Erasmus, the name comes back to him over the waves of a fleeting dream – shards of memories cascaded over each layer of being, recollections of a boyhood and a warriorhood and the thrills of the rustling wilds tangled like burrs in his mane. Lines pull across the shadows of his contours, greeting each fold with a hunger and a restless light, and his eyes divine a hundred pyres that glimmer from the stead of an unending night. Erasmus, or the thing That Must Become, so grins as it must, or a flicker of something that may look like a grin, or a blade, or a spark. Forever the question: What would the boy do? What would Willfur do? What would the girl in the courtyard do? Its skin shudders imperceptibly, prickling over the remembered sensation of starfire and a cosmic, soundless black ocean. What would the crust of that world do, buckling to accept a name that would never fit?
It listens intently to the next part – essential for being, but unsure as for what being, for what purpose was there in horseflesh and a world of glowing bulb-flowers and cantankerous shopkeepers whose blood tasted like metal and salt and ire? Was it the Library from which all things flowed, knowledge spilling from its contents like creation from the womb of the universe? Friends, family, experience, accidents – and a pause then, as the Thing That Becomes Erasmus watches the comical nuance of a gesture it does not yet understand (humiliation? Friendship? Anger? Sadness?) It thinks to friends and struggles to place many faces with the proper descriptor; family is a word that ushers the thought of a cooing mother doting on her foal with tales of stone-slurping serpents and otherworldly constellations plucked from the sky, of rivers overflowing with black ichor and golden ridges.
The Thing That Becomes, turning over and over in the wasteland of an abandoned thought, turns its eyes on the field once more and the throngs of glimmering bulb-heads illuminating in the distance as dusk's light dims, dims, night unfolding in its violet veil. The silence between them waxes, the creature complacent with the quiet, until Willfur strikes up once more. The mention of the Library catches an ear and an eye, pupil honed and sharp with a tentative delight. The mule drawls of subjects as if they are casual happenstances within the hearth of wisdom, and the enigma that is such a place reveals itself as knowledge by whim - written, as it were, so that the image of some galaxic stronghold of deific intelligence no longer stands in its place. Written, as if by book or tome, the images of books gleaned only from the storage of memory provided by the creature's predecessor. There is some small disappointment that this world should be so physical, but humble.
“Yes,” at once, though there is a chance that the word may have cut short his companion's final sentence, it is calm but urgent, and he steps forward to reclaim its grace. “Show me.” Swimming through the ideals of the world that is, through customs and primaries of conversational engagement – it recognizes that an error was made with previous conspirators, as apparent by their dire reactions. Though hunger stead in his belly, Willfur was a necessary tool in discovering such a place as The Library, and it was made clear that devouring his brain would not provide him with the necessary knowledge. It adjusts, correcting, versing the platitudes of societal manners shelved in the bygones of less primal times. “If you would.”
exit, following willfur.
It listens intently to the next part – essential for being, but unsure as for what being, for what purpose was there in horseflesh and a world of glowing bulb-flowers and cantankerous shopkeepers whose blood tasted like metal and salt and ire? Was it the Library from which all things flowed, knowledge spilling from its contents like creation from the womb of the universe? Friends, family, experience, accidents – and a pause then, as the Thing That Becomes Erasmus watches the comical nuance of a gesture it does not yet understand (humiliation? Friendship? Anger? Sadness?) It thinks to friends and struggles to place many faces with the proper descriptor; family is a word that ushers the thought of a cooing mother doting on her foal with tales of stone-slurping serpents and otherworldly constellations plucked from the sky, of rivers overflowing with black ichor and golden ridges.
The Thing That Becomes, turning over and over in the wasteland of an abandoned thought, turns its eyes on the field once more and the throngs of glimmering bulb-heads illuminating in the distance as dusk's light dims, dims, night unfolding in its violet veil. The silence between them waxes, the creature complacent with the quiet, until Willfur strikes up once more. The mention of the Library catches an ear and an eye, pupil honed and sharp with a tentative delight. The mule drawls of subjects as if they are casual happenstances within the hearth of wisdom, and the enigma that is such a place reveals itself as knowledge by whim - written, as it were, so that the image of some galaxic stronghold of deific intelligence no longer stands in its place. Written, as if by book or tome, the images of books gleaned only from the storage of memory provided by the creature's predecessor. There is some small disappointment that this world should be so physical, but humble.
“Yes,” at once, though there is a chance that the word may have cut short his companion's final sentence, it is calm but urgent, and he steps forward to reclaim its grace. “Show me.” Swimming through the ideals of the world that is, through customs and primaries of conversational engagement – it recognizes that an error was made with previous conspirators, as apparent by their dire reactions. Though hunger stead in his belly, Willfur was a necessary tool in discovering such a place as The Library, and it was made clear that devouring his brain would not provide him with the necessary knowledge. It adjusts, correcting, versing the platitudes of societal manners shelved in the bygones of less primal times. “If you would.”
exit, following willfur.
@Willfur ; don't sweat it, as you can see i'm the last person you need to apologize to for taking long haha. <3
we can end it here if you'd like.
