06 December 2010

Merlin 2 - 9 Duplicity

Merlin 2 - 9 Duplicity


The fires burn each as abated, grievous exaction blunt the blast has spread vaulted disparagement as the carnage has spread fear, pain, hatred and the power on infamy of the demon who snakes his way, cutting through the shadows toward the castle as the palaces burn. A weakened rain poorly mists the scene trying to dampen the fire's ambition, an unrequited mind stares with vitriol, immaculate and tattered in reproach of pleasured indignity another ancient immortal the same in tatters without accolade.


The hour of conflict draws near, the unrequited mind seeks the king's court, time and temple opprobrium fills the hearts of every that it pass but in clear sight, plain without inhibition and impediment, for his malice it aspires to kill the Runelord. The tower is dearth of avocation, decoration, degradation of the city the disparagement burnt evokes the citizens to muster pulling patrons from collapsed stations and in armor crowding their sorrows and treasured homes. The tower window gives an advantaged vision for the wizard Merlin, staring to the street to slight the egregious plight at first sight with first bound. The termagant enters the broad way of the main street. The hasted chaos of confusion allows a solace in pass through the sundry lane toward Merlin and the tower. Its steps concealed by anarchy as much blighted by the darkness that clouds it from the fire light and waking stars of night.


The worried patrons of patent hide and heed council with the king, the mendacity of the crime leads only a furthering search for the assailant of the city as doth the countless haunts fallen, in the tainted moonlight lament the symphony of the cretin of war. As if dragging vapid shadows by kite string the paltry nightmares of squire dreams in this critical hour, whence the guards of the bastion gate found missing or maimed. With security reclaimed and awakening infinitely contrite and confused, an emissary rushes to warn their overlord the prophesier. Merlin overhears the whispers in the catacombs and rushes to front the lowered doom and to glean vestigial truth of who has come to murder or which has come to die.


Sleek to stake the yet cunning assassin to the fires of disaster Merlin leaves his place on high, into the carnage, he will rule the rue and slips into a tunnel of vision seek to scour the earth for the termagant, but in burgeoning anger, he directly discovers the sprawling provident shadow of the demon. Undertaking he secretly follows the destroyer into the king's quarters, lifting his feet, Merlin exudes a bronze mist and he as well consumes the light, a dark cloud without shadow nearly invisible. The enemy is complete colors in negative inside of inundating shadow, an evil counterpart the heir apparent swart opposite of Merlin, a rational gaze with dark hair and stained skin, transparent eyes glazed with smoke onward in garb the color of volcanic ash roiled with black ink, an identical stature immaculate with boots of soft wood and lion’s skin. An evil counterpart, trying leave behind a duplicitous fa├žade as a gift to blast the king's quarters, rests a pouch on the regal bed, the edges of the satchel unfurl to all sides as Merlin approaches in arrears of vengeance due, and the termagant stops as if to notice the predatory sound. Merlin is lurking in the light when the demon turns, as he draws a strong breath and glides to the wall in retreat, the blade of his dagger not hidden by his transparent guise, but the foe is blind to the light and glare of the sharpened edge goes dost. It looks to its rucksack and opens the lid of a small strongbox, two tiny snakes crawl from it and hide in lieu the linens of the king's bed, soon leaving them and the room with a final small steel case, Merlin follows meretricious and fixedly.

Approaching the tower, as the antechambers hold a quiet expectation of the dawn, the shadows do not forsake the humble sleep. The termagant's dark life elevates its ability to a conscious misdemeanor, solitude and silence and with of great dementia the vigilante determinate walks step by step and heartily apace swift heretofore steadfast wherewithal. Passed the remarkable pictures and statues eager to carve and paint the skies with the blood of heroes by means of the dastardly package of lustrous yet volatile contents, passing by windows and few waking eyes of those cowering in the dusk forlorn.

A sublime resignation it mixes the explosive excoriation without reckless regard for opening observance, Merlin arrives and irreverently contravenes as he steps forth without the cloud of magic that consumes the hall, from it pacing forth, with sinister demeanor and from arrear, approaching the oblivious termagant. Staring are scared scholars, bystanders as the onlooker rap fear into their standard, plumes of smoke wistfully adrift the cinders of the city seen from open window, ado architecture forsooth indeed behind the tapestries in terror those that have not flit hence. Daubs the spirit leaving the guile tenacity wont to evil feigns divinity, the lines of the whited sepulchers that stand errant in the realm made of faded fair marble course the sign of glowing dark magic working over his skin. Merlin stands pallid with heavy eyes and Termagant with visage gruesome, a hoarfrost chill of fear the bent of his genius becoming manifest as Merlin’s own mystical powers of manna coursing in stricture pattern becomes luminary from beneath the skin. The evil incarnate throws aside the vials and concoction, as it breaks the glass on the wall it dithers from Merlin’s encroach as while a table or throne between them both.


Merlin: “Who sent you?”

Termagant: “It matters not, you shan’t survive… I was sent by the mist…”

Merlin: “I cannot hasten death,” Merlin paces around the obstacles at differing paces to judge the fear of his foe, “…I may only call it by name…”

Termagant: “I am the name of a myth, ghost of the nether.”
Merlin: “Who sent you?”
Termagant: “…Seasons of the abyss.”


Stand there these sentinels, illusory, sufficient accuracy they are frightfully frozen in step, unhurried and wise is Merlin as he afore they approaches the termagant, chaste of the meridian shallows the devil with strange uncertainty of any hasty devil with locked eyes. Merlin anxiously yearns to learn the flaws of the fable foe, to fell it by simple throes. The demon quickly begins a fight with a short-chained knife on its wrist in a vain attempt to dash and destroy Merlin, but in subterfuge and distraction. Amongst the device and error, swiftly it makes a tangential escape through the tower window, leaving behind Merlin to his virtue, fleeing into the demoralized public masses with its evitable wretchedness, plummeting over ledge out of sight. Merlin heeds sage wisdom and stares a dark figure sliding down the course dust wall and callous hands against the slope of the spire court. Tearing through the masses and swiftly turning the alley its dark cape chasing around the distant corner, then with the demon gone Merlin retreats to the sea of the mind, to remember the clouds and storms above the pools of quicksand, where he had seen his opponent last in the ages of past, the tragic protagonist torments.

Superfluously the shadowy anonymous figure has left with more than a vagabond's garner another instillation of duality yet in hatred anew is the evincible immortals, each unto the other in chasing the dark wizard have come to believe that each they are the other, one fearsome foe and one dastardly defendant irrevocably convinced that they have lastly found the termagant.