lantern wink in and out of the trees as they drift toward the ocean. Throughout the night there will be wave after wave of them, released in clumps, each sent off with a wish for some new, bright thing to come to life in their place.
Andras wonders what he would wish for.
He thinks he knows. He knows he knows. But he would never say. Not to this stranger. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.
When the Warden turns, his face is hard but not unkind. For a moment they match, blue light on blue light, each dancing in the lens of his glasses, before Andras' dies out and he is lit only by the glow of his companion and the strings of luminescent flowers scattered across the meadow. "Not this one in particular. I can't remember the last time I thought about a festival, let alone saw one." Andras frowns. "So, who are you? Do they have festivals where you're from?"
He feels like he's watching it gasp, watching its lungs fill, and then, like nothing had happened at all, the Dawn Court moves on-- and Andras tries, also, but Andras is a creature of habit, and it is hard to replace the sense of purpose he had with whatever he is meant to do now.
Still, he thinks. It is better than the alternative.
It is perhaps because of this--the lights, the dancing, the art, the music--that when he hears a voice say good evening to him there is nothing but a quick flash of lightning to betray his annoyance. When the man approaches Andras is watching lantern wink in and out of the trees as they drift toward the ocean. Throughout the night there will be wave after wave of them, released in clumps, each sent off with a wish for some new, bright thing to come to life in their place.
Andras wonders what he would wish for.
He thinks he knows. He knows he knows. But he would never say. Not to this stranger. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.
When the Warden turns, his face is hard but not unkind. For a moment they match, blue light on blue light, each dancing in the lens of his glasses, before Andras' dies out and he is lit only by the glow of his companion and the strings of luminescent flowers scattered across the meadow. "Not this one in particular. I can't remember the last time I thought about a festival, let alone saw one." Andras frowns. "So, who are you? Do they have festivals where you're from?"
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
@azrael
(I'm so sorry trying to write actual conversations with Andras is like pulling teeth lmao)
