His chest rises and falls with the repose of smoke lilting, a small gesture of tranquility and acceptance in a realm that offered few mercies – one, from the sun, as shadow fell across his features and filled the pits of his eyes with an impish look of wonder. Another, with the quiet that precedes the humble reaches of the village, these suspicious streets that teem with breeze and whispers as if none here knew who their neighbor truly was. Three, a manner of escape – as the alleyway he found himself in revealed itself to have only one way in, but a myriad of paths out, out into the courtyards from whence the majority of the guards had left unattended for their festive engagements, for certain watch over their hated (did some love him?) tyrant king. Erasmus himself was left to his misanthropic tendencies, away from the parade. Away from the throng of people and their carried out pandemonium that filled the glistening sandstone streets with all too much, all too great a fury of emotions. Here he would wait, he resolved, left to anonymity in the alleyways as he preferred – to listen and observe the tales the passerby held in the name of the skinwalking king. He could not tell how many streets the procession had ambled, how many more were left, how many of those guards would stand by the gates of the court, wary eyes waiting for those like Erasmus to steal past dagger in tow. But he would see.
That is, as all he could do. He held no dagger. No sword. No bow. A hunter, a warrior without a weapon, as tragically poetic as it was, he scowled each time his elbow brushed where a hilt should be or each time a doe stomped tauntingly in the meadows while his stomach roared with its peculiar appetite. It would serve him no good to steal past them and find a certain death waiting in the halls; fortune was not meant to be founded by absolute fools, though it had a humor. He was gifted with patience, in what measure was left to be discovered, and would test it in simply waiting, in watching, in learning, and if it suit him – to leak such information to those who found it valuable. He entertained the idea of returning with such intel and relinquishing it to the use of Isra, who seemingly charged herself the lonely chore of hunting Raum herself, but the thought brought a small inkling of rebellion that crept up his spine. He preferred to see it through and did not mind the deaths that stood between them and their prey, while she would lament any innocent souls be razed by the blade for the sake of their hapless associations. To him, all was fair in war.
So it was in these intentions that he stood and waited, finding himself a perch at the end of an alleyway that offered little serenity outed from the noise in the central streets, listening to each stranger and their bits of conversation that drifted in and out of casual hours or anxious gossip that fell hushed when the found the eyes of their neighbors. Little things, mostly useless things, weatherly talks peppered with their disgruntlement toward the parade, the congregation, the dictator placed at its heart. The wrenching of such a heart, and immediate placation that came as a gasp as they looked about to be sure they were not overheard.
Erasmus amused his eyes with trivial things at his feet or the sky, so as to seem an unimportant spectre resting just outside of their wares, nothing but a ghost looming quietly in the dark. As he is, a wraith, blossoming with purpose and a fate unsealed, a purgatory wretch who came and went as he pleased. He is dust and shadow, all that was rich about him in this instance was the stretch of gold that cracked along his shoulders, winding their veins like marbled black granite. He wore the shadows that fell across his rugged delineation like a veil, sheer and dead and cold as ever, and if any of them had thought to look his direction they may think of him as little threat to their going ons. His preference lounged in this casual still life, estranged from them as he always felt, as if he did not ever exist except as a dream, a shadow, (and perhaps in a later life, a nightmare.)
That is, he feigned this supernaturality to a point until he heard the clodding sound of hoofbeats finding him from the streets behind, a noise that broke his stagnant boredom and echoed along the high walls of the alleyway. An ear flicked back to regard its approaching gait – casual, calm, and so coolly smooth, enough that it piqued his interest to turn and observe. His new audience was a creature of no real consequence as of yet it seemed, just another bystander who found the same path and found it in him for a good stroll. Erasmus's eyes watched calculatively, almost aggressively, as was a trait too hard to break. His expression is often too much severe for a youth, too dark and sharp, pensive and wolfish. Where the boyish strands of blissful mortality veined his face in a comely ease that offered grace and handsome suavity, a presage of horror seemed to lurk in its pits and valleys, seemed to roughen its softness to fine points that gleamed with predatory feature. The older he became, the more that manner of horror changed him from a likeable boy of gracious beauty to a man of dangerous luxuriance, good looks that shifted like smoke over mirrors, rugged and somber. An underworld elegance.
His expression loosened some when the man spoke, but he almost does not hear the words at first – they drift over him like a cloud, just barely missing his ears, listening like it were a harpsong to the decadent smoothness of eased syllables. He drank the dialect in. More followed like a cure to trance, and his eyes crept back over the quiet suburbs at their corner, the sand and dust that rolled through the nothingness like laughter. Of course he did not know what else to do. He was not from Solterra, not for but a half hour at most, and all the splendor he had witnessed was merely the crumbling wall spent with diamonds. There were no Night Markets, no Scarab to squander his stolen riches, no Pits here to scrap in. He was a stranger to all, especially to his newfound partner. But he would be a fool to state that aloud. Erasmus was careful to shirk all ties with Denocte before arriving into the heart of Solterra. His accent still held strong to the distant Wilds from whence he had been ripped from – a sharp dialect not too unlike Solterra, but a native could easily separate the odd vowels and rolling consonants. It was rougher, almost more primitive, its only saving grace being his eloquence and avidity for flowing words. He did not smell of Night Market incense, he had washed the brine from his mane, taken a dust bath in the red dirt and mingled sands just outside of the elatus crater. It served him to conceal these things when one was a suspicious character by nature.
Erasmus was not aware of who was friend or enemy in this treacherous scape. Moreso, he was not aware of the nature in which his new friend found its truth – certainly not while the villain king himself stood place at the center of the parade. Regardless, he relented nothing to what he felt could reveal, in any measure, his intentions, and donned the mask of a clueless youth effortlessly. “Not yet.” he shook his head, then swung it back as a commotion rose from the procession far behind them, a sudden fit of derogatory yelling that found itself joined by a few voices to follow, all jeering and chanting until curbed by the rush of guards. “I just wanted to step away from that,” to wait, to learn, gathering wisdom like a stone, “I've never seen someone so equally loathed and feared.” he pries gently, lifting the cover over a desirable conversation and patting it back lightly as if he couldn't truly care, he shrugs. “What is there, on a day like today? At least the guards appear occupied.” He let some whim enter his voice, a feigned childlike wonder that wrapped its way into his impish demeanor – as his eyes glistened with purpose and dare, all the while full with intrepidity that sprung from a nefarious well.
That is, as all he could do. He held no dagger. No sword. No bow. A hunter, a warrior without a weapon, as tragically poetic as it was, he scowled each time his elbow brushed where a hilt should be or each time a doe stomped tauntingly in the meadows while his stomach roared with its peculiar appetite. It would serve him no good to steal past them and find a certain death waiting in the halls; fortune was not meant to be founded by absolute fools, though it had a humor. He was gifted with patience, in what measure was left to be discovered, and would test it in simply waiting, in watching, in learning, and if it suit him – to leak such information to those who found it valuable. He entertained the idea of returning with such intel and relinquishing it to the use of Isra, who seemingly charged herself the lonely chore of hunting Raum herself, but the thought brought a small inkling of rebellion that crept up his spine. He preferred to see it through and did not mind the deaths that stood between them and their prey, while she would lament any innocent souls be razed by the blade for the sake of their hapless associations. To him, all was fair in war.
So it was in these intentions that he stood and waited, finding himself a perch at the end of an alleyway that offered little serenity outed from the noise in the central streets, listening to each stranger and their bits of conversation that drifted in and out of casual hours or anxious gossip that fell hushed when the found the eyes of their neighbors. Little things, mostly useless things, weatherly talks peppered with their disgruntlement toward the parade, the congregation, the dictator placed at its heart. The wrenching of such a heart, and immediate placation that came as a gasp as they looked about to be sure they were not overheard.
Erasmus amused his eyes with trivial things at his feet or the sky, so as to seem an unimportant spectre resting just outside of their wares, nothing but a ghost looming quietly in the dark. As he is, a wraith, blossoming with purpose and a fate unsealed, a purgatory wretch who came and went as he pleased. He is dust and shadow, all that was rich about him in this instance was the stretch of gold that cracked along his shoulders, winding their veins like marbled black granite. He wore the shadows that fell across his rugged delineation like a veil, sheer and dead and cold as ever, and if any of them had thought to look his direction they may think of him as little threat to their going ons. His preference lounged in this casual still life, estranged from them as he always felt, as if he did not ever exist except as a dream, a shadow, (and perhaps in a later life, a nightmare.)
That is, he feigned this supernaturality to a point until he heard the clodding sound of hoofbeats finding him from the streets behind, a noise that broke his stagnant boredom and echoed along the high walls of the alleyway. An ear flicked back to regard its approaching gait – casual, calm, and so coolly smooth, enough that it piqued his interest to turn and observe. His new audience was a creature of no real consequence as of yet it seemed, just another bystander who found the same path and found it in him for a good stroll. Erasmus's eyes watched calculatively, almost aggressively, as was a trait too hard to break. His expression is often too much severe for a youth, too dark and sharp, pensive and wolfish. Where the boyish strands of blissful mortality veined his face in a comely ease that offered grace and handsome suavity, a presage of horror seemed to lurk in its pits and valleys, seemed to roughen its softness to fine points that gleamed with predatory feature. The older he became, the more that manner of horror changed him from a likeable boy of gracious beauty to a man of dangerous luxuriance, good looks that shifted like smoke over mirrors, rugged and somber. An underworld elegance.
His expression loosened some when the man spoke, but he almost does not hear the words at first – they drift over him like a cloud, just barely missing his ears, listening like it were a harpsong to the decadent smoothness of eased syllables. He drank the dialect in. More followed like a cure to trance, and his eyes crept back over the quiet suburbs at their corner, the sand and dust that rolled through the nothingness like laughter. Of course he did not know what else to do. He was not from Solterra, not for but a half hour at most, and all the splendor he had witnessed was merely the crumbling wall spent with diamonds. There were no Night Markets, no Scarab to squander his stolen riches, no Pits here to scrap in. He was a stranger to all, especially to his newfound partner. But he would be a fool to state that aloud. Erasmus was careful to shirk all ties with Denocte before arriving into the heart of Solterra. His accent still held strong to the distant Wilds from whence he had been ripped from – a sharp dialect not too unlike Solterra, but a native could easily separate the odd vowels and rolling consonants. It was rougher, almost more primitive, its only saving grace being his eloquence and avidity for flowing words. He did not smell of Night Market incense, he had washed the brine from his mane, taken a dust bath in the red dirt and mingled sands just outside of the elatus crater. It served him to conceal these things when one was a suspicious character by nature.
Erasmus was not aware of who was friend or enemy in this treacherous scape. Moreso, he was not aware of the nature in which his new friend found its truth – certainly not while the villain king himself stood place at the center of the parade. Regardless, he relented nothing to what he felt could reveal, in any measure, his intentions, and donned the mask of a clueless youth effortlessly. “Not yet.” he shook his head, then swung it back as a commotion rose from the procession far behind them, a sudden fit of derogatory yelling that found itself joined by a few voices to follow, all jeering and chanting until curbed by the rush of guards. “I just wanted to step away from that,” to wait, to learn, gathering wisdom like a stone, “I've never seen someone so equally loathed and feared.” he pries gently, lifting the cover over a desirable conversation and patting it back lightly as if he couldn't truly care, he shrugs. “What is there, on a day like today? At least the guards appear occupied.” He let some whim enter his voice, a feigned childlike wonder that wrapped its way into his impish demeanor – as his eyes glistened with purpose and dare, all the while full with intrepidity that sprung from a nefarious well.
@Raum
