HER VOICE ALIGHTS BEHIND HIM BUT IT IS TOO SOFT, TOO MELLOW – IT IS A WHISPER COMPARED TO THE WAVES AS THEY ROAR AND CRASH, DRAGGING AGAINST THE SHORELINE WITH KISSES OF CLAM SHELLS AND IRIDESCENT OYSTER HALVES. THE COLORS TRICKLE ALONG THE LINE, A DELIVERANCE OF PRECIOUS GEMS AND SCATTERED ARTS THAT ARE TAKEN HUMBLY WHEN NOT RECEIVED. THEY ARE NOT FOR HIM. SO HE DOES NOT MOVE TO GREET THE WAVES AS THEY FROTH IN, GLITTERING AND INFALLIBLE IN THEIR CHARM – AND HE THINKS, WOULD THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN BE ANY BETTER THAN THE HEART OF A VOLCANO? THE POOR LOT OF THEM INDEED, TO CHASE A TRINKET THAT NO ONE TRULY UNDERSTANDS, INTO THE DEPTHS OF CHAOS. BUT WHAT HE SAW IN THE DEEP OF THE FOREST, WHERE THE NOT-MOONLIGHT HAD BEEN BADE AWAY, AND THE DARKNESS SEEPED THROUGH THE CRACKS IN A CARICATURE OF SECRETS... THE OCEAN ROARED ON ONE END, HARDLY COMPLACENT. WAS IT THE SEA, THEN? WAS IT ALWAYS THE SEA, TRULY?
HE HEARS HER AGAIN, LIGHTER NOW, A JEER THAT DISTURBS HIM FROM HIS TRANCE. THE BIRDS PASS OVER ONE, TWO, THREE, THEIR SHADOWS LOOMING HIGH ABOVE THEM LIKE SPECTRAL VULTURES, AND THE ILLUSION IS ONE HARD TO BREAK. THE SEA, UNENDING, UNCOMPROMISING, ITS HORIZON MELDS INTO THE SKYLINE TOO MUCH SO THAT IT IS UNCERTAIN WHERE ONE ENDS AND THE OTHER BEGINS. IT IS FINALITY, A TERROR SCAPE IN ALL NONCHALANCE OF BEAUTY. IS IT TOO OUTLANDISH TO ASSUME THAT THERE ARE, TRULY, THINGS THAT LURK BENEATH ITS SURFACE WORTH EVERY OUNCE OF ITS HORROR? WERE THERE NOT THOSE WHO STARED OUT INTO THE INTERMINABLE REACHES OF THAT DECADENT SEA AND MADE THEMSELVES TOO MAD TO THINK ANY LESS OF ITS POTENTIAL? WOULD IT BE A RELIC THAT ROSE FROM ITS WAVES, GLEAMING AND GLORIOUS IN ALL ITS CELESTIAL RIND, A SHEEN TOO FINE FOR THE EYES OF MORTALS? OR WOULD IT BE WHAT CREEPS ALONG THE UNDERTOW, HUNGRY AND FERAL, THAT WHICH LEAVES ITS GIFTS AT THE SHORE FOR THOSE SO GREEDILY ENTHUSED THAT THEY MAY BE ENSNARED IN THE RISING CURRENT?
ERASMUS BROKE HIS FIXATION ALMOST TOO PAINFULLY, BUT A GRIN PINNED THE CORNER OF HIS LIPS INTO SOMETHING THAT MIRRORED HER WRY DISTORTIONS WITH AN AMIABLE AGREEANCE. THE SYMMETRY OF HIS FACE IS MARKED WITH DELECTABLE SHADE – CONTOURS THAT GREEDILY FEAST ON THE WAY HIS EXPRESSIONS SEETHE WITH CONSTANT FERALTY, FIENDISH AND ALMOST TOO CRUEL. IF THE SHARPENED ANGLES OF HIS APPEARANCE WERE NOT ROUNDED BY AN ETHEREAL, DARK SENSE OF GRECIAN BEAUTY, HE MAY RESEMBLE A MONSTER YET. "do they exist, then?" HE TOYS, THE WORDS CURLING AROUND HIS TEETH SLY AND SMOOTH, HIS EYES NARROWED TO SLITS THAT ARE PRECISE WITH THE KEEN CLEAVE OF GOLDEN CRESCENTS. BUT IN THE DEPTHS OF THEIR ECHOLESS BLACK, THERE DREAMS THE SILENT DREAMS OF BEADY EYED SLUDGE FIENDS FROM THE SALTY LEAGUES, GILLS AND TEETH AND ALL. THEIR IMAGE IS AN ART UNDONE, AND HE COULD NOT FEAR THE IDEA AS MUCH AS IMPLORE THEIR DEVICE. MONSTERS, WHAT THEY MAY BE IN MORTAL FLESH, DID NOT SEEM AS PERILOUS A STRAIN OF VIOLENCE AS THE AMBIGUITY OF THE SEA ITSELF.
IN HONESTY, IF HE NEVER GAZED UPON THE SEA AGAIN IT MAY BE A GRATEFUL CURSE.
BUT HERE HE IS NOW, STARING BACK AT IT WITH A BEGRUDGING TRANCE THAT EXPELS FEAR FOR A LEVEL OF RESPECT GARNERED BY INDOMITABLE FORCES OF NATURE AS SUCH, AND HE CANNOT HELP BUT THINK TO THAT PLACE IN THE FOREST AT THE BASE OF THE VOLCANO. THERE WAS A CERTAINTY IN THE REALM OF UNCERTAINTY WHEN ALL THINGS WERE AND WEREN'T IN A PLACE OF CONSEQUENCE – AS IF TIME NOT ONLY STOOD STILL BUT BACKTRACKED THE BEADY KNOLLS OF ANT MOUNDS AND CLEFT ROOTS WHERE THE MAGIC OF DECAY CURDLED AND CULTURED. HE THOUGHT OF SINCERITY IN A GALAXY'S VOICE, IN A CURSE, IN A CALLING. AND IN THE RECOLLECTION, HIS MOUTH PARCHED ITSELF WITH THE MEMORY AND THE TASTE OF SALT. "i saw something earlier, i was just thinking on it." HIS VOICE SWELLS WITH AN INDIFFERENT DISTANCE AS HE PLACES HIMSELF BY MIND IN ANOTHER PLACE, ANOTHER TIME, THERE AT THE DRIED BED OF A NEVER-CREEK AND THE SOFT GLOW OF NOT-MOONLIGHT. "a someone lesser or greater than a mad creature, but i was told it was always the sea." HE PAUSES FOR A MOMENT AND LOOKS BACK TO MORRIGHAN, TASTING THE AIR FOR CONTEMPLATION LIKE A FORK TONGUED GRASP ON THE ECCENTRICITIES OF MUSING. NOVUS, WHETHER IT WAS HELL OR AN ACHING DREAM OF RESTLESS ETERNITY, SEEMED ENDLESS WITH ITS PECULIAR ENGAGEMENTS, AND AT ALL TIMES HE COULDN'T BE ENTIRELY SURE THAT EACH EXPERIENCE WAS NOT WITHOUT ITS LABOR OF MADNESS. WHAT MORE HE SAW DURING THAT LIAISON WITH THE HERALD OF RUINATION HE KEPT TO HIMSELF. "could you imagine drowning for the sake of a trinket? let someone else find it, then."
WITH THAT HE TURNED HIS BACK TO THE SEA AND RESUMED HIS WALK FOR THE DEPTHS OF THE FORESTS THAT HUMMED WITH A STATIC GRIEF. THE FARTHER HE WALKED FROM THE SHORE, THE SLOWER THE CIRCLING BIRDS PASSED, ONE BREAKING RANKS TO RETREAT FOR THE DARKNESS OF THE TREELINE. HE DIDN'T BLAME IT, AND MOVED FOR THE SAME DIRECTION. "i prefer the shade, anyway."
HE HEARS HER AGAIN, LIGHTER NOW, A JEER THAT DISTURBS HIM FROM HIS TRANCE. THE BIRDS PASS OVER ONE, TWO, THREE, THEIR SHADOWS LOOMING HIGH ABOVE THEM LIKE SPECTRAL VULTURES, AND THE ILLUSION IS ONE HARD TO BREAK. THE SEA, UNENDING, UNCOMPROMISING, ITS HORIZON MELDS INTO THE SKYLINE TOO MUCH SO THAT IT IS UNCERTAIN WHERE ONE ENDS AND THE OTHER BEGINS. IT IS FINALITY, A TERROR SCAPE IN ALL NONCHALANCE OF BEAUTY. IS IT TOO OUTLANDISH TO ASSUME THAT THERE ARE, TRULY, THINGS THAT LURK BENEATH ITS SURFACE WORTH EVERY OUNCE OF ITS HORROR? WERE THERE NOT THOSE WHO STARED OUT INTO THE INTERMINABLE REACHES OF THAT DECADENT SEA AND MADE THEMSELVES TOO MAD TO THINK ANY LESS OF ITS POTENTIAL? WOULD IT BE A RELIC THAT ROSE FROM ITS WAVES, GLEAMING AND GLORIOUS IN ALL ITS CELESTIAL RIND, A SHEEN TOO FINE FOR THE EYES OF MORTALS? OR WOULD IT BE WHAT CREEPS ALONG THE UNDERTOW, HUNGRY AND FERAL, THAT WHICH LEAVES ITS GIFTS AT THE SHORE FOR THOSE SO GREEDILY ENTHUSED THAT THEY MAY BE ENSNARED IN THE RISING CURRENT?
ERASMUS BROKE HIS FIXATION ALMOST TOO PAINFULLY, BUT A GRIN PINNED THE CORNER OF HIS LIPS INTO SOMETHING THAT MIRRORED HER WRY DISTORTIONS WITH AN AMIABLE AGREEANCE. THE SYMMETRY OF HIS FACE IS MARKED WITH DELECTABLE SHADE – CONTOURS THAT GREEDILY FEAST ON THE WAY HIS EXPRESSIONS SEETHE WITH CONSTANT FERALTY, FIENDISH AND ALMOST TOO CRUEL. IF THE SHARPENED ANGLES OF HIS APPEARANCE WERE NOT ROUNDED BY AN ETHEREAL, DARK SENSE OF GRECIAN BEAUTY, HE MAY RESEMBLE A MONSTER YET. "do they exist, then?" HE TOYS, THE WORDS CURLING AROUND HIS TEETH SLY AND SMOOTH, HIS EYES NARROWED TO SLITS THAT ARE PRECISE WITH THE KEEN CLEAVE OF GOLDEN CRESCENTS. BUT IN THE DEPTHS OF THEIR ECHOLESS BLACK, THERE DREAMS THE SILENT DREAMS OF BEADY EYED SLUDGE FIENDS FROM THE SALTY LEAGUES, GILLS AND TEETH AND ALL. THEIR IMAGE IS AN ART UNDONE, AND HE COULD NOT FEAR THE IDEA AS MUCH AS IMPLORE THEIR DEVICE. MONSTERS, WHAT THEY MAY BE IN MORTAL FLESH, DID NOT SEEM AS PERILOUS A STRAIN OF VIOLENCE AS THE AMBIGUITY OF THE SEA ITSELF.
IN HONESTY, IF HE NEVER GAZED UPON THE SEA AGAIN IT MAY BE A GRATEFUL CURSE.
BUT HERE HE IS NOW, STARING BACK AT IT WITH A BEGRUDGING TRANCE THAT EXPELS FEAR FOR A LEVEL OF RESPECT GARNERED BY INDOMITABLE FORCES OF NATURE AS SUCH, AND HE CANNOT HELP BUT THINK TO THAT PLACE IN THE FOREST AT THE BASE OF THE VOLCANO. THERE WAS A CERTAINTY IN THE REALM OF UNCERTAINTY WHEN ALL THINGS WERE AND WEREN'T IN A PLACE OF CONSEQUENCE – AS IF TIME NOT ONLY STOOD STILL BUT BACKTRACKED THE BEADY KNOLLS OF ANT MOUNDS AND CLEFT ROOTS WHERE THE MAGIC OF DECAY CURDLED AND CULTURED. HE THOUGHT OF SINCERITY IN A GALAXY'S VOICE, IN A CURSE, IN A CALLING. AND IN THE RECOLLECTION, HIS MOUTH PARCHED ITSELF WITH THE MEMORY AND THE TASTE OF SALT. "i saw something earlier, i was just thinking on it." HIS VOICE SWELLS WITH AN INDIFFERENT DISTANCE AS HE PLACES HIMSELF BY MIND IN ANOTHER PLACE, ANOTHER TIME, THERE AT THE DRIED BED OF A NEVER-CREEK AND THE SOFT GLOW OF NOT-MOONLIGHT. "a someone lesser or greater than a mad creature, but i was told it was always the sea." HE PAUSES FOR A MOMENT AND LOOKS BACK TO MORRIGHAN, TASTING THE AIR FOR CONTEMPLATION LIKE A FORK TONGUED GRASP ON THE ECCENTRICITIES OF MUSING. NOVUS, WHETHER IT WAS HELL OR AN ACHING DREAM OF RESTLESS ETERNITY, SEEMED ENDLESS WITH ITS PECULIAR ENGAGEMENTS, AND AT ALL TIMES HE COULDN'T BE ENTIRELY SURE THAT EACH EXPERIENCE WAS NOT WITHOUT ITS LABOR OF MADNESS. WHAT MORE HE SAW DURING THAT LIAISON WITH THE HERALD OF RUINATION HE KEPT TO HIMSELF. "could you imagine drowning for the sake of a trinket? let someone else find it, then."
WITH THAT HE TURNED HIS BACK TO THE SEA AND RESUMED HIS WALK FOR THE DEPTHS OF THE FORESTS THAT HUMMED WITH A STATIC GRIEF. THE FARTHER HE WALKED FROM THE SHORE, THE SLOWER THE CIRCLING BIRDS PASSED, ONE BREAKING RANKS TO RETREAT FOR THE DARKNESS OF THE TREELINE. HE DIDN'T BLAME IT, AND MOVED FOR THE SAME DIRECTION. "i prefer the shade, anyway."
@Morrighan
