Before the reign of Queen Haylyn, any border guard would have looked at Erasmus and immediately taken him for his mutant heritage. Best case scenario, he and Pompilius would have needed to limp away elsewhere with nothing more than a poor first impression of one of the Dire Straits's most stalwart kingdoms; in the worst circumstances, there would have been a bloodbath.

Fortunately, Erasmus was not aware of any of this. And thank goodness, because it had taken so much convincing for him to come to Inaria in the first place. Erasmus and Pompilius arrived to open gates. A sprawling meadow divided the forest from the borderlands like a moat; the flowering purgatory outside Heaven's gates.

Erasmus knew nothing of fairy tales, otherwise he would have compared Inaria to one. He didn't know anything about purple-blossoming trees or blue rivers or pastel skies. His dreams were darkness and blood-stained desert stone. Where pieces of bone would be strewn along a barren, eroded earth, forest undergrowth prickled his paws. Soft purples and buttercup yellows bloomed. He had nothing to compare to paradise, so instead, he looked at Inaria and failed to comprehend any of it.

Once his nerves settled and he adjusted, he'd find the sight of his new home soothing in how dissimilar it was to his former prison -- currently, its unfamiliarity set him on edge. He adapted to change in a slow and excruciating crawl like he was breaking all the bones in his body and reshaping them into something new. He could not allow himself to feel relief yet, and he most especially could not let himself feel hope. Erasmus's eyes shifted to Pompilius from over his shoulder, and he murmured, "Stay behind me."

He was still responsible for Pompilius's protection. Again his eyes returned to the dark and unknown space between Inaria's trees, like he was studying an empty mansion from behind its fence. Once his howl reached the ears of the vanguards that patrolled this kingdom's outskirts, he had no inkling of what would emerge. Losing himself in the infinite fantasy of what-ifs meant becoming trapped in his hysteria, so he refrained from speculating. Erasmus released his howl -- a proud and keening dirge -- and waited, hair bristling, his spine shivering, his rib cage rattling with each breath. Externally, he was apprehensive, but not hostile. Behind the mask, he was in turmoil, and his scent betrayed it.

(Maybe it would be better for them if Pompilius did all the talking. Erasmus certainly would not protest. Between the two of them, Pompilius was the more agreeable and charismatic, and it was integral to get on these people's good sides.)