[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by Se. Nicodemus on November 7, 2008, 5:30 am
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"Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for." - Dag Hammarskjold (1905 - 1961)
There is so much to feel, and yet so little. Nicodemus, smoldering, burning, bright, had felt it all. He had felt the tender embrace of love, the harsh sting of betrayal. Nicodemus was simply breathing, trying to be strong for some reason he did not even comprehend. He had never been given a chance to be young. This was why in all of his but ten years he seems so ancient, so wise. There was something in his eyes that aged him, and perhaps it was his unadulterated sorrow and longing. The most tragic of eyes that you would hope to behold. Nicodemus was something strange.
He is startled that you would approach him now, and with this he turns his eyes to fall upon you.
Andraste does not answer your calling not out of malice or rudeness. It is simply that she cannot answer. She speaks not in words, but in a sort of telepathy, though only those of fire would understand her. Even then the fire-bird was not known by her keeper as conversational. She was just like him in that aspect. They preferred silent comunication. But the bird acknowledges you with one intelligent eye, surveying you for what you offered. She was a rather vain thing, our Andraste, but who would condemn something immortal?
Keir cannot answer you, though if the small wolverine familiar could, I don’t doubt that he would. Right now he’d probably be cursing you out for waking him up. He was a rather funny little thing, not vain or fond of Andraste at all. The strange thing is that out of the tree of them, it is Keir who seems the most normal, the most earthly.
Nicodemus’ smoldering frame is tense, though not in any sort of apprehension or fear. Nicodemus was a poorly understood thing. Those like Nyota would call him good, virtuous, chivalrous even. He cared all too much for others and not enough for himself back in the old days. An unbidden image of Hawthorne, Arrakis, Kale, and his mother flooded into his mind, and the guilt of their deaths hit him like a tidal wave. But his face was inscrutable, his passionate and feral emotions for once under complete control. His eyes fall away from you, to the mountains around him, intricate and ancient. His voice is intoxicating, his element in whole. A heavy accent laces his deep words.
"I often come here to be alone...to think."
A sad smile.
"It has been so long, Fantome."