At first, there is nothing. The nothing is a grace unto him, having left the bustle of the festivities far behind – they drone and pipe upwards of jolly things, their tunes fading into their distant meadows. Here, the solemnity is left to the rustling of leaves and the howling of a misplaced gale. Erasmus finds comfort in that – as he does most things that are oft quiet and dark, dark enough to dream. But o! What folly it is, that those dreams do not take flight; they are fettered to reality, and upon each waking slight come plummeting thus. Tonight, it is hard to say whether it is a dream or a vision that calls him to a place. There are voices in the mist, and while shadows shift behind the hoary sight the subject of their nature is much for the imagination.
When he arrives to that grand, leaf-mouthed entrance unto the Viride Forest, an old man sighs.
“No one listens.” he says simply, as if to no one at all. Erasmus does not answer, thereon the point of its vague notion, and moves to the vining web of greenery towered high above. Its thicket is starless, the moon consumed by entangled boughs that shake and quiver with soundless bluster. Each leaf beneath is a crunching and a scattering that seems to all but liven the echoes that climb up the barks of the old trees. And somewhere, he hears a vagrant song as soft as whispers, and checks to be sure the jovial meadow festivals were far behind.
The mouth to the forest gapes and grins, and beyond another step, seems to close behind him. He does not think much to contemplate the livelihood of forest walls that breathe and taunt. Though he does, when he treads softly through the halls of his predecessor's memories, find a familiarity to a particular jungle strung with ruby-eyed birds and shifting black mirror waters. Somewhere within that memory burns a bright hot moon with teeth, and something tells him that these places were an untrustworthy sort, but these things do not reveal themselves to him.
Or so he thought.
He hears the shimmering thing before he sees it – it hisses through the parched leaves, shakes the smallest boughs with its hurried force as though secretary to chaos, exhausting speed for stealth. Just as he steels himself, muscles recoiled like a guarded viper, the great luminescent bulb bursts through a plating of browned leaves and pauses where it finds its audience, bobbing smoothly in suspension. It hovers for a moment, swirling like a resetting compass, and before it can be touched careens back down the path it had previously cavorted. Erasmus, or the thing that is, has not accustomed himself to the more hostile elements of the Novusian continent, and therefore loosens freely from his tight bound muscles to watch in spectral wonder.
It pauses once more a ways down the path, bobbing pleasantly to itself once more, and it speaks in a way without words that bids him down the narrow road. It is dusty and cleared, save for the occasional imprint of a tensed hoofplace that sank in softer ground. Erasmus obliges its cordial welcome into the darker depths of the Viride, none the wiser.
When he arrives to that grand, leaf-mouthed entrance unto the Viride Forest, an old man sighs.
“No one listens.” he says simply, as if to no one at all. Erasmus does not answer, thereon the point of its vague notion, and moves to the vining web of greenery towered high above. Its thicket is starless, the moon consumed by entangled boughs that shake and quiver with soundless bluster. Each leaf beneath is a crunching and a scattering that seems to all but liven the echoes that climb up the barks of the old trees. And somewhere, he hears a vagrant song as soft as whispers, and checks to be sure the jovial meadow festivals were far behind.
The mouth to the forest gapes and grins, and beyond another step, seems to close behind him. He does not think much to contemplate the livelihood of forest walls that breathe and taunt. Though he does, when he treads softly through the halls of his predecessor's memories, find a familiarity to a particular jungle strung with ruby-eyed birds and shifting black mirror waters. Somewhere within that memory burns a bright hot moon with teeth, and something tells him that these places were an untrustworthy sort, but these things do not reveal themselves to him.
Or so he thought.
He hears the shimmering thing before he sees it – it hisses through the parched leaves, shakes the smallest boughs with its hurried force as though secretary to chaos, exhausting speed for stealth. Just as he steels himself, muscles recoiled like a guarded viper, the great luminescent bulb bursts through a plating of browned leaves and pauses where it finds its audience, bobbing smoothly in suspension. It hovers for a moment, swirling like a resetting compass, and before it can be touched careens back down the path it had previously cavorted. Erasmus, or the thing that is, has not accustomed himself to the more hostile elements of the Novusian continent, and therefore loosens freely from his tight bound muscles to watch in spectral wonder.
It pauses once more a ways down the path, bobbing pleasantly to itself once more, and it speaks in a way without words that bids him down the narrow road. It is dusty and cleared, save for the occasional imprint of a tensed hoofplace that sank in softer ground. Erasmus obliges its cordial welcome into the darker depths of the Viride, none the wiser.
@Official Dawn Account
