Who...
the utterance is an anomaly, it washes over him over and over and over again, and just as he scrapes the remnant of an answer, he is dropped back into the waters of ambiguity. Its grasp passes over a name, only: Erasmus, Erasmus, Erasmus. it pulses in his chest, feels hot in his throat, it tastes like death when he rolls it over his tongue and grins, savoring. But it doesn't answer. It can't help watching like a feral cat, amusedly pawing the air with flicking eyes when the mule strains and stretches in the dark.
His gaze peers over the trees, warily, and it watches. It doesn't know sympathy when the man apologizes, an honest inflection of regret clouding with curiosity. It pines for that curiosity, soaks in it, because it and hunger are the only things known. They are the only things that matter currently, the recurring dream of what and who and where and all the other wonderful w words that provide no relief at their namesake.
It is caught by the mule in his eventual head-eye swingings, and he feels obliged to step forward. The field of phosphorous bulbs greet him, bobbing, and one smashes its head against his knee. It feels like nothing, like a bubble of air burst against him. Something about the way it busts into a galaxy of blue so soundlessly is satisfying, and he watches the spellbound patrons create signals in the distance. They speak to him, wordless ramblings of joy and contentedness, and the breeze dances among them.
The mule apologizes again, and the thing furrows his brow. “intrude..." It murmurs softly, letting it roll off his tongue lately. And almost automated, the Erasmus mind gives meaning to the word. He complies with conversation, knowing that it comes with rules and etiquette, but not entirely knowing what those rules are but that one often responds, not only listens. but how much he does prefer listening, learning, and watching. “not intruding." the words come to him, broken by his baritone that almost seem guttural, a wolf whisper. “am i?" and almost too aggressive, without their proper inflections. beneath his dialect swarm a hundred tones, a distant accent of a many place, but above all: the voice of Erasmus that was triumphs. It's a young man's honey-lacquered tone, bated by something dark. something you've heard once, in your dream of handsome but questionable strangers.
He wades into the cool blue lights, more of them smacking their bulb-heads against his knees, his chest, a pleasant contrast against the earth-red of his belly. His spine turns silver in the moonlight, a haunting effect when it pulls over his expression as he raises his head and the depths of his eyes swarm endlessly as a black snake pit behind sharp twin moons. Tell me, tell me, “what is this?"
the utterance is an anomaly, it washes over him over and over and over again, and just as he scrapes the remnant of an answer, he is dropped back into the waters of ambiguity. Its grasp passes over a name, only: Erasmus, Erasmus, Erasmus. it pulses in his chest, feels hot in his throat, it tastes like death when he rolls it over his tongue and grins, savoring. But it doesn't answer. It can't help watching like a feral cat, amusedly pawing the air with flicking eyes when the mule strains and stretches in the dark.
His gaze peers over the trees, warily, and it watches. It doesn't know sympathy when the man apologizes, an honest inflection of regret clouding with curiosity. It pines for that curiosity, soaks in it, because it and hunger are the only things known. They are the only things that matter currently, the recurring dream of what and who and where and all the other wonderful w words that provide no relief at their namesake.
It is caught by the mule in his eventual head-eye swingings, and he feels obliged to step forward. The field of phosphorous bulbs greet him, bobbing, and one smashes its head against his knee. It feels like nothing, like a bubble of air burst against him. Something about the way it busts into a galaxy of blue so soundlessly is satisfying, and he watches the spellbound patrons create signals in the distance. They speak to him, wordless ramblings of joy and contentedness, and the breeze dances among them.
The mule apologizes again, and the thing furrows his brow. “intrude..." It murmurs softly, letting it roll off his tongue lately. And almost automated, the Erasmus mind gives meaning to the word. He complies with conversation, knowing that it comes with rules and etiquette, but not entirely knowing what those rules are but that one often responds, not only listens. but how much he does prefer listening, learning, and watching. “not intruding." the words come to him, broken by his baritone that almost seem guttural, a wolf whisper. “am i?" and almost too aggressive, without their proper inflections. beneath his dialect swarm a hundred tones, a distant accent of a many place, but above all: the voice of Erasmus that was triumphs. It's a young man's honey-lacquered tone, bated by something dark. something you've heard once, in your dream of handsome but questionable strangers.
He wades into the cool blue lights, more of them smacking their bulb-heads against his knees, his chest, a pleasant contrast against the earth-red of his belly. His spine turns silver in the moonlight, a haunting effect when it pulls over his expression as he raises his head and the depths of his eyes swarm endlessly as a black snake pit behind sharp twin moons. Tell me, tell me, “what is this?"
@Willfur
