Merlin 2 - 6 Bastion of the Runelord
Just as other luminaries abandon nullification, the episodic tarry eludes traditional apprenticeships, often resorting to manipulating the masses to achieve their rewards. For the prophet of runes in the bastion above Utopia, a differing tale is to tell. As a young boy yet too young to tell his tale, he began a dream of gentle step between the realms of sleep and silence, walking to concerned fate and did not wake until the hunger pangs shook him from clairvoyance, barefoot and crying.
A Jotun archer hunting in woods of late fall brought the little boy back to a low town of the foothills, shortly thereafter they found the child with memories to foretell, and having an instinct of fate. Doing what they had only wished the boy to do, feeding and tasks they could not easily pursue, taken it was to the attention of the Jotun king. For many years, the child would fit in the cupped hands of the old and large king and favored by the Spaewives, the half daughters of The Jotun and Vanir the child received their protection for following years wherein.
In the later years like most lost Vikings, he felt a great desire to explore and did so in search of peers the same as like himself, eventually is was so that he arranged a bartering, one where the Jotun would sell him while feigning impiety to the Utopians. In effect, a grand swindling for part of the Utopian fortune and clandestine the young prophet would regard them as esteemed and still secretly visit them on their days of fest and fete.
However, of pass it is now that is happens twice the many years later that the Runelord and the apposite Merlin consternate in compositional collusion to discourse the current events at hand.
Runelord: “I've spent a fortune in good help.”
Merlin: “Lacking the funds are we?”
Runelord: “The money is here!”
The king throws out the window without pane, his glass to the guards of the sentry promenade far below the bastion as Merlin’s fellows approach the entrance to the court of prophecy.
Runelord: “…The value has become thin, alas. I've made it so things like work feel like play for this city...however mercenaries will not hunt for good wishes and without them we are ripe with spoils of war.”
Fatigue of charismatic parlay from interpolating the eminently shining character of phantasmal message dynast in origin shone of bright and lustrous eyes in asset that set the Runelord a fret thinly veiled beneath the casuistry of regality. The visible madness and sporadic attention caused from peering through the ether and remembering the future that would blister the eyes of those without a soul such as his. He is the divine providence of evidence brought through dissolute thoughts and memories exalting the rune prophecies, each at one specific reason, chosen to do so with sanctity that drives them from every captor into the vanguard and so yet paces in turmoil.
A soldier announces Merlin’s allies to the Runelord in whispers before he allows them their entrance. He is fair in complexion, a stance quite stoic in stature closer to the color of ash and far from shades of tenure travels whilst the sentry subtly mentions and disperses as the sovereign bids them entrance.
Patience staunches in the oeuvre library, each tome hand bound, an inventory of posh prosodies and gauche grimoire. Interpellation as a cataleptic lector, a reproof viceroy to the litany of books and treasure, he himself seems to invalidate post apoplectic and profound fulmination pondering deleterious blasphemy that they represent, instead choosing to wear the calico wools and unpolished leather that fetters his feet, high in quality but not heretical.
Runelord: “But I will not if you wish.”
Merlin: “I think it would be for the best that they have not.”
The Runelord points to them and looks to Merlin who in turn nods wherewith, the priest of runes disposes prejudice and heresy and looks to them with arms folded regally across himself in draping robe and tunic wrap and looks at them as he begins to speak.
Runelord: “Which punishment will you bestow?”
His voice was loud and bolstering, causing the timid in the room to cower at the mention of painful words. Power with archers in open stone doorways with balcony and harpoon, principality the decor festooned in fabric and dominion with a spectacular view of the entire city from a castle built against the towering aviary.
Merlin: “I have to catch him first.”
Mostly a confusing complaint in its least, as the mercenary David looks onward scrum and sortie, as do the others as they spread comfortably into the room while he inadmissibly reveres the city ruler. Very much they are able and ready of such indemnity, but as common as ever so often Nickolas' quick eyes and quicker fingers purview and ascertaining everything to be noticed on the shelves, as quickly as possible beneath the unrequited discretion he scans the room, swiftly surveying before being noticed but so enthralled he had not even heard the question. Troy is astonished with the view of the land and less interested in gainful gatherings.
Ana stands as if ere she belongs thence, her color of fabric is more the war driven red than any other be that by those of the hall, regardless of her impression she compliments the situation in a gracefully stoic stance, hands and fingers folded together before her and waiting for Merlin to speak. The mercenary David is causative, pervious sarcasm dramatic irony a toss in the pot, pathos of parody and hyperbole as unlike far in the happenstance below the room, this was a place of warm and yielding agrarian parochial satire. David stands paroxysmal of the king cleansing in a washbasin, the order was not what he expected as he waits, staring over the penury of a proselytizing deity pomp and fop yet in leather wrapped feet just as his, washing worry from his face and the zephyr heat from the back of his neck. He ponders miserly about how much good help will cost, as often as unredressed pages and the likes of those to study the volute parchments were in the room.
From near the shadows an apprentice of apothegms brings about a piece of leather folded over itself, to reveal a winter star, a blue crystalline stone, white above and dark below as perhaps the shadow of the hand and soaking the rag with condensation.
Runelord: “Take it back, its costly…just to do what the air will do.”
With a flaccid wave of his wrist by the forearm and backhand, he gestured for the servant to be off with himself.
Servant: “Yes my lord.”
Runelord: “It is so hot, even in the high winds...trapped closer to the sun methinks.”
The Runelord stops and pulls his heel close to the other and pivots in contemplation and abrupt observation, readily staring and approaches David who humbles in the regent’s presence.
Runelord: “It is hot isn't it? …A drink, would you like a drink? Of course, you would. Bring us something to drink, something to cut the thirst of this strapping young lad!”
The Runelord looks to Troy in the window, Troy humbly within penchant of grace slightly bows, but the king’s sight not promptly dissuaded glares at Troy’s wound of seemingly seething ivory and leather.
Ana stands by a sofa seated with one of the dainty servants. The servant quickly rises and moves for her to laze in the light just within the open stone arched window. David's resentment fades with the feigning comfort of Ana and the others, Nickolas perusing the books on the wall and Troy from the ledge staring out over the lands extremely eager and separated from trivialities waiting to soar the skies once more, and the king's arm around him jostling him as if old comrades in a room triumphant fraught opulence.
David’s view is a room of elegant Goths with large hodgepodge tomes, writing little letters with substantial quills privy to the order, and others who pretend portentous importance, a scene of poetaster fanfare much different from the Viking’s life that immerses his heritage and memories his life anon.
Merlin: “Why not catch the criminal yourself. You are the prodigy of omens?”
Runelord: “I am not fit to see such corruption.”
Nickolas: “Why are we here?”
Troy: “Merlin, what does he imply?”
Runelord: “To catch an agent of naught favor ever sought, this foe is definitively furtive.”
Merlin: “It is a termagant destroyer.”
Runelord: “I beg not the chance of this…”
Out of the loft, he stares over his kingdom, through one of the many windows between Ana and Troy. Nickolas eats of pleasant pheasant and fig, with some of his company watching, slowly tasting delectable morsel while the king stares at Troy’s wound until his conscience incinerates.
Runelord: “I dare hope not…”
The scribes creating their taxonomy schemata with endued literacy become imbued with a silence that sweeps the room, the Runelord stares at a newly indistinguishable guests of foreign origin and slowly walks to David the gladiator and put's his arm around him and walks him slowly to the window.
Runelord: “We have lost lives there, there and there. I have sought to no avail. Fortuitous your arrival has come.”
A dandy very precise about his wear holding a pouch in one hand and his robe above the front of his shoes as he walks enters the room, taking a bottle from a patron before they can pour from it and sets it down on the nearby table. Letting the somewhat large wooden door collapse shut, shaking the dust on the bottom of his robe, a cautious person with haste forgotten of formalities suddenly remembers decorum and bows once before the king.
Messenger: “The stones as you requested.”
The Runelord looks to David, shakes him a final time, and says.
Runelord: “They do that whether I ask them or not.”
The servant slowly rests a red velvet cloth onto a rag-covered table made of a short pillar that though quite large stands severed slightly aslant. The servant rushes to the king, kneels receiving approbation once the king puts his hand on his head, and removes it, and the servant stands and paces to the window with the others who rest in shade behind defilade. The city auger begins a votive whispering prayer, pulls shined bone runes with glowing symbol and lets them fall from his hand to let them roll and tumble across the slated plait. The polished white runes tumble like gravel from ruin ancient, some facing up or down across the fabric.
Runelord: “He is still in the city.”
Troy: “Who is?”
Merlin: “As sounded step of sinister fetch a villain.”
Nickolas: “Fine but it will cost you.”
Runelord: “But of course, I have fortune of plenty.”
Whilst Ana lay in the window for her first refilling of her glass she returns her attention to the clouds, to wash the peasant’s feast Troy drinks from the decanter after Ana has been poured a drink of vine fresh wine, as Nickolas' uxorious demeanor is lost at the very mention of treasure. David begins to resume his detestation, mixing confusion and contempt all over again and pacing to wit the writ upon the stones. The doors burst open, two men come rushing in faint, exhaustively exasperate with hands upon their knees.
Soldier #1: “A carrier wagon was just destroyed at the gates sir.”
Runelord: “We have our defender, arm the walls and tell me where it enters.”
Runelord looks to Merlin with a smile and hands together with fingers crossed.
Soldier #2: “It happened at the south gate mall, but of a departure your highness.”
The magistrate silence and then screamed as if driven by anger itself.
Runelord: “Mend the wounded in these fighting times of torture, we have avengers.”
Ana: “Which evil is it that haunts the crime?”
Runelord: “Find him, and all of this is yours!”
The Runelord walks to the window, and moving Troy aside opens a treasure chest of rare metal bullion and precious stones.
Runelord: “Before the darkness rules the day.”
Facing the throne of oft judgment, the prophet faces the window with his hand on the back of throne.
Runelord: “Doth wrathful gods send you, bring me a foe to festoon, dead or alive!”