WHEN HE COLLIDES WITH THE SAND AND THE LEAVES AND THE BRINE, HE DOES NOT WAIT TO SEE WHO FOLLOWS OR LEADS. HE DOES NOT LOOK, PERHAPS FOR ALL HIS SELFISH IGNORANCE, TO SEE IF AGHAVNI FOLLOWS. HE DOES NOT LOOK TO SEE WHAT BECOMES OF THE REST – THOSE WHO BRAVELY CLASHED AGAINST ITS FANGS, WHO DRUMMED AGAINST ITS COILS WITH TEETH AND HOOVES AND WEAPONS. HE DOES NOT LOOK TO SEE WHAT BECOMES OF THOSE WHO LINGER LIKE SHADOWS IN THE LOOMING TREESCAPE. ALL HE KNOWS IS WHAT IS BEFORE HIM, AND THE CERTAINTY OF THAT ENTITY IS IN ITSELF STUNNINGLY BEYOND THE COMMON BESTIARY: WHETHER GOD OR TITAN OR MAGIC, IT IS UNCERTAIN IF IT IS BLOOD THAT RUNS THROUGH ITS VEINS, OR THE SALT SLICK OF OCEAN TIDES. BUT THESE THINGS DO NOT CAUSE HIM TO HESITATE. THERE IS NO QUESTION OF RIGHT OR WRONG – ON HE DRIVES, ON HE THUNDERS WHILE THE BLOOD IS THRUMMING IN HIS EARS AND THROAT AND LUNGS AND HE INHALES SO DEEPLY HE THINKS, FOR A MOMENT, THAT HE MAY NEVER TASTE THE SEABREEZE ON HIS TONGUE AGAIN –
AND THAT MAY BE A BLESSING.
BUT HE CLASHES WITH THE THING LIKE A RAVENOUS HOUND, HIS JAWS WIDE AND TEETH SHARPENED ON ALL THE CASCADING GRIT OF SAND – HE WAITS TO RIP INTO ARTERIAL WEBS OF OCEAN VEIN, TO BREAK THROUGH THE CRISP SCALES OF WITHERING LEAVES, AND DREAMS DEEP A NEW TASTE OF LUST. HE RECALLS THE NOT-MOONLIGHT, THE BIDDING OF THE ANTS, THE DECADENCE OF THE FOREST, THE ARROGANCE OF A MONGREL IN THE FACE OF AN OLD GOD. HE THINKS OF THE WAY THAT HE, TOO, IS MADE OF THINGS THAT HE MAY NEVER EXPLAIN. HE IS A STONE PASSING THROUGH THE EYE OF A SNAKE. THE SHADOWS ETCH HIS SPINE, THEY TWIST AND TANGLE AND CONSPIRE MEEKLY ALONG HIS ANGLES AS THEY TOSS AND CONSTRICT AND BURST THROUGH THE WALL OF EVERYTHING TANGIBLE. BUT WHEN HE ANTICIPATES THE BULK OF FLESH OR SOMETHING LIKE IT, THERE IS ONLY BLEAK DARKNESS AND THE TASTE OF SAND.
ERASMUS BREAKS THROUGH TO THE TRANQUIL DARKNESS, AND WHEN HIS EYES RESET ON THE PLACE OF DESOLATE WANT, HE REGAINS HIS FOOTING AND STOPS SHORT OF THE TWISTING ARCH. BEFORE THE ALTAR ARE THOSE WHO HAVE FOUND A SIMILAR FATE – EACH FOR A SMALL MOMENT GIVEN TO QUIET CONTEMPLATION, BEFORE AT ONCE DECIDED UPON THEIR PATHS. NONE ARE FAMILIAR. EACH FACE IS GREYED WITH A PLACED ANONYMITY, AND HE CANNOT PICK ONE APART FROM THE OTHER AS THEIR SILHOUETTES RISE AGAINST THE BLOOD RED RAIN. “Aghavni?" HE HISSES, BUT HIS VOICE ECHOES AGAINST HIM COLD AND METALLIC AND ALL TOO FOREIGN. THERE IS NO DREAD OR REGRET BUT A SMALL PANG OF CONCERN THAT HE SWALLOWS LIKE A BARB, AND FROM IT RISES A RENEWED HEAT. THE RELIC STOOD ON AN ALTAR OF BLACK GLASS AND RED, RED RAIN, AND TOO MUCH LIKE A CADENCE HE FOLLOWS THE NOTION INTO THE TORRENT OF DRIPPING NECTAR. WHEN HE BREATHES AGAIN HE TASTES THE AIR AND IT IS ODD, A SWEETNESS THAT IS POISONED WITH TENSION, AND HE IS ALMOST REPENTANT FOR THE FLAVOR THAT SWELLS HIS MOUTH WITH SOMETHING AS REPUGNANT AS IT IS DELIGHTFUL. IN THE DISTANCE A SHADOW OF SOMETHING SWIRLS AND CASCADES IN AND OUT OF FORM, A STORM OF FLUTTERING WINGS AND BRISTLING GRAINS OF SAND LIKE A THOUSAND JAGGED MIRRORS. IT COMES, IT COMES, AND HE DESIRES TO MEET IT – BUT HE IS SO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE.
THE RELIC STANDS LIKE A GIFT, AND HE WISHES THE RAIN WAS BLOOD AND NOT HOLLY VENOM.
THERE ARE OTHERS WHO RECOGNIZE ITS HARD PULL UPON THEIR WARES. BODIES THAT PASS OVER THE PLANE OF BLACK GLASS, AND AS THEIR HOOVES CLICK OVER THE SURFACE AND ARE DULLED BY THE SOPPING OF THE RAIN, HE WONDERS ABOUT THE CURIOUS WAY ITS GLASSINE SMOOTHNESS IS INTERRUPTED BY BRIEF RIDGES, TWISTING SPINES THAT RIPPLE AND WAIT. CLOSE AHEAD, THE MUFFLED CRY OF A CHILD DISTURBS HIS SILENT MUSING AND HE WATCHES AS TWO SMALLER FORMS RUSH WHERE THE RIDGES DO NOT TOUCH. BUT IT MOVES! HOW IT MOVES! HE WONDERS IF IT WOULD CRACK BENEATH THE WEIGHT. IF IT WOULD SLIP FROM BENEATH THEM LIKE A HUNGRY OUBLIETTE, AND ALL WOULD BE WADING IN THE BLACKNESS OF SWEET, SILENT NIGHT. IS THAT NOT WHERE HE BELONGS?
YES, HUMS THE BLACK WATER. AND AS HIS HEART RISES TO A CRESCENDO IN HIS CHEST, HE MAKES HIS FIRST STEP TOWARD THE RELIC THAT GLEAMS LIKE BLOODIED GOLD.
AND THAT MAY BE A BLESSING.
BUT HE CLASHES WITH THE THING LIKE A RAVENOUS HOUND, HIS JAWS WIDE AND TEETH SHARPENED ON ALL THE CASCADING GRIT OF SAND – HE WAITS TO RIP INTO ARTERIAL WEBS OF OCEAN VEIN, TO BREAK THROUGH THE CRISP SCALES OF WITHERING LEAVES, AND DREAMS DEEP A NEW TASTE OF LUST. HE RECALLS THE NOT-MOONLIGHT, THE BIDDING OF THE ANTS, THE DECADENCE OF THE FOREST, THE ARROGANCE OF A MONGREL IN THE FACE OF AN OLD GOD. HE THINKS OF THE WAY THAT HE, TOO, IS MADE OF THINGS THAT HE MAY NEVER EXPLAIN. HE IS A STONE PASSING THROUGH THE EYE OF A SNAKE. THE SHADOWS ETCH HIS SPINE, THEY TWIST AND TANGLE AND CONSPIRE MEEKLY ALONG HIS ANGLES AS THEY TOSS AND CONSTRICT AND BURST THROUGH THE WALL OF EVERYTHING TANGIBLE. BUT WHEN HE ANTICIPATES THE BULK OF FLESH OR SOMETHING LIKE IT, THERE IS ONLY BLEAK DARKNESS AND THE TASTE OF SAND.
ERASMUS BREAKS THROUGH TO THE TRANQUIL DARKNESS, AND WHEN HIS EYES RESET ON THE PLACE OF DESOLATE WANT, HE REGAINS HIS FOOTING AND STOPS SHORT OF THE TWISTING ARCH. BEFORE THE ALTAR ARE THOSE WHO HAVE FOUND A SIMILAR FATE – EACH FOR A SMALL MOMENT GIVEN TO QUIET CONTEMPLATION, BEFORE AT ONCE DECIDED UPON THEIR PATHS. NONE ARE FAMILIAR. EACH FACE IS GREYED WITH A PLACED ANONYMITY, AND HE CANNOT PICK ONE APART FROM THE OTHER AS THEIR SILHOUETTES RISE AGAINST THE BLOOD RED RAIN. “Aghavni?" HE HISSES, BUT HIS VOICE ECHOES AGAINST HIM COLD AND METALLIC AND ALL TOO FOREIGN. THERE IS NO DREAD OR REGRET BUT A SMALL PANG OF CONCERN THAT HE SWALLOWS LIKE A BARB, AND FROM IT RISES A RENEWED HEAT. THE RELIC STOOD ON AN ALTAR OF BLACK GLASS AND RED, RED RAIN, AND TOO MUCH LIKE A CADENCE HE FOLLOWS THE NOTION INTO THE TORRENT OF DRIPPING NECTAR. WHEN HE BREATHES AGAIN HE TASTES THE AIR AND IT IS ODD, A SWEETNESS THAT IS POISONED WITH TENSION, AND HE IS ALMOST REPENTANT FOR THE FLAVOR THAT SWELLS HIS MOUTH WITH SOMETHING AS REPUGNANT AS IT IS DELIGHTFUL. IN THE DISTANCE A SHADOW OF SOMETHING SWIRLS AND CASCADES IN AND OUT OF FORM, A STORM OF FLUTTERING WINGS AND BRISTLING GRAINS OF SAND LIKE A THOUSAND JAGGED MIRRORS. IT COMES, IT COMES, AND HE DESIRES TO MEET IT – BUT HE IS SO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE.
THE RELIC STANDS LIKE A GIFT, AND HE WISHES THE RAIN WAS BLOOD AND NOT HOLLY VENOM.
THERE ARE OTHERS WHO RECOGNIZE ITS HARD PULL UPON THEIR WARES. BODIES THAT PASS OVER THE PLANE OF BLACK GLASS, AND AS THEIR HOOVES CLICK OVER THE SURFACE AND ARE DULLED BY THE SOPPING OF THE RAIN, HE WONDERS ABOUT THE CURIOUS WAY ITS GLASSINE SMOOTHNESS IS INTERRUPTED BY BRIEF RIDGES, TWISTING SPINES THAT RIPPLE AND WAIT. CLOSE AHEAD, THE MUFFLED CRY OF A CHILD DISTURBS HIS SILENT MUSING AND HE WATCHES AS TWO SMALLER FORMS RUSH WHERE THE RIDGES DO NOT TOUCH. BUT IT MOVES! HOW IT MOVES! HE WONDERS IF IT WOULD CRACK BENEATH THE WEIGHT. IF IT WOULD SLIP FROM BENEATH THEM LIKE A HUNGRY OUBLIETTE, AND ALL WOULD BE WADING IN THE BLACKNESS OF SWEET, SILENT NIGHT. IS THAT NOT WHERE HE BELONGS?
YES, HUMS THE BLACK WATER. AND AS HIS HEART RISES TO A CRESCENDO IN HIS CHEST, HE MAKES HIS FIRST STEP TOWARD THE RELIC THAT GLEAMS LIKE BLOODIED GOLD.
Erasmus chooses option 1.
