[The daemon remains undecided how the temple makes him feel. And as it should be; he is ever a creature of duality and conflict. It would be a strange day indeed if he had bargained the alienness of this new land for a suddenly clear grasp of his own internal landscape, darkened and full of dead ends and blind alleys even to him.
At times he fancies he can catch a whiff of lavender rising off the aged stones and for a beat he almost manages to forget. Then his heart thuds again as if in defiance of his laxness, and he remembers with the sudden inevitable wave of grief. Relief and bereavement, ebbing and flowing like the tide, much as wonder and disdain. He is a man of intellect and has no use for faith, and yet--and yet, true to his very contrary core, he can't help wandering the temple, drinking it in, reminded of the temple to the goddess outside Sept-Tours Matthew had once shown him.
Matthew. Don't think about him. If you think about him, you'll stop and you won't start again--
A wearh's keen hearing might have detected the brush of feathers and padding bare feet; a witch's second sight might have seen the blaze of green-gold magic lighting up the corridors. But he is neither, and has neither to such honed degrees, and his attention isn't even on what lay ahead but on everything else: window views, and open doorways, and the floor under his feet (they yearn for better shoes after the trek here).
He sees the shadow she casts first, the vaguest impression of a human figure that goes awry and misshapen around the shoulders and the crown of the head--
And then he looks up at the source and sees her, horn and arched wings and eyes a-glow. His own eyes round to show their whites. His lips part. But once again, he finds himself undecided what emotion he should scream with, should such a forceful response find the energy to make the climb from his throat. Surprise? Fear? Amazement? In the end, nothing comes. He'd spent all his screams on Matthew.
He'd also thought he was coming near to spending all his awe for one day--but the she-bird proves him wrong in that, too.]
it's a new month, you know what that means 😎 finally tagging last month
At times he fancies he can catch a whiff of lavender rising off the aged stones and for a beat he almost manages to forget. Then his heart thuds again as if in defiance of his laxness, and he remembers with the sudden inevitable wave of grief. Relief and bereavement, ebbing and flowing like the tide, much as wonder and disdain. He is a man of intellect and has no use for faith, and yet--and yet, true to his very contrary core, he can't help wandering the temple, drinking it in, reminded of the temple to the goddess outside Sept-Tours Matthew had once shown him.
Matthew. Don't think about him. If you think about him, you'll stop and you won't start again--
A wearh's keen hearing might have detected the brush of feathers and padding bare feet; a witch's second sight might have seen the blaze of green-gold magic lighting up the corridors. But he is neither, and has neither to such honed degrees, and his attention isn't even on what lay ahead but on everything else: window views, and open doorways, and the floor under his feet (they yearn for better shoes after the trek here).
He sees the shadow she casts first, the vaguest impression of a human figure that goes awry and misshapen around the shoulders and the crown of the head--
And then he looks up at the source and sees her, horn and arched wings and eyes a-glow. His own eyes round to show their whites. His lips part. But once again, he finds himself undecided what emotion he should scream with, should such a forceful response find the energy to make the climb from his throat. Surprise? Fear? Amazement? In the end, nothing comes. He'd spent all his screams on Matthew.
He'd also thought he was coming near to spending all his awe for one day--but the she-bird proves him wrong in that, too.]