His calm sends chills down her spine; the creature doesn’t even flinch at her knife, doesn’t groan or lash out, doesn’t show any sign of fear – a disturbing, terrifying reaction. Each encounter with these demons may be her last, she’s painfully aware of this ( her scars serve as proof & grim reminders ), even more so in this moment. This demon’s lack of fear and anger is menacing and disquieting: is he so confident of his abilities that he remains so composed, or is he merely hiding his panic? Usually, there is a wildness in their gaze, a ferocity that makes them almost stupid – Andrea expects, counts on that lust for blood; she is reckless, impulsive and unpredictable herself, but has more luck and just enough restraint to not blindly charge at an enemy – if this man is able to control himself and calculate or anticipate her movements, then she fears she may be at a disadvantage here. Her face visibly pales when his lips ( crimson, blood-smeared; a stark contrast with his ghostly white skin; the sight is nauseating ) curl into a smile, she swallows hard; her mouth dry, her palms sweaty. Nervous. He’s making her nervous, this is bad.
Her frown deepens & lips twitch in annoyance at his eerily innocent facade – they both know why he’s not allowed to be here, what he is, that they are enemies and set on killing each other. Andrea has little patience for hypocritical small-talk and greetings in a situation like this; it is useless, a waste of time, and won’t change the outcome in any way. It is nerve-wrecking and disquieting, perhaps the man knows this, perhaps he intends to make her more nervous. “Don’t fuck with me, shithead.” She spits the words at him with contempt, but her gaze shifts to her surroundings, nervously, she licks her lips, clenches her teeth. Hisses when the familiar, wet sound of bones tearing through flesh reaches her ears – the sparks in her hand instantly – instinctively – ignite to hot, red flames, dancing on her fingers. Her eyes never leave his form, in case he plans to charge. She’s frightened, but at the same time strangely fascinated by the horrid, captivating transformation. Bloodied wings sprout from his back, fingers and nails grow thinner, longer, scaled and clawed like a bird’s feet – her eyes widen at the sight; it is rare to witness a transformation like this, there is usually no time to fully observe the process – it happens when you are already charging. It leaves her breathless and dazed for a moment – she’s both awestruck and disgusted by the sight ( she almost shudders; the pain must be excruciating, maddening ). The flames around her flare brighter in anticipation for an attack, but it doesn’t come.
The man doesn’t move from his spot, he only stands there, his transformation half-complete, the wings shaking and twitching, as though they are being held back by some invisible force. Something is wrong here. He’s not doing anything. A trap – is her instinctive thought, and she immediately glances around her, again, to scan the area for his accomplice – he’d said something about living here, was a human collaborating with a demon?
But there’s no one near, and Andrea can feel doubt trickling in her thoughts, hesitation – this is why she acts swiftly, immediately, without thinking. This is why they ought to be violent and merciless, savage and brutal. Hesitation kills you, hesitation is lethal, you can’t afford to falter around these creatures. Still. Her flames flicker with uncertainty, betraying her faltering determination. She asks, shouts – irritated, but mostly unsettled by his passiveness, the tension is slowly becoming unbearable; “–Are you tricking me, filth? Why are you not moving?”
