Andarin: The Mountains: And burn, you will burn,

“This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.:
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save Us!'...:
...and I'll look down, and whisper, 'No'"

Nicodemus never tried to be something that he wasn’t. His heart was one of gold, and yet he lacked the people skills to let everyone know it. Socially he was a recluse, preferring to do his good deeds and then be left alone. Why he was like this was a mystery to everyone including myself. It just was the way it was. Humility had always graced him, which was a quality most lacked. The fierceness in him could only be seen if harm came to those he had vowed his protection to. And in anger, he was terrifying.

Patience was something that had always blessed him. In his mind, why rush? We all ultimately came to the same end, so why rush when you could relish and take your sweet time? Life was short. Thus he had waited for her questions to end, simple answers given, and automatic forgiveness at her guilt ridden question. She wouldn’t have known. Lycoris wasn’t even born at that time. Or at least he assumed. It was back in the earlier days of Andarin when it was Wolfrange and nothing more.

At her sudden burst and exclamation Andraste starts ever slightly, fluttering her wings but never leaving Lycoris’ back. She squawks gently in response, preening her feathers blatantly. If you had to compare her to any other bird, a normal one, it would be a male peacock. But she knew that she was much more beautiful. Lycoris chokes off her question, but Andraste knows, Nicodemus knows, and almost as if on perfect cue, they both nod once, Nicodemus’ lips pursed. Were it not for his silent promise to Hawthorne he would have gladly told her the tale. Yet he had enough of the past, enough of paining himself over Hawthorne when he knows she wanted him to go on, to be happy. He couldn’t do that while regaling in a tale of his dark past. And he promised Hawthorne that he wouldn’t.

He waits patiently for her to finish.

“Kier found me actually. It was not too long ago.” He thinks then, because he honestly can’t remember. “I really don’t remember if I left to Solira before or after I became a Seer. I’m sorry.” He half-shrugs, Andraste tucking her head into a wing, moving on to clean her feathers.

SEER

**NICODEMUS**

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.

Picture Copyright to Artwithapulse at Deviantart