Oct 11, 2023
"...I'm bored."
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"...I'm bored."
His hand is around their throat, quick and precise. There’s an ease to the action that only comes with the kind of practice he has. And before they can even think to protest, he’s slamming them against the nearest wall, enough to stun an average human.
“What are you doing in my home?”
Technically, not his home– but it’s previous owners are rather… dead.
“You know, most murder victims don’t tend to return to their killer.”
“Oops.”
The word is insincere at best. It implies something like sorrow or guilt and he feels neither of those things. He probably should given that he’s just stabbed the other.
Andrew is an old god. So old that his name has been lost from human history. But there are still spells out there, passed through family lines, written by immortals unafraid of their power, kept by witches holding tight to traditions. They’re few and far between, but they exist.
When he feels a mortal trying to summon him, he’s surprised for the first time in centuries. And when he senses they’ve made a sacrifice in his honor– a goat? it feels like a goat, though he’s no longer certain what these things feel like– he’s floored. But he’s under no obligation to arrive immediately, so he waits, despite the burning curiosity in him. Can’t have a mortal believing a god to be at their beck and call.
Three days pass before he drops himself into the room they summoned him from. He tries not to laugh when he sees it’s a living room. His eyes land on the only person in the room and for once, there’s something not entirely murderous in them. “I believe you were looking for me?”
“Oops.”
The word is insincere at best. It implies something like sorrow or guilt and he feels neither of those things. He probably should given that he’s just stabbed the other.
His hand is around their throat, quick and precise. There’s an ease to the action that only comes with the kind of practice he has. And before they can even think to protest, he’s slamming them against the nearest wall, enough to stun an average human.
“What are you doing in my home?”
Technically, not his home– but it’s previous owners are rather… dead.
Andrew hears the door open and he glances through the bars of his cell, not bothering to move from his spot. He sits with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest and he gives the other a smirk that’s a little too cocky, given his current situation. Sure, he’s grown weaker being trapped here, but he’s just biding his time until he can make an escape. “And whatever have I done to become worthy of your time? I thought you were planning to leave me here to rot.”