Merlin – 21 Pyromania
Be wary of the plants, for they grasp at flies, as do the other sprawls and crawls of the oceanic swamp this side of this mountain of sacrament, earth, ore, water, flora and fauna play in the river mist, the might of the Phoenix's large feathers heard scraping the stones if they brush, like hollow and dry twigs.
With the side of his foot, Nickolas slides brush together at a pile, lifting the first of found molted phoenix feathers. It handles like a butcher's knife, reckoning as such, as it begins to turn sour like the leaves of autumn, melting decay into the flyleaf. The storm stones spark when shaken and a clustered pit of kindling ignites with the aid of the tumbled flammable seeds of the red onyx flower, from Ana's pockets. The initial flame burns bright, pushing the heat to the stars, through the haze of aspect.
Their camps rests in a clearing of elastic yet ephemeral delectable vines, sour when raw, sweet when cooked, and when burned looks like stone bones and dark stones, and in the morning the remains of the fire would be a thin powder layer of storm crystal if used proper. Troy stares endlessly at the Phoenix's regal flight, far beyond the vision of control, wings spanned far above the land. A cold clear stream moves silently passed the brilliant fireweeds and the red and black paintbrush plants growing out of a rocky beach, low clouds climb the mountains from as close as the water on some of the distant shores. Without advance, the phoenix eventually tires and lands with stoic halt, faulting to the ground with a precise drop, it is nearly as tall as Troy and soon huddles in Sheldrake form.
Ago the sunny day, at dusk the sky brings hail and the storm that sways the trees for a quip duration, a moment no longer than the time it takes to notice. A sacrosanct serenity, the peaceful tide of quintessence as the day fades once more, consecrated by the familial bond in keep and mesmerizing willow. As the imagery pours into their consciousness the dream of any day, distracting them from aspect paradise, the embers shake slightly, a rolling coal, tumbled by imagination and acknowledged as such a spider of pure burning force begins a cautious crawl. The phoenix notices and gives a girded chirp. Troy rises to a sitting position and puts his hand on the bird's cerise crest as it looks to the fire, scowling for any further movement. Nickolas turns and rests once respite as the scarlet spider crawls again this time climbing across the confluent burning beams laid one on the other, this time dragging silver web. The phoenix squawks again, Troy already steadfast in reprieve turns again in frustration to notice it staring intently at the fire, vexed he shares confusion with the others and eventually rolls into slumber fold.
The phoenix lowers its head low to the flame, intrigued with its beak low in carnivore peregrine style, as the crimson ruby insect begins a move again. The large bird given to grudgingly moves low and slows, as the spider moves to the edge of the embers, crawling to the edge of the flame. Of many legs, the spider walks one foot at a time wary of the phoenix, but it stands tall to, spontaneously, bite one of the coals of old fiery roots. The arachnid wile grows to the size of a hand and makes a running for the brush. The phoenix jumps to the occasion and swiftly picks it up by beak; it attacks the phoenix's mouth and it releases. The bird picks it up again, only to reach tribulation again as it lets a smoke into the bird's mouth, and it falls and scurries. The phoenix locks a talon on its first strike over the firebug and inspects the tiny by comparison insect as the others view. In the moment of hesitation as if to think hard upon the little firebug, with a labored rising of its head and an arching, slightly fanning its elongated feathers of the back of its neck, it strikes hardly on the creature, rupturing it instantly, giving it a second peck for certainty. The warm waters of the burning stalks pours from it, steaming the ground as the phoenix devours.
Merlin: “Next time stop it from doing that.”
Troy: “Why is that?”
Ana: “It’s the book!”
Merlin: “Yes, the book…I could have closed it into my pages and used it for later. Let’s settle in, if we make haste, we can be there on the morrow.”
It is so then that they turn in and go to sleep, salvation's ecstasy bound to the moon. The fire begins to crawl to an escape, until it begins to shape as a human, and embers rise a soldier of eternal fire, the phoenix first to notice jumps to its feet in chaotic fluster its wings push a wind of bitter ash. The soldier coming to its feet in deathly pallor, its footsteps muted in soot ruins, is a florid fighter glowing crimson with darker armor, displaying brutal emotion and violent disposition.
With stone the shadow of light he glows divine, a rubric warrior of an earlier world, standing before them, sound awake. Nickolas throws the first dagger to scrape his fingertips, striking the side of its face piercing. After being hit with the knife lodged he turns his head with the momentum as the wound begins to bleed, reaching to his face to pull the blade, when he turns back to tirade the camp, the knife is in his hand, the blade melted, the scorn edge glowing. The darkest red is the entry of the wound, of fire and the void takes its first steps away from the flames as Merlin brings his sword down across the monster, which blocks by arm, and Ana launches a sphere of fire raised from the fire behind him, he stammers and smiles. The phoenix leaps and tries to clench the demon's heart by tearing with talon into its skin, but to it the fire tears into the cold and wounds, so it retreats taking Troy by his vest and towing him into the darkness.
Nickolas is a man without fear, and in the same moment as Troy's escape, he brings an uprising dagger to its hilt into the low stomach of the demon of the flame's deluge. The hell spawn grabs him by the neck with both hands, searing with dense fire until he vanquishes into deathly regicide. Nickolas soon kicks and gasps, at the very sign of his veritable lively fulfillment, the volcanic warrior drags a flame sword from its sheath carriage at his back, and dropping to his knee drives the sword into Nickolas' chest, despite opposition. Merlin continues keen slash and gash strategy with little avail, as with each many strikes the old sharpened edge lashings begin to fade, but of Merlin's forte is the drift.
Swift and fast he glides in his own defense, straight away in reverse, always facing the creature fighting with a battle stance and moving a step against for every two steps retreat. The faster he moves, the demon matches pace, the swifter he blocks the recourse is new stringent attacks. Merlin begins to slip into the darkness with the demon giving swift chase. Ethereal fury from an arcane delusion, Merlin takes maim from the demon's fire sword but does not bleed from a seared raging burn. Sliding back from harm's arsonist reach he puts his hand to a tree, running he lifts his hand from the support to reveal absorption of the blinding of false light, aching with firmament the limb seeping fire to its core.
He circles the field, dragging behind him conflict and trails of fire with each step inflammatory footsteps in the pasture. Ana has her own heart full of suffering and fire, as she cannot wait and die, she summons another fiery cannonade, to launch with fury and anger. An entrancing lean to then fro with precision of decision she throws the burning fire at the enemy, an impact to its side damages it so not like of aging mountains but of melting ice, a scale of deflection and intrigue, battle and chaos, she lets the fire flow to melt the metal embers of vengeance.
Merlin drops his sword, and finally his footsteps rest to the ground, kicking a leg aback he draws in every poignant ash with a detrimental anger, letting the fire flow the recursive flame envelopes, gathers, and pours around the creature, as Merlin imbues damage with an endless stream of churning decedent ash. Ana from the opposite position lets loyal flame flourish, a stream of combustion and outstanding natural beauty with her wrists together, as the fiery assassin begins to forge into an adulterated forged defeat, dry arid foliage and everywhere a burnt or singed ring on the ground of the healthy cheat-grass and the remnant fallen leaves of the autumn past. To nearly it's waist it sways and cries, swaying like a blade of grass, severe contortions of the remaining strafed physique it finds itself fell, in intensity of agitation of pour and melt.
Merlin: “Where is your master?” impudent, indignant.
Sweating and exhausted, the creature speaks with the sound of a hundred dying voices. Troy alongside Phoenix, make venture from behind the trees, Nickolas already stands beside to stare at the demon with interest and confusion. The demon cries in orison, the language spoken is not theirs, not assertively, for they do not act as to understand, they just stand and listen as the demon weeps and mourns with vengeful wound spilling blood filled with ash.
Nickolas: “What is it?”
Merlin: “I don't know.”
Ana: “Some shadow of hell.”
Merlin: “We will leave it for its lord to recognize, Ana will reward it with the fire it was forged and I shall make it rain…”
Small fires adorn the ravaged camp, the trees high on fire and low charred or at the very least chastised. The creature lashes out to Merlin, but humorously Troy slaps a piece of timber across its face from blind facet.
Troy: “What, I wanted to have an opinion?”
Ana puts her hands together behind it and restores a glow within the demon that had long since faded with the intense conflict. A terse spell, quiet and of deafening silence, until the suit malevolently glows a uniform permeation, no longer the contrasts of light in the contours of its armor, stoking until it reaches the fires of crucial mass.
The skies with diamond eyes, blue beneath the black clouds that parse over the lands, over the dark and covertly ancient, Merlin spreads his arms and it begins to rain from the sky, washing over the forsaken devil the cold confluence strikes the wretched unholy embers of vengeance to vague pose, forever entombed, sentenced to implacable eternity.