The forest unfolds about him in leagues of depth and color; possessed by its inner graces, the dark ebbs and flows with the chattering of songbirds, the buzzing of crickets, and more and more. In this pandaemoniac fervor, he tunes an ear to the quivering leaves that shuffle at his sides, toed by the path that winds on and on through the dark. The orb above, a hallowed small moon, bobs contentedly back up the trail as he follows, and there is little that crosses his mind but the oddity of the entire engagement, the presence of these things which Novus reveals to him in slow succession. It is not entirely off-putting – as a thing who has made rocks sing and sheets of ice burn, who has seen each star blotted out to darkness and has teethed their dying heat. As a thing which ran as the blood of worlds, of magic, of life, and ultimately, of death. He waits for the coming storm with reverence.
But here, in the orchestral bounds of Delumine, he wonders if the forest waits with him.
Though it cries out with the songbirds and dreams with the crickets and bellows with the pond frogs, it holds its breath as Erasmus keeps to the path, following beneath that soft lofty glow. It waits and follows curiously at his heels, leaves reaching softly for his horns, fireflies riding just above the heat of his flesh. It is tender, but he knows even a predator is tender when soft-padding the crisp leaves; he sees it at his back, the manner in which the forest prowls and smirks at this thing that does not belong. It is not tension that bids him, though it is palpable with every twitch of golden leaf and the way it catches its breath when he, daring so, pauses to look into the dark, deep wood and its paths beyond his own. For a moment it is as if even the crickets draw their strings and the birds quiet their chorus, looming in wonder that he may stray.
When it resumes its same breath, it is as though it walks with him through the dark. It has grown tired of compliance, of obedience, of each wanderer drawn steadily down its winding paths without question. It looks to Erasmus with a spectator's curio, and grins a chain of fireflies. When he gazes, they summon together a gentle communion of glittering light, their buzzing soft and distant droning, and though he stops on the trail to watch the small moon carries on. It casts a pale light on the low-hanging boughs, casts a glare over the sparking of fireflies as a few jut and stutter their flight beneath it when it passes, and on, on, on. It does not stop until it is far ahead, just almost out of sight as it rolls itself slowly beneath the shifting red-gold of an elm limb. The fireflies between them congregate and dance, and at once breathe into another life.
The line of their silhouette darker than the great forest that surrounds them, they draw together the dim glowing form of another figure, another vagrant lost on the forest path. Erasmus does not question its odd nature – the Erasmus-That-Is cannot discern what is unnatural between the strains of distant universes and the one his Erasmus-That-Was can recall. He only knows that Novus is a shifting realm of shuddering oddities itself, and tends to unravel into delightful mysteries. A more sensible creature may run back down the path of which it came, or simply watch as the thing looks to him with expectation then pivots carelessly, drawn into the shadows that crept along the path. A more reasonable fellow accustomed to the dangers of Delumine may watch it in wary, but continue on to find that pale faerie light that waits and notions: choose.
The forest, when the figure descends into its darkness, takes a momentary breath. He can feel it in the way the lanterns creek on their arbors and the way the saplings sway impatiently, the manner in which the crickets and toads chatter back to each other now, halting their previous melodies. And perhaps, it thinks, reaching deep with prying fingers into the mind that was, that Erasmus may have been cautious enough to continue on, ignoring that figure as it looks to him now and notions: choose.
The Aether stirs, humming softly to itself in wonder, and without a second question takes to the shadows that have held stead along the path. And when he follows that firefly silhouette, he knows the forest has quit holding its breath.
He waits for the storm.
But here, in the orchestral bounds of Delumine, he wonders if the forest waits with him.
Though it cries out with the songbirds and dreams with the crickets and bellows with the pond frogs, it holds its breath as Erasmus keeps to the path, following beneath that soft lofty glow. It waits and follows curiously at his heels, leaves reaching softly for his horns, fireflies riding just above the heat of his flesh. It is tender, but he knows even a predator is tender when soft-padding the crisp leaves; he sees it at his back, the manner in which the forest prowls and smirks at this thing that does not belong. It is not tension that bids him, though it is palpable with every twitch of golden leaf and the way it catches its breath when he, daring so, pauses to look into the dark, deep wood and its paths beyond his own. For a moment it is as if even the crickets draw their strings and the birds quiet their chorus, looming in wonder that he may stray.
When it resumes its same breath, it is as though it walks with him through the dark. It has grown tired of compliance, of obedience, of each wanderer drawn steadily down its winding paths without question. It looks to Erasmus with a spectator's curio, and grins a chain of fireflies. When he gazes, they summon together a gentle communion of glittering light, their buzzing soft and distant droning, and though he stops on the trail to watch the small moon carries on. It casts a pale light on the low-hanging boughs, casts a glare over the sparking of fireflies as a few jut and stutter their flight beneath it when it passes, and on, on, on. It does not stop until it is far ahead, just almost out of sight as it rolls itself slowly beneath the shifting red-gold of an elm limb. The fireflies between them congregate and dance, and at once breathe into another life.
The line of their silhouette darker than the great forest that surrounds them, they draw together the dim glowing form of another figure, another vagrant lost on the forest path. Erasmus does not question its odd nature – the Erasmus-That-Is cannot discern what is unnatural between the strains of distant universes and the one his Erasmus-That-Was can recall. He only knows that Novus is a shifting realm of shuddering oddities itself, and tends to unravel into delightful mysteries. A more sensible creature may run back down the path of which it came, or simply watch as the thing looks to him with expectation then pivots carelessly, drawn into the shadows that crept along the path. A more reasonable fellow accustomed to the dangers of Delumine may watch it in wary, but continue on to find that pale faerie light that waits and notions: choose.
The forest, when the figure descends into its darkness, takes a momentary breath. He can feel it in the way the lanterns creek on their arbors and the way the saplings sway impatiently, the manner in which the crickets and toads chatter back to each other now, halting their previous melodies. And perhaps, it thinks, reaching deep with prying fingers into the mind that was, that Erasmus may have been cautious enough to continue on, ignoring that figure as it looks to him now and notions: choose.
The Aether stirs, humming softly to itself in wonder, and without a second question takes to the shadows that have held stead along the path. And when he follows that firefly silhouette, he knows the forest has quit holding its breath.
He waits for the storm.
@Official Dawn Account - Erasmus chooses to follow the fireflies.
