In the glee and the quiet of the dusky meadows, there seems to be an utmost peace that cannot be broken. It swings from the trees, lively and full as magnolia blooms, tossing their heads in the spree of summer light. It sways with the tall grasses in the breeze, dancing with each fine firelight and flutter of romantic gambol. Every breath and canticle unto the presence of life itself is swollen with harmonious verve, splendorous laughter echoing from each corner. Lovers engaged in play, friends gathered in a court of rapport, even strangers gallivanting in the pleasant yard – and it seems endless then, suspended in a moment of joy and childish coterie.
Erasmus is a black hole at its edge.
He stands in the shadow of an outcropping of trees, his silhouette a shroud among the spattering of autumnal leaves. Black marble wraith, predatory and leering, his hungry eyes carving each sight like burning, waxing crescents at the brink of the world. He watches each one – as a child may observe insects, with wonder and virginal cruelty that cannot be so wholly bad – contented by the quiet and the ethereal display before him. The meadows are a splendor even he cannot deny, though he has much still to comprehend.
And it is without particular persuasion that he changes his fixations, not unlike a carnivorous touring gaze, as each one fades and returns from the heavy-lidded darkness that stretches the misty borders of the meadow. It is a galaxic dance, one of blue-studded stars in a myriad place, its grasses, fireflies, and celestial bodies that pass one another in a whole cycle that he watches and watches and wonders what they know.
One close creature expels an odd noise, and the burning bright eyes tick to him instead.
The fellow is suspended for a small moment, before a curious eruption into a parade prance that waxes and wanes the luminescence that dines on each flex and frisk. Erasmus, not one to play favorites in the field, begins to return his sentry voyeur, when he sees that he is within the dancer's direct line of vision.
If sight would not betray the fellow, he would see the bay leaned against a young oak, or he would find the unmistakable beads of gold that hone intensely in their raptor sharpness. The dark vagrant would allow silence to clamber the space between them, but without the need for dramatics – he knows no better, where another may find it polite to look another direction or correct the inelegance by means of honorable small talk. Erasmus simply stares, apathetic, and the shadows crawl meekly at his heels.
He then reaches for the depths of the Erasmus-That-Was, for gauging encounters such as this came with some appropriation, certainly. The words evade him, but he does not blunder to grasp at each syllable: weather talk, political speak, simple greetings, all at once meaning nothing. When at last one may question his existence or sanity, he relents a noise in greeting.
In a way, it sounds like “Tell me," but it is too much of a growl that it comes out odd, clotted with misplaced vitriol and an uneven dialect, and it sounds more like barreling starfire than it does Erasmus.
Erasmus is a black hole at its edge.
He stands in the shadow of an outcropping of trees, his silhouette a shroud among the spattering of autumnal leaves. Black marble wraith, predatory and leering, his hungry eyes carving each sight like burning, waxing crescents at the brink of the world. He watches each one – as a child may observe insects, with wonder and virginal cruelty that cannot be so wholly bad – contented by the quiet and the ethereal display before him. The meadows are a splendor even he cannot deny, though he has much still to comprehend.
And it is without particular persuasion that he changes his fixations, not unlike a carnivorous touring gaze, as each one fades and returns from the heavy-lidded darkness that stretches the misty borders of the meadow. It is a galaxic dance, one of blue-studded stars in a myriad place, its grasses, fireflies, and celestial bodies that pass one another in a whole cycle that he watches and watches and wonders what they know.
One close creature expels an odd noise, and the burning bright eyes tick to him instead.
The fellow is suspended for a small moment, before a curious eruption into a parade prance that waxes and wanes the luminescence that dines on each flex and frisk. Erasmus, not one to play favorites in the field, begins to return his sentry voyeur, when he sees that he is within the dancer's direct line of vision.
If sight would not betray the fellow, he would see the bay leaned against a young oak, or he would find the unmistakable beads of gold that hone intensely in their raptor sharpness. The dark vagrant would allow silence to clamber the space between them, but without the need for dramatics – he knows no better, where another may find it polite to look another direction or correct the inelegance by means of honorable small talk. Erasmus simply stares, apathetic, and the shadows crawl meekly at his heels.
He then reaches for the depths of the Erasmus-That-Was, for gauging encounters such as this came with some appropriation, certainly. The words evade him, but he does not blunder to grasp at each syllable: weather talk, political speak, simple greetings, all at once meaning nothing. When at last one may question his existence or sanity, he relents a noise in greeting.
In a way, it sounds like “Tell me," but it is too much of a growl that it comes out odd, clotted with misplaced vitriol and an uneven dialect, and it sounds more like barreling starfire than it does Erasmus.
@Willfur ; hi, he sucks at introductions.
