Andarin: The Mountains: Our freedom's consuming itself,

“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'"

Beauty was subjective. Nicodemus saw beauty in things when he felt like it, but it wasn’t like he spent every waking minute of every day in pure awe. He laughed as he thought of Skylar, who probably saw beauty in a plain old pebble. But other than that, beauty was truly something he had to be in a mood for. And lately, that wasn’t very easy for Nicodemus. Andarin was his home, and beauty wise, he felt that it was the most precious thing of all time save for his Skylar. And that wasn’t just him and his fatherly bias. Skylar was stunning. She took the breath away from everyone that she met, because usually beauty was only skin deep, but for Skylar, it was simply her. But that was another subject entirely.

Nicodemus had tried life by the ocean. Why? There were a plethora of reasons, but to put it frankly, it just wasn’t home. Fire could not live by the sea. The desert would have been more suitable, and he thought of going there, but that wouldn’t work either. He had nothing to burn there, nothing to destroy as his element needed. As he needed. When you spent all your time saving people you needed a sort of punching bag, and where Nicodemus had done so was obvious here in Andarin. He once burned an entire meadow favored by many here in Andarin out of pure boredom. It pissed the hell out of the earth horses, but what do you expect when you toss a bull into a room full of fine china?

And that’s what Nicodemus was to Andarin. The bull. He destroyed so much here, and yet it was still home. A home poorly tended, but a home nonetheless.

He senses the call, and the trees are suddenly whispering to him. As though on cue, he was before Micah. Fire and a touch of air allowed him to spread as fast as a forest fire. The man does not speak. He simply is. A spark of fire lights around him then, and he plays with it, bending the flames into various shapes and pictures.

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