HE HAD ASKED BERNARD THAT MORNING IF HE WISHED TO ACCOMPANY HIM ON HIS JOURNEY – THE ELYSIUM HAD ITS SOFT OPEN, BUT THERE WAS LITTLE TO ENGAGEMENT AND A FEW DAYS OF CLOSURE WAS NOTHING TO HURT THEIR BUSINESS. BUT BERNARD WAS A SUPERSTITIOUS THING WHO FOUND HIS FEARS DOUBLED IN THE TALK OF THE CLIFFS – OF WHICH THERE WAS NO WAY AROUND, SAVE A LENGTHY TRIP ACROSS THE RIVER THAT SPLIT BETWEEN THE STEPPES AND THROUGH THE RUDDY GROUNDS OF THE TINEA SWAMP. HE ENSURED ERASMUS THAT THERE WERE TERRIBLE THINGS THAT WAITED IN THE HOLLOW BETWEEN THE SENTINEL CLIFFS, BEASTS AND CURSES AND ALL IN BETWEEN THE RAMBLINGS OF A MAD MAN. IN THE HEAT OF HIS FERVENT REASSURANCE THAT THE CLIFFS WERE A TERRIBLE THING TO PASS BETWEEN, ERASMUS PLACATED HIM WITH THE PROMISE THAT HE WOULD NEVER ASK HIM AGAIN.

AND SO HE TRAVELED ALONE BY BOAT, PASSING THROUGH THE PRAISTIGIA CLIFFS THAT HE WAS SWORN TO WOULD SWALLOW HIM LIKE THE GREAT, GAPING JOWLS OF A MONUMENTAL BEAST. THEY HAD BEEN PEACEFUL INSTEAD, THOUGH AN UNSETTLING WIND PASSED THROUGH THEM WITH A CHIME, AND THE WATERS HAD BEEN CHOPPY THAT MORNING. HE DOCKED HIS BOAT AT THE SHORE WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE. 

HE ARRIVED INTO THE TARASTELLAN FIELDS WHEN AT LAST DUSK HAS RETRIEVED ITS RAYS OF GOLD FROM THE VAST STRETCH OF GREEN, WHEN THE PURPLE HEADS OF CLOUDS HAVE BEEN TRACED BY SHADOW, AND THE FIRST PRICK OF STARLIGHT BREAKS THE HEAVENS ABOVE. BENEATH ITS CELESTIAL GLOW, ERASMUS IS PAINTED TWO-TONE – THE SHEEN THAT CROWNED THE CLIFFS CATCHES AS A DYING LIGHT SPARKS BETWEEN THEM, AND THE VIOLET OF PERVADING NIGHT SWALLOWS ALL BUT THE GLORIOUS ORE ETCHED INTO HIS FLESH. THERE ERASMUS, THE NOT PRINCE, THE KING OF A NOTHING PLACE, THERE HE TRESPASSES THE NARROW PATHS INTO THE SHALLOWS OF THE SUSSURO. HIS SILHOUETTE IS TRACED IN MURKY BRIGHT – AS SHADOWS CARVE THE SPACES IN BETWEEN, POOLING IN THE HOLLOWS AND THE CRAGS AND THE CROOKEDNESS OF ANGLES TOO SHARP TO BE GOOD. THERE HIS LIKENESS IS LUPINE, ALL UNCIVIL HANDSOMENESS THAT IS AN ODE TO THE WILDS FROM WHENCE HE CAME. AND HE IS ALL HEAT, ALL FEVER, ALL PREDATOR. BUT IT IS NOT THIS NIGHT HE HUNTS, THOUGH THE HUNGER LURCHES IN HIS CORE MORE FAMISHED THAN THE DAY BEFORE, ALWAYS. HE DOES NOT SEEK OUT THE RISING CROWNS OF STAGS AS THEY HUFF THEIR FROST-BREATH, TINGED IN AUTUMNAL RUT, IN FLESHLY MUSK, NOR AS THEY FLICK THEIR TAILS WITH ARROGANCE AND DISAPPEAR TO THE FAR WOODLAND MARSHES BEYOND.

AS THE DUSK SINKS ITS FINAL RAYS INTO THE HORIZON, THERE IS NO MOON.

HERE HE ENTERS, DRIPPING SHADOWS AND WETTED INK, A THING THAT DREAMS OF PETRICHOR AND ENDLESS BLACK, A THING THAT ACHES FOR THE ECHO OF A VOID THAT IS THE ONLY HOME. THE GRACEFUL COMPOSURE OF MUTED VIOLENCE; A FIENDISH DISPLAY OF MACHIAVELLIAN CHARM; THIS HERETIC VIRILE. WITCH KING. UPON HIS CROWN STARLIGHT NESTLES, EACH PRONG TINGED WITH THE LACINGS OF DEW. AND WHERE HIS BRONZED FLESH STRETCHES OVER THE WRAP OF SINEW AND GLEAMING MUSCLE, A GOLDEN SHEEN SLIPS SOFTLY NEATH THE TREAD OF HEAT.

TONIGHT, IT IS NOT HIS APPETITES HE SATES – NOT FOR HIS UNBEARABLE HUNGER, NOT FOR BLOODTHIRST, FOR THE SENSUALITY OF THE HUNT ITSELF, THOUGH HE WOULD NEVER DENY HIMSELF THEIR FORTUNES. TONIGHT HE SEEKS NOXIOUS CONCOCTIONS FROM WHENCE THE TARTAROS MENUS BEG THEIR PRECARIOUS WARES – THOSE UNHALLOWED THINGS THAT BOB BENEATH THE WEIGHT OF GHOSTLY HAND, THOSE SKULLCAPS AND SILVERY LEAVES THAT BREATHE WHISPERS OF THE DEAD AND SOON TO BE. AND O, HOW THE FIELDS ARE PLENTIFUL IN THEIR DUES. IT IS NOT LONG BEFORE HE IS PRESSED TO THE SHADOWS OF WATER HEMLOCK AND THE SWAYING TINES OF WRAITHGRASS, OR THE FADED REDS OF CARDINAL FLOWERS AND MORE YET BEYOND. IT IS A LOST PARADISE OWED TO THE DEPRAVED, AND IN THEIR HOLLOWS GASP SUCH UNTIMELY HORRORS.

HE FINDS HIS BOUNTY LOOMING OVER THE CRACKED, LONG SPENT RIBS OF A FAWN, OVERGROWN BY NETTLES AND SPARSE GRASSES THAT RISE FROM ITS SOCKETS. ABOVE THIS BOB AND SWAY THE FAINT, LACY HEADS OF WATER HEMLOCK WEIGHED IN FROSTY DEW. THOUGH BY NOTE THEIR FLAVOUR WAS NOT ONE WANTED FOR ANYTHING EVEN SLIGHTLY PALATABLE, THEY WOULD MAKE FOR A SUBTLE RECIPE FOR GHASTLY CONSUMPTION, AND WERE WELL WORTH THE TRAVELLING. HE ADMIRED THEIR CLUSTER YELLOWED STAR-PETALS, PLUCKING THE THING SHARPLY, ROOT AND ALL, FROM THE WETTED GROUND AND FOLDING THEIR STEMS NEATLY BENEATH THE BLOOMS. THE SAP THAT BEADED FROM THEIR TWISTED STEMS GLEAMED ROUND, A THREAT TO FLESH BUT NOT AS DIRE AS TO TONGUE – AND HE WAS CAREFUL NOT TO TOUCH HIS BARE SKIN AS HE TUCKED IT NEATLY INTO A BURLAP POUCH, AND THEN INTO HIS SATCHEL. 

ERASMUS HAD JUST TURNED TO GATHER A COLLECTION OF CARDINAL RED BUDS WHEN HE HEARD THE TALL GRASSES BRUSH WITH A SOUND TOO TANGIBLE TO BE WIND.