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eliotwaughHe doesn't remember how he got here, but here he undeniably is, sunlight all dappled across the mossy forest floor. Eliot looks around. What was he doing? There is a vague sense of unease despite the summer afternoon, and if Eliot could only remember where he was before this he might know what he was trying--he was trying to get away from something? That much seems clear to him, but what?
He takes a breath to steady his nerves. Of course he feels uneasy, he was probably brought here for something, and Ember and Umber are probably going to be lofty and cryptic and dire about it, and whatever paltry thing was on his mind before he came will just have to wait. It's not important now, he has a mission to get on with.
Because Eliot knows where he is, of course, the picturesque quality of his surroundings gives it away immediately, the colors all hyperpigmented and pristine. Like England, but moreso: he's in Fillory, and people don't get brought to Fillory unless there's something important to be done. He remembers that from childhood and reading battered copies of the books that had been thumbed through by countless children before him. Ugh, maybe that's where he was before here, stuck in the bleak church basement where his parents left him every week to try to force him to care about Jesus. He doesn't want to go back there. He doesn't want to go back there ever again.
Eliot needs to find out what his quest is, why the rams brought him here. Maybe if he does a very good job in helping to save Fillory from whatever danger is going to befall it, they'll let him stay.
He starts to walk though the woods, in search of a path or some landmark he'll remember from the books. It's slower going than he'd expected, though, because he keeps tripping over roots and leaves like he can't move correctly. Or maybe he's younger, somehow? Time works differently in Fillory, maybe he's a child again. But Eliot looks down at his hands, and picks up a leaf (perfect and gold and amber, and for all he knows maybe it is made of precious stone, stranger things happen here) and it looks like a normal size for a leaf against his palm.
A rustling sound startles him, and he turns sharply, his heart racing. The leaf he was holding drifts to the ground as slowly as if the air were made of oil. Eliot wishes he had a sword or something. This is Fillory, he should have a damn sword.
"Who's there?" he calls, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
He takes a breath to steady his nerves. Of course he feels uneasy, he was probably brought here for something, and Ember and Umber are probably going to be lofty and cryptic and dire about it, and whatever paltry thing was on his mind before he came will just have to wait. It's not important now, he has a mission to get on with.
Because Eliot knows where he is, of course, the picturesque quality of his surroundings gives it away immediately, the colors all hyperpigmented and pristine. Like England, but moreso: he's in Fillory, and people don't get brought to Fillory unless there's something important to be done. He remembers that from childhood and reading battered copies of the books that had been thumbed through by countless children before him. Ugh, maybe that's where he was before here, stuck in the bleak church basement where his parents left him every week to try to force him to care about Jesus. He doesn't want to go back there. He doesn't want to go back there ever again.
Eliot needs to find out what his quest is, why the rams brought him here. Maybe if he does a very good job in helping to save Fillory from whatever danger is going to befall it, they'll let him stay.
He starts to walk though the woods, in search of a path or some landmark he'll remember from the books. It's slower going than he'd expected, though, because he keeps tripping over roots and leaves like he can't move correctly. Or maybe he's younger, somehow? Time works differently in Fillory, maybe he's a child again. But Eliot looks down at his hands, and picks up a leaf (perfect and gold and amber, and for all he knows maybe it is made of precious stone, stranger things happen here) and it looks like a normal size for a leaf against his palm.
A rustling sound startles him, and he turns sharply, his heart racing. The leaf he was holding drifts to the ground as slowly as if the air were made of oil. Eliot wishes he had a sword or something. This is Fillory, he should have a damn sword.
"Who's there?" he calls, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
