It was his. it was his.
But what was it?
The world below him when he had hunted the relic slipped beneath his feet like sand in an hourglass – and now, it was as if someone had flipped it once more. And the funnel was uneven this time. Too much like an hourglass, the sand did sift – bodies did slip into the great nothingness of the below, and had he been too foolish he may have stopped to wonder where that space of time went. But instead, there was only that ushering of the magic's whisper: hurry, hurry. he hadn't heard it before but it was a scream now – and it pressed hot on his heels like the snapping jaws of a hungry dog. He raced, the relic packed neatly in his satchel as he rushed, sometimes leapt over bodies tripped or sunken into the island that groped famished now. It was no longer a bear or butterflies or serpents, but a whole thing altogether ; something monumental, something horrible.
Others screamed, others gasped, others whined and cried and about them drew an aura of wrathful silence or the groaning of defeat or whatever else manner of despair found them wanting – but oh, Erasmus was grinning. He was grinning as he was chased by that horrid, hungry hound, as one by one each hoofbeat thrust against the earth opened up a new pit that threatened to swallow him whole, to steal back the relic he did not deserve. To make him bow. To make him repent. But oh, Erasmus grins. And to anyone that did not see him snatch the relic from its pedestal, they may think he is a mad man. And they may be correct. Because it is not a wild, toothy grin of exasperated triumph. It is a peaceful, starstruck grin, something like the thought of ethereal things far beyond the island, but too dark to be romantic. He is at peace, even as the molten ground around him is churned and upturned and groaning furiously as his gait thunders feral overhead.
He does not wince or shout as the bridge sees him coming and twists like the serpent that has lunged for his throat. If it would, he would charge through it as he had done before, and tunnel through another cathedral of a god he does not know. Another altar would he blaspheme, and still the guiltless grin would remain. Even as the earth bucked and buckled, and his path seized upright so that he was bounding over it, it like a dune jutting from blackened earth below, sinking deep into its valley and finding the footing to go on again. onward. Even as that bridge sunk suddenly so that his legs crashed into seawater and its waves frothed and splashed rough against his chest, on he went. The ocean water had never felt so hot, so stinging, had never looked so beautifully horrifying – but as much as it begged him to look, to stop, to stay, on he went. Erasmus and the godly trinket. The stone he did not understand. The relic he did not deserve.
It was only when the magic of the island waned and he felt it in every crook and sinew that he began to slow, that he knew he was far enough that he could stop and breathe. The air beyond the island felt so heavy, and he had never noticed it until now. The hum was there, but it was faint, and he knew it for what it was. A song. A lament. It seemed mournful now, a wailing groan that was capsized by oceanic gurgles and the crackling of fallen trees. He stopped when the shadows of the Cliffs fell over him and the softness of the prairie was well underfoot; when the sand changed to grasses and faded bulbs, and he felt the weight of the world come crashing like the recognition of a broken magic that it was. Exhaustion found him slowly, and as he looked at the sinking island he could not help but listen and feel the despair of which it sung.
But it was his now, and he was not giving it back.
But what was it?
The world below him when he had hunted the relic slipped beneath his feet like sand in an hourglass – and now, it was as if someone had flipped it once more. And the funnel was uneven this time. Too much like an hourglass, the sand did sift – bodies did slip into the great nothingness of the below, and had he been too foolish he may have stopped to wonder where that space of time went. But instead, there was only that ushering of the magic's whisper: hurry, hurry. he hadn't heard it before but it was a scream now – and it pressed hot on his heels like the snapping jaws of a hungry dog. He raced, the relic packed neatly in his satchel as he rushed, sometimes leapt over bodies tripped or sunken into the island that groped famished now. It was no longer a bear or butterflies or serpents, but a whole thing altogether ; something monumental, something horrible.
Others screamed, others gasped, others whined and cried and about them drew an aura of wrathful silence or the groaning of defeat or whatever else manner of despair found them wanting – but oh, Erasmus was grinning. He was grinning as he was chased by that horrid, hungry hound, as one by one each hoofbeat thrust against the earth opened up a new pit that threatened to swallow him whole, to steal back the relic he did not deserve. To make him bow. To make him repent. But oh, Erasmus grins. And to anyone that did not see him snatch the relic from its pedestal, they may think he is a mad man. And they may be correct. Because it is not a wild, toothy grin of exasperated triumph. It is a peaceful, starstruck grin, something like the thought of ethereal things far beyond the island, but too dark to be romantic. He is at peace, even as the molten ground around him is churned and upturned and groaning furiously as his gait thunders feral overhead.
He does not wince or shout as the bridge sees him coming and twists like the serpent that has lunged for his throat. If it would, he would charge through it as he had done before, and tunnel through another cathedral of a god he does not know. Another altar would he blaspheme, and still the guiltless grin would remain. Even as the earth bucked and buckled, and his path seized upright so that he was bounding over it, it like a dune jutting from blackened earth below, sinking deep into its valley and finding the footing to go on again. onward. Even as that bridge sunk suddenly so that his legs crashed into seawater and its waves frothed and splashed rough against his chest, on he went. The ocean water had never felt so hot, so stinging, had never looked so beautifully horrifying – but as much as it begged him to look, to stop, to stay, on he went. Erasmus and the godly trinket. The stone he did not understand. The relic he did not deserve.
It was only when the magic of the island waned and he felt it in every crook and sinew that he began to slow, that he knew he was far enough that he could stop and breathe. The air beyond the island felt so heavy, and he had never noticed it until now. The hum was there, but it was faint, and he knew it for what it was. A song. A lament. It seemed mournful now, a wailing groan that was capsized by oceanic gurgles and the crackling of fallen trees. He stopped when the shadows of the Cliffs fell over him and the softness of the prairie was well underfoot; when the sand changed to grasses and faded bulbs, and he felt the weight of the world come crashing like the recognition of a broken magic that it was. Exhaustion found him slowly, and as he looked at the sinking island he could not help but listen and feel the despair of which it sung.
But it was his now, and he was not giving it back.
STAFF EDIT***
@Erasmus has rolled a 4! They have been awarded +3 exp.
