SHE IS THE SPARK OF HELLFIRE EMBERS, SCORN OF WRATHFUL WOMEN ENTOMBED IN A STARE, IN A GLARE – HIS BLOOD DOES NOT FREEZE WHEN SHE LOOKS UPON HIM, BUT THRUMS AGAINST THE SURFACE WITH GRACIOUS REVIVAL. FOR A MOMENT HE BIDS HER WAR, HER FURY – HE AWAITS SPITFIRE ACRIMONY LIKE THE ONSLAUGHT OF VOLCANIC RAIN, A RETORT WHOSE MALIGNITY RIVALED A BADGER'S BREATH. AND WHEN HER EYES SEEK HIM FROM THE DARK OF THE TREELINE, OBSERVED HIS SILHOUETTE REACHING FROM THE EMERALDS IN A CASCADE OF SHADOW AND VEINING GOLD, HIS SPINE PRICKLES LIKE RISING HACKLES ON A WOLF'S NAPE. INDEED HE ENTERS LUPINE AND WILD, A DISHEVELED HANDSOME WORLDS AWAY FROM THE BRINE-SOAKED BOY SHE MAY REMEMBER FROM THE TEMPLE. THERE IS A DIFFERENT HUNGER THAT RESTS IN HIS BELLY, AN ACHE HE FEEDS WITH FERVOR. A DEPRAVITY THAT GROWS IN HIS GUT AND WRITHES ITS WAY THROUGH HIS VEINS, THROUGH HIS THOUGHTS, A WITHERED AND MALIGN VINE THAT CHOKES THE INNOCENCE FROM HIS WARES, HIS AMBITIONS. AN ALMOST DISAPPOINTMENT MENACES THE DEEPENED CONTOURS OF HIS EXPRESSION WHEN HE DISCOVERS THAT HE IS NOT MET WITH THE SAME LOATHING THAT SHE HAD SHARED THAT NIGHT FOR THE FIERY BURD – BUT IT IS FLEETING AND FLIPPANT, REPLACED SWIFTLY WITH A TSKING GRIN. "erasmus."
HE TRAVELS ALONE. HE HAS NO DESIRE TO SHARE HIS WHIMS.
ALAS, AN EAR FLICKS BACK TO THE DEEP OF THE JUNGLE THAT HUMS LIKE WARDRUMS, LISTENING FOR THE HISS OF BURNING LEAVES IN THE FALSE ANTICIPATION OF THEIR FLAME-SLICKED COMPANION. IT IS A GESTURE THAT PRIES AMUSEMENT, KNOWING FULL WELL NONE ARE AT HIS HEELS. THEY ARE SUSPENDED IN SILENCE FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES TO SATISFY HER (IM)PATIENCE, AND SHE AT LAST ACKNOWLEDGES HIS SCRAPE OF DARK HUMOR. DEATH, SHE JOKES. AS IF DEATH LAUGHS WITH HER, SULLEN AND COLD. ERASMUS DOES NOT. THE GRIN REMAINS REGARDLESS, SOME PITILESS STRETCH OF CIVILITY THAT SEEMS ALL BUT LEFT FOR THE HUSK. IT IS NUANCED ENTERTAINMENT, ALBEIT AN EXPRESSION THAT LACKS ALL WARMTH. THE SHARP GOLD CRESCENTS DANCE IN HIS EYES, MORE LIKE A HAWK, LESS LIKE A FRIEND. HE BEARS NO INKLING OF SYMPATHY FOR HER, EVEN IF SHE HAD BEEN HONEST.
HER WORDS FIND HIM AGAIN AND HE CONTEMPLATES EACH ONE WITH CAREFUL DEVICE, SUDDENLY WONDERING IF SHE COULD NOT HEAR THE SAME DRONE THAT HE HAD. THE WHISPERS. THE CALL. IT BEGAN WHEN THE GROUND FIRST SHOOK AND THE ASH ROSE SKYWARD – A RINGING, ALMOST, UNTIL IT DIED DOWN TO NOTHING WITH THE SMOKE AND THE SMOG. AND THEN IT GREW. WHAT. HE COULDN'T ANSWER WITH PARTICULARS, HIS MIND CRAWLING OVER HIS INITIAL ARRIVAL TO THE LANDBRIDGE, HIS DISDAIN FOR THE UNCERTAINTY OF WHAT LAY AT THE END BUT THE NEED, THE NEED TO SEE ANYWAY. THE NEED TO FEEL THE BREEZE RUSH OVER HIM IN A WAVE OF ELECTRICITY, OF ICY TREMORS, OF HOT IRRADIATED QUAKES THAT SPOKE TO HIS BONES. THE NOT-MOONLIGHT. THE GOD AT THE SHORE OF A NOT-RIVER. THE STAR-STUDDED GARDEN. IN HIS MIND'S EYE, EACH ONE BLOOMS WITH A PURPOSE, BUT HE CAN'T COME TO UNDERSTAND. WHAT BRINGS HIM.
HIS EYES WAIVER OVER THE DARKNESS THAT TIPTOES BENEATH THE TREELINE, TOUCHED IN THE DISTANCE BY TERMINUS WAVES. HE STARTED TO DISCOVER THAT THERE WAS VERY LITTLE IN THIS WORLD THAT HE COULD EVEN ATTEMPT TO EXPLAIN. "curiosity." THE WORD TUMBLES OUT OF HIS MOUTH WITH AN UNCANNY LIGHTNESS, TOO MUCH OF A TRUTH TO BE A LIE, THOUGH ITS AMBIGUITY SPEAKS LEAGUES. "seems i'm not the only one. there was a collective, going on about a..." HIS BROWS FURROWED AS HE SCANS THE HORIZON, RECALLING TO THE COMMUNION HE WITNESSED ON THE BEACH. SHE WAS THERE, BUT HE PLAYS COY. "a... some godly trinket, is it?" AN AWRY TICK TWITCHES AT THE CORNER OF HIS LIPS AS HIS EYES SPARK WITH A BLITHE FLAME, DANGEROUSLY PLAYFUL AS HE REGARDS HER FROM HIS PERIPHERAL. HE COULDN'T CARE LESS OF GODS. OF GIFTS. BUT WHEN IN ROME...
@Morrighan
