Is this what I called home? (Open)

[Erasmus]

Within the little symenestra lockbox Erasmus followed the petite woman, absorbing the new location where his race possessively guarded the precious walking female corpses of a successful harvest like mother grizzlies with their young. There were many things there to catch the youthful lad’s curios and pacified gaze. After all, life was a scavenger hunt, a jigsaw puzzle, an unsolved riddle: Erasmus simply refused to allow any possible key to his memories’ taunting locked doors be un-salvaged due to ignorance of a detail or otherwise lost by misuse of his valuable time. His guid took him to a room before he could realize they had reached their destination, his narrowed eyes peering towards the impregnated female as she slouched to the ground. Who were the lucky parents of the murdering child wreaking this havoc inside the surrogate’s odd-looking shell? They all looked ugly to him, the worthless people symenestra tended to take advantage of so effortlessly… they didn’t belong, stuck out drastically in this perfect garden of wonderfully sculptured strikingly audacious people. Even in their own prison, the lesser beings seemed like individual splashes of neon pink in a distinguished world of black and white. No wonder his kind held them in such an isolated state, if nothing else they were imperfections against the beautiful woven canvas of Kalinor. Especially when dying. The poor creature before him looked like a moth caught in a spider web as an eight-legged creature stole her blood from the inside out. It was a horrible sight, a pathetic sight, something not pleasing to Erasmus’s eyes… not because of ‘guilt,’ but because it displayed a sickly fact, the fact that they relied on these weak humanoids to slowly gain power, strength, and status. He looked up, his expression mutual like always. Eyes tore into his insides and ravaged his confidence; it was not the welcome he had received just minutes ago. When the woman introduced him to Swyph he instantly wondered how she had known his name, but he didn’t ask, feeling such a question could be inquired later. Prolonged seconds of silence followed as Erasmus took in the appearance of his assessor as well. He relaxed his stance, not bothering to give Swyph a fake smile. As it was, Erasmus felt transparent in the presence of this man already. “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, I don’t mind waiting until you are finished.” He gestured towards the girl on the floor in the form of a slight nod. It occurred to him the expression ‘strange mage at the Nest’ (made by the rather friendly gatekeeper) had been lost to him until now. ‘Strange’ struck him as a spot-on when looking at the slim figure. Perhaps they would get along... Erasmus thought himself the strangest of them all. He couldn’t think much else what with being denied the facts of his life. When the man still remained silent Erasmus continued, “You see, I was told you can help me find something I’ve lost. To defend my vagueness… I have no idea what that is or how the loss occurred exactly. I don’t know who I am.” He didn’t shift his eye-contact with the mage, a unfamiliar nervousness in his posture… afraid of What the man was looking at so fiercely. Symenestra were proud people, and Erasmus was a wisp of nothingness in the shadows of their pride. A stranger to his own home and a nobody who strived to prove otherwise.

[Macabre]

The corners of Swyph’s mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile as he flipped through Erasmus’ twisted face like the pages of a worn book. While Swyph could not read minds, his sense of empathy was strong and the ability to illicit emotion in others on his own whims seemed to make others believe he actually could. Something seemed to be missing, buried deep within the recesses of broken wits. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the whimpering mass of human flesh that had receded to the back of her simply carved room. She had begun to gather her sheets around her legs and swollen belly, complaining of the cold, tears still rolling down her apple cheeks.

A thought crossed Erasmus’ mind, not a voice, but a notion that seemed to be forced in rather than concocted in his own. She’ll die soon, it implied, they all die soon.

Swyph lifted a hand, his countenance softening as he gestured for the young man to follow. That same hand joined the other in the depths of spacious pockets as sandaled feet shuffled along smooth stone, perfect in its formation; one often wondered how painstakingly long it took their ancestors to carve Kalinor from grey rock; how many had given their lives for the cause of a new home? A single life lost was one too many, for the Symenestra. Erasmus’ head swarmed with Swyph’s train of thought as the bulbous room shrank into a short, narrow corridor, and then opened again in an even larger array of small digs cut into the vastness of gently lit rock. Impossible amounts of silk hung in all directions, softening the rock and allowing for easy travel to upper tiers.

Here, despite the room being larger, the tiny nests were largely unoccupied. Swyph’s fingers left the relative warmth of his pockets to grab hold of one line of silk and stepped out of his sandals, easily lifting himself from the floor and to a smooth carved second tier room. Before Erasmus could assess the climb, he found himself trailing Swyph, as if some push had forced him to blindly follow the leader.

When Erasmus crested the second level, he would find Swyph sitting cross-legged, hands in his lap, still staring in silence at his peer; it was hard to tell if it was profound assessment or a lackwit stare those crimson eyes held, but they sat unmoving for most of a chime before they changed. Black rippled through the alabaster of Swyph’s bangs, his cheekbones morphed and twisted and the face that was once unnerving became a mirror of the amnesiac Symenestra’s own. The transition was so fluid; it seemed almost subtle, until Erasmus found him staring at himself.

Swyph cleared his throat, lifted a hand to appraise a throat that moved and worked. The vibration was always a surprise to him, no matter how many times he took on the skin of another. He smiled Erasmus’ smile, and spoke his voice. “There is more to you than you let on,” he began, exhaling in a breathy laugh, “is it because you are hiding something, or is it because you cannot remember?”

[Erasmus]

Like a mechanically programmed automaton or a puppet noosed to an unseen silken string, the symenestra trailed this slim figure as if Swyph’s shadow was nothing more than a roadmap to his impending future. Erasmus would have done anything to gain a speck of his old self; however, as he crested the last ledge the child of Kalinor found his feet frozen in place, and for once on this journey, he hesitated to move a step further. He merely sought to melt back into the ebony cloaked forest of which he had emerged and never return, because now he faced the stranger he longed to know, and still in his mind answers didn’t show themselves. The thick and soft black main of hair twisting above his scalp, the deceitful expression of peace, and those vermillion ponds of bloody dark orbs, all taunted him relentlessly. He had often ferociously glowered at this thick-headed stranger through a looking-glass, or else the reflection of a tranquil pool. Of course he had seen Swyph morph into the ‘stranger,’ but the physical appearance of himself did not cease to enthral his concentration, and he ached to know the story behind those eyes of his own. Erasmus’s hands betrayed him, disallowing him the knowledge of what they had accomplished in the past; what had they built? What had they destroyed? Those feet that carried him, now crisscrossed, but still demeaning... how many miles had they walked? Oh if only he could know where his footprints had been! Those ears that refused to let him listen to the past, which only allowed him access to the present. Those lips that didn’t speak of memories at all... what had he said in his past life? And finally that voice of his, how many others had heard of his voice? Would he ever know who this shell of a being belonged to? He felt like a thief living in a dead man’s domicile. It wasn’t his body. He only woke to find himself bound into this man, supposedly known as ‘Erasmus.’ Nevertheless, who was he, who was he Really? A name, a face, two ears to hear and two eyes to see, a nose to whiff and a mouth to form words, feet to carry him along his endless journey, hands to shake other strangers' hands, but nothing on the inside. He was an empty vessel with a blind captain, sailing in an endless sea of murky water. He couldn’t observe through this figure’s outward labyrinth and into the inner mechanisms. He was lost, a wandering mind with empty rooms in place of memories, unfilled chairs in place of relations, and vacant cobwebs taking the place where a soul used to be. As he stared at the mirror image of himself, he wanted to look away, but he was fascinated still by the antics of his new teacher. No, to recede back into the forest, to die without answers, such a careless decision would get him nowhere. Erasmus knew he couldn’t move forward if he chose to walk backwards. Like a shark in the ocean needs to persistently be in motion in order to stay living, so does Erasmus depend on learning more and more about himself without ever ceasing. He didn’t have time to rest from this journey; he would have followed the clues to the ends of Mizahar if he had to. Clearing his throat, the latter sceptically lowered his lithe frame to the stone floor in front of the mage, clearly less comfortable underneath the watchful gaze of his own pupils. After a drawn-out silence of contemplation, he grimaced and finally looked away. “I assure you, I’m not hiding anything.” Erasmus inspected the lines on his palms, overturning his hands to trace the dark veins weaving underneath his pallid skin. “You have my sincere gratitude for receiving me, not to mention the fact there was no notice whatsoever. I’m truly grateful. I suppose I should start from the beginning? I hope I don’t disappoint you, it is a dreadfully uninteresting story.” He nervously glanced to his assessor as his fingertips brushed against his glass-beaded necklace once again. The habit was so natural Erasmus hardly took notice of the motion. “My first memory begins year 510, dragging myself out of Thunder Bay. I was a specimen of perfect health, other than being incredibly sore. A pouch of funds and some pages out of a journal made up my inventory. The information from the paper consisted of enough to identify a corpse and rightfully slap some useless dates onto a grave marker. I was clutching this in my fist.” His thumbs slipped under the beads to lift the necklace into view. “I managed to unearth my way back to Kalinor without much harm. I possess common sense; I encompass different skills, lore, basic wit, knowledge that I’ve accumulated from who knows where, but with nothing to personally connect oneself to the world. I walk in the cadaver of a stranger. You see, I don’t even know my last name. I honestly am at a loss as to where I should begin, Mr. Quercus.”

[Macabre]

“So you remember nothing?” Swyph’s brows—those that belonged to Erasmus—lifted and slumped, before he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, “Forgive me, I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone that simply washed ashore with no inkling of how they got there; nothing at all?”

When the dark-haired Widow gave little more than a shrug, a shake of his head, Swyph’s lips drew a thin, flat line. It was easy enough to take on the guise of someone a sobbing surrogate would explain in full detail, slip into their skin, offer kind words and soothing suggestions, but this was something all together different. His mouth pursed; the hint of a smile glinted in his bloodied irises, an acceptance of the challenge.

“I’m glad you came to me, but understand, the mind often forgets what it does not want to remember. Wits can loose and unravel; you may not be the person you think you are. The gods may have gifted you with a clean slate.” His head tipped in Erasmus’ direction. “If you’re prepared to continue, I’m going to need you to lie on your back, and close your eyes.”

His final words were laced with djed, so bitter on his tongue it tasted of bronze-rimmed mizas left on a cavern floor to rot. “I need you to clear your head, and trust me.”

oocShort reply is a little short. I’d like you to PM me with details of exactly what you want Swyph to uncover, whether it be an entire history, or fragments, or something else not mentioned that I would need to know before I can continue. Thanks!

[Erasmus]

Erasmus balled his hands into fists to release tension. His voice was on edge, but he still managed to carry a respectful tone. “I’m sure. Nothing. No, I Want to remember… I have to… I-I don’t know why, but… I don’t want a clean slate. I don’t think I’m Anyone. I don’t know What to think.” He listened to the man speak in his very own familiar voice. Fear was starting to nest inside his emptiness, skepticism and doubt roosting within him. Did this man think him a liar, or a lunatic, or both? Was this Erasmus’ doing? Was he the real reason, the real roadblock to his very own memories? However, he was reassured of this man’s seriousness when Swyph instructed him to continue with this strange ritual. He did as he was told, obeying Swyph without question. Lying on his back, the coldness of the ground felt like a bed of ice, but he wasn’t too uncomfortable. He was glad to close his eyes, also. That meant he didn’t have to see his mirror image while Swyph poked into his thoughts. If the mage could, indeed, do just that… What was he planning, anyways? The waiting did not bother him; it was quite relaxing in this place. He reminded himself of what exactly ‘this place’ was. Of course it had this sort of effect… Kalinor didn’t want the surrogates to harm their unborn offspring by being stressed or going too insane. He had faith in the loyal ties the race shared with each member. They were hardly a violent group towards one another. Unless he was not included in this understood friendliness… because of whatever he’d done in the past? If Swyph found the memories of a felon whirling around in Erasmus’s cranium, would Erasmus be persecuted? Would Swyph turn him in? He couldn’t afford to think of these things. He had to know. Erasmus’s skull slightly nodded, he tried to clear his head the best he could. He exhaled, relaxing his muscles. Swyph’s voice was startling, but all the more reason to do as he says, or so Erasmus confirmed. Who better to trust than a symenestra? Well… if you are a symenestra yourself, that is.

[Macabre]

Trust yourself. For if you cannot trust yourself, who can you trust?

The thought wafted through Erasmus’ head as Swyph leaned forward, pressing his hands to the man’s shoulders. He closed his eyes; just as well, the pain of his headache had flourished from a dull ache into a throbbing nuisance. He relinquished his djed’s tenuous hold on Erasmus’ form. Swyph emerged from the raven-haired man’s face, ragged from his body’s change. White hair rippled across a wide forehead, where black veins drew thin branches past his hairline and down his cheeks. His shoulders sagged. He concentrated.

Colors, bright as the sun itself flooded his plane of vision. Paint bled across mountain peaks that pierced the clouds; eagles larger than horses cut a clear blue sky; men and women with hair like fire smiled at him. One woman lingered while the others wafted away like leaves on a breeze. Her freckled cheeks flushed pink, steely blue eyes pierced him, made him shudder. He felt something: a connection, beyond that of a hunter and his surrogate, but the pang of guilt soured love’s warmth.

Then she was falling—no—he was falling. Swyph gasped, balked, and nearly lost his concentration. Two sets of hands reached out for him, they were warm, earthy; they were divine. Two faces grinned at him, and as soon as they had appeared, they were gone. She was gone. The cliffs and eagles and people with hair of fire were gone, and there was an emptiness so profound that Swyph finally broke their mutual trance and lifted his hands from Erasmus’ shoulders.

Swyph’s mouth opened and closed. He was quiet for several heartbeats, and then he spoke. He’d kept Erasmus’ voice, for he had none of his own. “You left Kalinor,” he began, unsure of whether or not he should say anything at all. “Something happened, you—” He wrung his hands, sucked in his bottom lip. He couldn’t look the man in the eyes. It was obvious something had moved him. Stoic, silent Swyph looked genuinely bewildered.

“You shouldn’t be alive.”

[Erasmus]

He felt nothing. Or… well, he thought he felt nothing. When Swyph spoke, Erasmus realized, with discomfort, that he had indeed felt something, or was the something the true feeling of nothing? Because at the strange nest man’s first syllable, Erasmus suddenly, bewilderedly, opened his eyes, and was aware of the world and all its terrible little needle-like somthings, and noticed that at some point, he had fallen into a dazed, peaceful, lovely little lapse between unconsciousness and Mizahar. He wanted to go back, he wished for Swyph to do whatever he had done… to take him back to a world where trust was a never-ending, unbroken chain… a place where all he had to do was lay on the floor like an inanimate object… where he didn’t feel the nagging pull to go somewhere, somewhere he couldn’t remember. He hated that feeling. Why wouldn’t it leave him? Why couldn’t he move on? What did the past mean to him, anyway? If it denied him the joy of knowing, then he shouldn’t give the past another thought. Yet, the rejection from his very own memories… it hurt, like a gaping hole in his chest! Why? He went back to remember what words Swyph had spoken, embarrassed that he had been too caught up in himself to fully comprehend them and their essential meaning the very first time. Yet, this only heightened his questions. How could one escape death? What did that mean? He couldn’t believe it. His eyes widened in disbelief, which also made him inwardly cringe. This particular symenestra brings out the worst in me, thought Erasmus. The young eighteen-year-old usually didn’t seem so… what was the word? Animated… personalized… expressive, yes, he usually wasn’t this expressive: truly and honestly expressive. This news was just so limited, though. He nearly lost what composure he had left, his eyes flashing with angry disappointment, but he took a moment to collect himself again. All of this, all for nothing? Tentatively, he searched the old man’s face for more details. It comforted Erasmus that Swyph was in his own body, and not the three-dimensional mirror he’d seen before. Nevertheless, the mage looked so tired. “I apologize, for… what I’ve done to you, sir. Whatever it is I have done…” Demons of fear leapt behind the shadows of his mind, his imagination twisting reality into a horrific story of which he couldn’t bear to live with… as if this would be an excuse to die… no, not an excuse. More like… permission? A man as young as he was expected to have such aristocratic confidence; however, Erasmus’ supply of fake smiles and forced pride had all but diminished when faced with his life, the life he felt he did not own. No, instead it seemed that his past owned himself, as if he were a slave to its domineering cruelness. A ragged breath tore through his lungs as he sighed, his voice weakening. “Did I… was I a criminal? Do I deserve to die? I’m not running away from whatever it is, I’ll take responsibility for what I’ve done! Was I to have been hung? I’ll turn myself in, Mr. Swyph. I have no pride in living, not if I was a disgrace.” He tried so hard to comfort this man, for both his own selfish reasons, and to express his genuine concern for the quiet Swyph’s health. It was odd to care for someone else, someone other than himself, but an oddly familiar feeling too. “Was it really that horrific? Are you alright?” Ready to leave, he moved to stand. Erasmus waited for Swyph to tell him what to do, feeling utterly pathetic for doing so.

[Macabre]

A nimble hand reached out, grasped Erasmus’ arm. Swyph’s hold was firm, but gentle, persuasive. His irises had bled into the crimson pools of his gaping eyes like an abysmal black tide. His nostrils flared, and he gave a rigid shake of his head. “No. You weren’t—aren’t a criminal,” Erasmus’ voice replied as the white apple in Swyph’s veined throat bobbed, “you’re good. Good to the core. Good enough for—”

There he paused, his grey lips hanging open in hesitation. Memories still swarmed and tugged on his wits; memories that weren’t his, memories that were trying their damnedest to nestle into the tangle of his own, trying to fill the emptiness the same connection had caused. Swyph’s hand loosened and receded back into his lap, between the folds of his silk robe.

“Good enough for the favor of gods.”

He felt hypnotism’s effects in a dull, painful throb behind his eyes. His grasp on Erasmus’ voice was slipping, and he grew hoarse. “You fell. You were to die, but you were spared. You need to look forward, now, not dwell on these things you cannot remember—should not remember. You were given another chance. Go to the Temple of Viratas. Shed your blood, say a prayer for Him, and then for—” he could not remember the god’s name. Or did he know in the first place? “For those who saved you.”

Swyph managed a smile. “You must live with pride, Erasmus. You are symenestra. You’re with your people. If nothing else, be proud of that.”

[Erasmus]

Faced with this specimen of power and yet weakness all at once seemed to shut the young man up as he listened and dwelled on all Swyph had so earnestly emphasized. The instructions, the assurance, the struggle to grasp and the push to move on… it all wrapped around Erasmus like the fabric of a foreign land. This was not his world… as before he had claimed it so. All he had once ever wanted was no longer at his fingertips, as in the forgotten past his simple needs had been. This newfound man in the body of an old soul was no longer full, but rather an empty shell. And the boy, because eighteen is still the age at which it is acceptable to call one’s self a boy, didn’t yet get it. Nevertheless, Swyph’s words carried him, and Erasmus smiled weakly. “Thank you…” He hesitated, wishing his own words not to sound as arrogant as they probably did… “I just do not think, Mr. Quercus, that I Can be happy with just that… there is something I cannot see, something that I must find… I don’t know… I just keep thinking to myself, if it is so important to me than whatever It is must be worth searching for. You have genuinely helped me, I cannot begin to describe my gratitude towards you. This seemes like the first actual step I’ve taken in a long while. Thank you.” There was a peace he did not have before coming here, a monumental shard of his puzzle: the fact that he was a somebody meant to live. He wasn’t a condemned criminal, but instead he was… well, That he would have to search for on his own. With a respectful goodbye, Erasmus found himself exiting the Nest and wandering the red strand until he came to a stop at The Temple of Viratas. The mage’s words resurrected in his mind: ‘Go to the Temple of Viratas. Shed your blood, say a prayer for Him, and then for— For those who saved you.’ Deeply inhaling, he could taste the smell of blood from the pool in the center and hear other worshipers reciting prayers to this god of his race. Erasmus stood at the entrance for a while, his hand gently tracing the seams of a cloth wall until his eyes caught a glimpse of a shape from behind it. At that moment Erasmus slowly stepped back, taking in the blurred silhouettes of the dead that rested beyond the thin fabric lining. The symenestra of the past, those that would never be forgotten… those who were honored, those that rested in such a sacred place as this for all eternity… it sent a chill down Erasmus’s spine, for it was such a beautiful concept… but he wanted nothing more than to roam the different sections of the tomb now, looking for himself wrapped in silk. And though it frightened him to think of such a sight, he didn’t want to leave… but he did. For a first day in the place of his birth… well, the woven city didn’t disappoint. Surly it did deepen his inner struggle, but it made him feel home… and his life would change here; it would build and blossom here… perhaps he’d eventually make it in the temple with his ancestors, or perhaps he would find himself somewhere else… or maybe, he wouldn’t find himself at all. One thing became certain, the lost widow really did love this place they call Kalinor. Who wouldn’t?

[[ The end.. I just felt like it would be a good time to end this, I’m sorry it took so long! I enjoyed writing with you both, Poison and Macabre =) Thank you again. ]]

[Poison]

THREAD AWARD!

Skills: Interrogation 1, Climbing 1, Observation 2

Lores: the Morning of the Moths, Acquaintance: Avadon Anice, Acquaintance: Swyph Quercus, the Nest

Notes: If you have a problem with the way I graded the thread and think you deserve more or different XP and Lores, let me know!