Merlin 3:12 “Cobalt of March”
Amongst matters of logic and senseless emotion stands Merlin and Nick as the dead with rigid mortal expressions and poised to pore insignificantly strew, imbuing the very sense of anguish and vivid remorse on this scene of wreak and havoc, stares a soldier of ill-gotten formidability, tiny scars aplenty gained of service to many crimes or sharp claws. Merlin notices a symbol of a slave army branded on the soldier’s leather shoulder armor covering tattooed skin. Nick unnoticing rummages the dead for trinkets, as small rings and things pass from soldiers of misfortune to his mercy, nary on their deaths, Merlin approaches him, and he shows Merlin the coins and rejoins their plot to thought by slapping him on arm amidst conversation to point at the approaching ruffian.
Most dead or dying hath, a soldier emerges from blood and fog and echoes of chaos, only to scream at them dauntingly in matters of morality and rage, a battle cry as his hands become emblazoned, Merlin and Nick choose laughter at the man causing him to pass-through the pooling blood and swirls of smoke from lingering mist. Merlin readies to throw a smallish ball of lightning, of more noise than poise, as Nick approaches foe smugly. The fighter screams again this time in a fear ineligible to be mistaken for malaise languor, lingering feverous terror of the phoenix and flying rider. The soldier attempts flit, Merlin and Nick laugh surreptitiously looking subsequently to all parties involved, and laughing more so again when seeing flyer.
The phoenix, Alerion, follows and circles, the running soldier leaps apace only to turn in desperation with fire of fingertips throw, to attempt blasting the phoenix in dullish presentation of fire and light, a sporting confidence of familiar. The fire at rider and beast causes Troy to illuminate and bird to radiate, the fiery breeze a welcomed nest to land and rest wings open, for hearts at landing ease the talons open and capture the caretaker of firestorm magic, pinned and sliding in the mood and blood several paces length. Beneath mighty talon caterwauls the soldier, throwing hexing spell-cast fire again, the phoenix does not balk and rider dare not talk as one dismounts and familiar bathes in flames as would plants in rain.
The soldier pulls a dagger and stabs the phoenix in its leg, it examines the infliction perturbed merely, and lifts talon briefly only to slam hold of him again. Troy pushes and brushes the firebird’s breast, shaking embers of snow, but causing it to relent from the dire pressuring grasp.
Merlin: “It seems you are steadily determined to be questioned.”
Ulric: “You are beyond the scope of logic or reasoning, demon spawn, abrupt in manner, defile me!”
Troy: “We are not demons here, in a manner of speaking.”
Ulric: “Imperious liars, spare me the vaunt of poison ivy on the discord of terror, come, I have a gift.”
Ulric holds a runestone in his palm, a dark cobalt piece with symbol grey etched. The grounded mage holds the stone until his eyes match the ashen rune, Troy’s alabaster leathered skin becomes grey like writ ash, and Alerion’s temperament becomes febrile and lucent as it lacks flight and begins to burn the flames of resurrection. The air of moribund obscurity, multifarious dark bolts of lightning strike Merlin and spread from him by thin jagged power-lines manifold to every corpse in the field, numerous diversely dead bodies begin to exist and develop nominal life. Merlin seeing sluggish graven resurrection mires in insane torpor unable to stop all things, seeing Nickolas thru clouded foreign allusion, calls of terrored desperation.
Merlin: “Nick, kill him or something!”
Nickolas spins the strong of his blade once over the back of his hand, with both palms stabs down into Ulric, the storm collapses, as do all thoughts and thinkers, and returned to respite are the undead.
The phoenix stumbles and moves unto Ulric, but stopped by Merlin, his hand against the shoulder wing point. Upon further examination of the body, Merlin finds, buried amongst tattoos of a fern with many outlined fronds, a tattoo over dead Ulric’s heart.
Merlin: “Damn, he’s one of us.”
Nick: “One of us, he tried to kill everybody?”
Merlin: “Look at this tattoo; he’s a demon hunter…fie on graces.”
Nick: “That berkano rune placed squarely on his heart?”
Merlin: “In his case, a sigil of brimstone, what he used for that hex.”
Nick: “To these his surly digs and moneyed at end.”
Merlin: “These tattoos of a fern also, put his gear well-worn.”
Nick: “Be it too late to save?”
Merlin: “By far, he found the worst in thought and sight.”
Nick: “Why would he battle in haste, without stealth?”
Merlin: (standing from squatting) “It’s nearly the grass moon, demons have artifice designed to deceive, best in the summer convocations. Other else I know not.”
Nick: “A hunt for that other wizard you said to’ve known?”
Merlin: “In my regrets, I will have hoped, as this one breathes its final breath, which side he took.”
Troy: (short of breath) “Demons don’t fear cold.” (Stumbles and falls.)
Nick: “Get to Troy.”
Merlin: “Can you move?”
Troy is on his knee in the muck, his far hand muddy from his attempt to balance while resisting unconsciousness, he breathes deeply tranquil the cold air and looks to them both.
Troy: “Yes, it is just a cold sweat.”
Merlin: “You look like leather, let’s get clear of all this death, shall we all?”
Merlin hears silence in his mind, his scrutiny of complaisance draws his eyes to the fears of his thoughts, which he reckons resides in the forest trees beyond him, seeing nothing he turns with his comrades toward the village they aversely departed ago. Witch eyes investigate secretly on them, by her actions undiscovered, obfuscated through the bleak distance she is unnoticed at they leave hence.