Merlin 2 - 4 Within the Walls of Utopia
Another version of republic, reigning society and wandering beatific mistress and minstrel, well worn, bred, clothed, strong and garrulous denizen all to whatever dominion of faith that has recused, relinquished and remanded the evils of society that warrant such. In places, large stones the construct of the city walls bear the symbol of either an encircled large tree or a great serpent swallowing its tail, the very same symbol that dons the certain shoulders of the occasional wandering guards. The restaurateurs are delighted to have the business of the visiting mercenaries that come and go as they please, eating and making merriment or throwing daggers, playing boulder dash, dead lifting ore for gambling and wagers. The occasional pheasant pushed into the face to those who pace but mostly children of many ages running to impede the way, vendors shaking fares and wares much ado nothing in unrest, and the weaponries with old smithies behind tables under tent, and sons of their own or others guarding each.
A working nation idealistic of resonating celebration and bolstered by the capital achievements, then until worthy doth patient spurn the insolence and love for starvation, death secured disturbed heaven's path to sins corruption is a learned absolute. Fault of tragic dark havoc repentant to foils intent to murder rise selflessly frustrated and cruel to turn conspiracy in conversion, cynicism exempt the deceptive plotting ambitious cruelties marred by their own sin in captured ability for subtlety haunt the streets of the great city. The animal covered carts, large and small, blacksmiths, whitesmiths, vehement millwrights and alchemists and their books of barter trade all bustle in an artifice empire within the walls of forthcoming deviser ailments and an accordant windowsill for every ill.
Amongst the city is the arena, forged by stone and bone avouched as now a usurped training yard now supplanted as for given the duty of some distant military colony. Our triumvirate of magic, the trinity of reflection, old Nick who never ages, Merlin the son of sages and Ana whose fire within rages all beneath a shoddy wooden balcony in the front row stands, each eating with paring knives a leg of lamb, tearing pieces in contempt of time wasted waiting in the highness of the noon sun.
Ana: “You said you were to meet Troy in the aviary.”
Merlin: “I will.”
Out and ushered into the arena from three large box carts attached to doorways with no way to escape are criminals, released upon three large men who battle forge, spears prod into the boxes at those in tarnished thieves’ armor whom once usurped the law do now pay prudence or punishment. The eyes may at this point seem the only of familiar aspects often discourse of the gladiator to embattle their perception, trained by a master to fight before suffering crowds, of all weapons without choice. A stoic man given to counterbalance allegory so much as to fight as many men as fingers, none other than a memory of countenance who had escaped certain damnable fate by the fangs of vampires so many years ago with the same scar across his shoulder, stretched for age and wear and painted to camouflage it from his enemies.
Some of them run for the ruined weapons mounted to the wall as bell quite large sounds aloud for them before their acquisition, the smallest the first to go among them, then the more daunting battle among the brutes. With boundaries league all awhile perchance hidden weapon, until with little armor, he wins and scavenges for better armor and weapons from the dead, dying and dormant, the even warrior then leaves through the draw door, save killing everything he had wounded. All but men of pride had died, but most lay in wounded wretched piles of anguished agony, battered bruises and crippling cuts as he vanishes through the large door at the head of the arena and goes into the crowd.
Far beyond the metallurgists, later in a pub on a market street in the hot sun after seeing the skilled soldier verily win the fight, Nickolas notices him in a stupor, a chaotic undulating drinking spree versus a much more affable fellow of diminutive mental torpor and wavering apathy in the company of an obviously dwindling wine bottle.
Nickolas: “You're the man from the fight.”
David: “...Practice…”
Bartender: “Would you care for a drink sir?”
Nickolas: “I’ll have what he’s having.”
David: “Only half of what you have,” he said to the bartender and drinks the last of his large wooden stein and waiting for the last droplet.
Nickolas: “A thirst as such must be endless. It was quite the battle...”
The bartender pours another drink and begins to look to Nickolas before pouring a drink; Nickolas nods his head to allow the bartender to pour David a drink, David drinks engorged.
Nickolas: “How does freedom taste?”
David: “That was no, battle...”
He drinks the bottom of another cup an ambivalent attempt to become immune to drunkard demure.
David: “…I was sharpening my skills…”
David begins to walk after dropping a silver coin that spins on the table, the coin rotates and the bartender rushes over and stabs the table to fret the thieving scoundrels, Nickolas had paid for his of having sat. The irreverent situation ends in silence aside the passing transit thoroughfare, Merlin was listening to the entire conversation hiding the twilight of the shadows hiding behind the flagrant rays of the midday sun, as David leaves under a cloud. The old wizard Merlin nods his head as if to agree and Nickolas walks to follow David. As Nickolas runs on the street, Merlin approaches the winery.
Merlin: “Bring out your best cacophony...and I'll give you two of these...”
Whatever it was, Merlin kept his back turned against, none could see what was, ever, but the barkeep's eyes widen in glorious excitement. Nickolas is losing pace and runs to catch a hastened step and audience with David.
Nickolas: “What if I told you there was someone you could not best?”
David is at his throat with a dagger without a moment’s notice, dragging Nickolas across the ground almost supernaturally ever so quick to street wall, sober as the day.
David: “Then I'd say he hasn't met you yet.”
Nickolas pushes gracefully away the blade from his neck and begins speaking with his fingers still against the blade as he listens to David’s heart of anger relay leathered growl and silent stare.
Nickolas: “W, w, wait a moment, follow me and I will show him to you.”
After some brief point of consternation and susceptible suspicion, the legionnaire clad follows Nickolas to a place where Nickolas undresses to only trousers held by his black belt without post tucked into his boots and a steel sword in one hand, standing in a shaded desolate alleyway between two main streets. Terribly skilled with inhibitions discarded he is ready to dance the conflict and lifts his blade’s aim to David.
David: “I’m to fight you?”
Nickolas: “Yes, unless you’re still healing from that wound.”
David: “You won’t run?”
Nickolas: “Are you going to fight or not?”
They battle through vindication of absolution and the reverence of completion until Nickolas dies and rises in an alley with split sign over a passage doorway and several broken boxes on and off the broken cart fence that is now irreparable from their inebriated chaos and concatenate conduct where he lays during rejuvenation. The strong soldier hearkens to his instinct, the same that had driven him to escape from his watching of all so many vampires healing in the storm light years prior and he flees, only to run into Merlin at the end of the alley.
Merlin holds a distinctly large pouch closed by a string of the same leather in one hand at the end of such the alley arena with a clean face and hair wetted in a trough around the corner where he had listened to the fight and thence pulled it out of his face.
Merlin: “A mercenary for this bag of gold…you will protect us and, disperse our issues of trust.”
The fighter stands confused and sweating in the face as Merlin literally floats passed him to Nickolas dressing and wiping his own sweat with a potato sack, and passes further into the alley before making it to obstruction.
Merlin: “It is better that our battles be fought by someone dressed appropriately.”
Merlin turns afloat about and sinks to the floor to face him in wait of response, a glimpse of his feet by Nickolas wearing a look of confusion.
David: “Agreed.”
Merlin tosses the bag to him with a smile. Ana enters from the alley exit and heals the scratches on David while countermanded in thought, staring at Nickolas as he lures.
Ana: “I can heal this scar.”
David: “No, it belongs to me.”
Ana recovers his short sleeve over his shoulder once again, and then walks to Nickolas to help him close his new shirt.
Merlin: “I'll be in the monastery, go with them to the aviary and join me after dark.”
Answers are the way. Don't chase dreams, but believe in them. Don't believe goals, but chase them. Emotions are limited only by the culture you reflect. TLDR.SPQR.LLAP
29 July 2010
25 July 2010
Merlin 2 - 3 Falling from Grace
Merlin 2 - 3 Falling from Grace
Troy rests aback to his conjoiner phoenix most abidingly he has been flying for at least a day and a long one at that, proscribed to tarried flight at varied heights. Very high, he and the bird glowing mid flight through the lofty night, until one of the suns return the day and then the shade of a calm afternoon. During that time, his companions far below him bought two horses with matching saddles, one black with Ana and Nickolas, the other white with Merlin, a slow walk at a leisurely pace on a slow day of birds and brightness. The sun held by the restless breeze is staring down at travelers three upon a sundry lane many times against laden by cavalcade, a single path worn wide straight through the forest.
Merlin’s contempt is purely estimable, his adamant frustrations shown with double negatives half a disturbed boredom the other half constantly the look to be of eyes always filled with some culminating combination of smoke, fire, and darkness. Nickolas the unending, sitting atop saddle leans in to the brace as he rides, warily unsorted two bags drape across his steed in front of the saddle to hold his things as his garb is wearily worn and slightly torn, his penchant blades still the festooned accoutrements on his long boots. His scatheless graces accompanied by Ana the fire merchant and cutpurse associate whose arms enswathe her partner are all that holds his tunic closed at the waist. Merlin, the cloak and dagger may care, stares at the morning’s wandering mist.
Ana: “He's been up there a while.”
Merlin: “He'll come down when he's ready.”
Nickolas: “Are you sure he’s even up there though.”
Ana: “He's up there.”
They were correct in their assumptions, indeed above he plans to land, he merely has not learned to instruct the phoenix to do alas as so decided nevertheless. He does hitherto decide to remain aloft, the time wanes above the planes and eventually in forgetful reverence makes landing, and when he does makes a grand entrance, once swooping through the road and scaring the horses and secondly landing. When it came time for him to land he has become less than prepared, the large bird as large as the horses comes crashing down with wings spread to catch the air and slow itself from still quite a distance above the riders.
The open wings to catch the air blaze like a furnace that scorches slightly the ground with what melts from phoenix plumage. When it decidedly tucks its wings and comes to the ground, with a drastic halt without a saddle or bridal of his own, thrown is Troy to the solid earth by a lack of control to his chest and the side of his face, haphazardly thereon a soiled and regretful young man looking as if dejected into a pub alley. They three as riders upon two horses gasp in reverent dismay reluctant to breath until they see him move from a lifeless sleeping position on the soil as he waves a tender hand.
Nickolas: “That was perfect, hold on next time.”
Ana: “Good show.”
Merlin: “You might want to work on the landing.”
Troy: “...I'm alright... there's a city; It looks like many within a great wall ahead.”
Merlin: “We know.”
Troy: “How do you know?”
Nickolas: “We spoke with the horse trader.”
Ana exceedingly holds on to Nickolas and smiles resting her temple to his back saying nothing as they move along the spoor to the mischief at the way, while he sits a repetitive pat umbrage ponderous, echoes of silence as he stares contumely with patience and grace pointedly joist yet hiding resent for any fire other than passion. He stares at the phoenix without much appreciation for he is uncertain of his resulting destiny and the phoenix’s fire whilst they are ungainly cross to stir contempt for him.
Troy shakes and strikes the latent ground from his tattered clothes and begins to fare the annex trace dwelt by the steps of as many as possibly armies. Merlin reaches into his fabric, pulls a leather pouch, and throws it to Troy unbeknownst with a perfect catch and a coy look of confusion and a grateful smile. He stops to open it finding large pieces of polished gold coin quite the opposite of the nuggets he had ever seen or silver Merlin usually spent in the smaller towns.
Troy: “What is this?”
Merlin: “In the high tower there is an aviary, go there, get a stall and riding gear then do not part from your Phoenix, under any circumstance until I meet you there.”
Troy: “Thank you. I’ll meet you there.”
Troy runs to the bird flinging himself over the top and pulling feathers discomforting some by audible displeasure, into the air the phoenix stares caught in the mystery of the old winds. Merlin gives humph at the comment, he was never very fond of encomium, they watch him mount and take to the current sky and struggle to get the odd bird to fly near the tower as they ride slowly through the appurtenances of nature. Starring due to an inenarrable interest, with a subtle smile Merlin is silent to occlude his gloaming objectivity and the true pleasure by each of his morganatic companions through pleasure of favored fortunes.
Troy rests aback to his conjoiner phoenix most abidingly he has been flying for at least a day and a long one at that, proscribed to tarried flight at varied heights. Very high, he and the bird glowing mid flight through the lofty night, until one of the suns return the day and then the shade of a calm afternoon. During that time, his companions far below him bought two horses with matching saddles, one black with Ana and Nickolas, the other white with Merlin, a slow walk at a leisurely pace on a slow day of birds and brightness. The sun held by the restless breeze is staring down at travelers three upon a sundry lane many times against laden by cavalcade, a single path worn wide straight through the forest.
Merlin’s contempt is purely estimable, his adamant frustrations shown with double negatives half a disturbed boredom the other half constantly the look to be of eyes always filled with some culminating combination of smoke, fire, and darkness. Nickolas the unending, sitting atop saddle leans in to the brace as he rides, warily unsorted two bags drape across his steed in front of the saddle to hold his things as his garb is wearily worn and slightly torn, his penchant blades still the festooned accoutrements on his long boots. His scatheless graces accompanied by Ana the fire merchant and cutpurse associate whose arms enswathe her partner are all that holds his tunic closed at the waist. Merlin, the cloak and dagger may care, stares at the morning’s wandering mist.
Ana: “He's been up there a while.”
Merlin: “He'll come down when he's ready.”
Nickolas: “Are you sure he’s even up there though.”
Ana: “He's up there.”
They were correct in their assumptions, indeed above he plans to land, he merely has not learned to instruct the phoenix to do alas as so decided nevertheless. He does hitherto decide to remain aloft, the time wanes above the planes and eventually in forgetful reverence makes landing, and when he does makes a grand entrance, once swooping through the road and scaring the horses and secondly landing. When it came time for him to land he has become less than prepared, the large bird as large as the horses comes crashing down with wings spread to catch the air and slow itself from still quite a distance above the riders.
The open wings to catch the air blaze like a furnace that scorches slightly the ground with what melts from phoenix plumage. When it decidedly tucks its wings and comes to the ground, with a drastic halt without a saddle or bridal of his own, thrown is Troy to the solid earth by a lack of control to his chest and the side of his face, haphazardly thereon a soiled and regretful young man looking as if dejected into a pub alley. They three as riders upon two horses gasp in reverent dismay reluctant to breath until they see him move from a lifeless sleeping position on the soil as he waves a tender hand.
Nickolas: “That was perfect, hold on next time.”
Ana: “Good show.”
Merlin: “You might want to work on the landing.”
Troy: “...I'm alright... there's a city; It looks like many within a great wall ahead.”
Merlin: “We know.”
Troy: “How do you know?”
Nickolas: “We spoke with the horse trader.”
Ana exceedingly holds on to Nickolas and smiles resting her temple to his back saying nothing as they move along the spoor to the mischief at the way, while he sits a repetitive pat umbrage ponderous, echoes of silence as he stares contumely with patience and grace pointedly joist yet hiding resent for any fire other than passion. He stares at the phoenix without much appreciation for he is uncertain of his resulting destiny and the phoenix’s fire whilst they are ungainly cross to stir contempt for him.
Troy shakes and strikes the latent ground from his tattered clothes and begins to fare the annex trace dwelt by the steps of as many as possibly armies. Merlin reaches into his fabric, pulls a leather pouch, and throws it to Troy unbeknownst with a perfect catch and a coy look of confusion and a grateful smile. He stops to open it finding large pieces of polished gold coin quite the opposite of the nuggets he had ever seen or silver Merlin usually spent in the smaller towns.
Troy: “What is this?”
Merlin: “In the high tower there is an aviary, go there, get a stall and riding gear then do not part from your Phoenix, under any circumstance until I meet you there.”
Troy: “Thank you. I’ll meet you there.”
Troy runs to the bird flinging himself over the top and pulling feathers discomforting some by audible displeasure, into the air the phoenix stares caught in the mystery of the old winds. Merlin gives humph at the comment, he was never very fond of encomium, they watch him mount and take to the current sky and struggle to get the odd bird to fly near the tower as they ride slowly through the appurtenances of nature. Starring due to an inenarrable interest, with a subtle smile Merlin is silent to occlude his gloaming objectivity and the true pleasure by each of his morganatic companions through pleasure of favored fortunes.
22 July 2010
Merlin 2 - 2 Fledgling
Merlin 2 - 2 Fledgling
To tell this story we must first remember the past and the attrition of many storms by dark and dreamless nights, bleeding vampires vengeful with bloody stomach full and slowly thirsting anew wait in the antique castle acquired by the lemniscates, the very scene of the betrayal in the house of vampire. Sold the princess was to another monarch, as she was no longer princes after two kingdoms had become one. At such that very evening, the king had brought a stolen pack of adolescent humans of caste peasantry, for them to feast or blood let, or at a later night turn into their kind, in a cage waiting restless, all but one. It is now we remember the one, the boy sitting in the back of the cage waiting for the opportunity to escape the ruthlessly skilled undying.
Hysteria graces the minds of the captive children as the events unfold, now as much as any other time as the boy in wait witnesses the pasture movements and patterns of the rights of passage portrayed by the Queen and as the Princess danced with her lover only separated to be by the very wrongs of the draw. He watches every motion hearing nothing in silence as the events unfold, anger consumes and addiction chance he only receives the sounds of the storm and the broken glass as one of them, the princes, leapt from the window, save a power struggle. Lightning and thunder strike simultaneously, but as with the same forces of nature his attention drawn to a very thin vampire standing in the shadows behind the cage who drops a knife to the edge of his still existence where they measure the tide between ides and miseries.
Anxiety from the cage's bloodstains inadequately covered by darnel and cockle, and the walls closing around him, without time for haste he grabs and hides the weapon given to him by a creature only seen of him once in the flashing light dimly within the shadows, now part of the crowd of vampires never to acknowledge him anew. As he waits, haunted by the possibility of being a meal of the many, with the duress of insufferable anguish waiting for him he plans his escape, they ordered several of the less than skilled guards to follow the princess as she fled. It was not long before they continued their gala in her stead, for it was also a celebration of the joining of two houses of vampire, two covens becoming one.
The butcher returns and opens the door, the boy stabs him in the throat beneath the jaw and drags him down to his level taking the butcher's hook for an added weapon, the other children hold the slaughterer and the boy walks over him. It is only moments before the room is quiet and far from fallen, staring at the boy of stark raving anger. From the table of the war council, the Prince of the vampires sends errand the smallest of them from the table to dispatch the small human boy, a spear thrown from a boy that seems near his age slices the outer muscles of the young boy’s arm and lodges into the reeds of the cell. Where the others still clamor in fear from the silence in the hall and the severity of the quick blade, a most palpable lance giving maim and not piercing to tear from being attached to the cage. The youngling stands free and looks at his arm then to the seemingly young and blond boy whom had thrown it.
The boy in peasant clothes and the young warrior clad in armor and other types of hard clothing face each other, with only a few blows blocked and traded the boy slashes many times defeating his vampire foe with a slice to the throat and a stabbing to the illicit lifeless heart on the ground. The spectators had let them fight against another to watch, but now they would transform him or worse, with the decreed motion of the queen the guards at the door rush to him, as do the others at the table and with so as much the rest. The boy is quick and runs on walls as he evades them into room after room looking for an exit, wandering listlessly through the grandiose castle, when cornered he jumps and spins turning like the wind cutting throats and stabbing whichever vest or corset applicable, if so they do catch him he slices throat. From this, they do not simply die for they are already dead, but it gives him time to flee once more as they stop to heal and catch breath and drowning in their own blood for the time withstanding. He runs until he is cornered, he fully kills one of the vampires by stabbing it in the heart, angering the others almost crawling over their own toward him, but he jumps out of the window and slides down the muddy hillside. As they near the window the king commands they stop, they stare while the king gives words of wisdom soon heard to be risible with the mockery and humiliation of the failings of their efforts. In conclusion, they come to agreement that the child in humane semblance would be a much more welcome addition as an adult, per say of the king’s telling, as the child runs through the forest and the storm of the skies from the fight of his life.
To tell this story we must first remember the past and the attrition of many storms by dark and dreamless nights, bleeding vampires vengeful with bloody stomach full and slowly thirsting anew wait in the antique castle acquired by the lemniscates, the very scene of the betrayal in the house of vampire. Sold the princess was to another monarch, as she was no longer princes after two kingdoms had become one. At such that very evening, the king had brought a stolen pack of adolescent humans of caste peasantry, for them to feast or blood let, or at a later night turn into their kind, in a cage waiting restless, all but one. It is now we remember the one, the boy sitting in the back of the cage waiting for the opportunity to escape the ruthlessly skilled undying.
Hysteria graces the minds of the captive children as the events unfold, now as much as any other time as the boy in wait witnesses the pasture movements and patterns of the rights of passage portrayed by the Queen and as the Princess danced with her lover only separated to be by the very wrongs of the draw. He watches every motion hearing nothing in silence as the events unfold, anger consumes and addiction chance he only receives the sounds of the storm and the broken glass as one of them, the princes, leapt from the window, save a power struggle. Lightning and thunder strike simultaneously, but as with the same forces of nature his attention drawn to a very thin vampire standing in the shadows behind the cage who drops a knife to the edge of his still existence where they measure the tide between ides and miseries.
Anxiety from the cage's bloodstains inadequately covered by darnel and cockle, and the walls closing around him, without time for haste he grabs and hides the weapon given to him by a creature only seen of him once in the flashing light dimly within the shadows, now part of the crowd of vampires never to acknowledge him anew. As he waits, haunted by the possibility of being a meal of the many, with the duress of insufferable anguish waiting for him he plans his escape, they ordered several of the less than skilled guards to follow the princess as she fled. It was not long before they continued their gala in her stead, for it was also a celebration of the joining of two houses of vampire, two covens becoming one.
The butcher returns and opens the door, the boy stabs him in the throat beneath the jaw and drags him down to his level taking the butcher's hook for an added weapon, the other children hold the slaughterer and the boy walks over him. It is only moments before the room is quiet and far from fallen, staring at the boy of stark raving anger. From the table of the war council, the Prince of the vampires sends errand the smallest of them from the table to dispatch the small human boy, a spear thrown from a boy that seems near his age slices the outer muscles of the young boy’s arm and lodges into the reeds of the cell. Where the others still clamor in fear from the silence in the hall and the severity of the quick blade, a most palpable lance giving maim and not piercing to tear from being attached to the cage. The youngling stands free and looks at his arm then to the seemingly young and blond boy whom had thrown it.
The boy in peasant clothes and the young warrior clad in armor and other types of hard clothing face each other, with only a few blows blocked and traded the boy slashes many times defeating his vampire foe with a slice to the throat and a stabbing to the illicit lifeless heart on the ground. The spectators had let them fight against another to watch, but now they would transform him or worse, with the decreed motion of the queen the guards at the door rush to him, as do the others at the table and with so as much the rest. The boy is quick and runs on walls as he evades them into room after room looking for an exit, wandering listlessly through the grandiose castle, when cornered he jumps and spins turning like the wind cutting throats and stabbing whichever vest or corset applicable, if so they do catch him he slices throat. From this, they do not simply die for they are already dead, but it gives him time to flee once more as they stop to heal and catch breath and drowning in their own blood for the time withstanding. He runs until he is cornered, he fully kills one of the vampires by stabbing it in the heart, angering the others almost crawling over their own toward him, but he jumps out of the window and slides down the muddy hillside. As they near the window the king commands they stop, they stare while the king gives words of wisdom soon heard to be risible with the mockery and humiliation of the failings of their efforts. In conclusion, they come to agreement that the child in humane semblance would be a much more welcome addition as an adult, per say of the king’s telling, as the child runs through the forest and the storm of the skies from the fight of his life.
19 July 2010
Merlin 2 - 1 Prologue
Merlin 2 - 1 Prologue
Searching in darkness, dispelled from sight and arrant in the demon's haven, passed the crawling earth and the acting time, control is sought to ordain order between ambitious prod and revengeful goad, from hence to conquer such things inexplicably beyond imagination, sought of sinners and souls of a better angel be thou wouldst thy run to get thee. Absent in times of tyranny to besiege only the realm of hell commence this summation immensely lost, for found we are in any comfort and sorrow for to have none, the dark watches the shadows beset aged storm.
Searching in darkness, dispelled from sight and arrant in the demon's haven, passed the crawling earth and the acting time, control is sought to ordain order between ambitious prod and revengeful goad, from hence to conquer such things inexplicably beyond imagination, sought of sinners and souls of a better angel be thou wouldst thy run to get thee. Absent in times of tyranny to besiege only the realm of hell commence this summation immensely lost, for found we are in any comfort and sorrow for to have none, the dark watches the shadows beset aged storm.
18 July 2010
Night Terrors 6 - Toxicity
Night Terrors 6 - Toxicity
They call it the demilitarized waste zone; a micro-continent of that drifting toxic garbage island without anchor that steadily grew and eventually crashed into San Angeles only a few years after becoming the state capital of a larger annex California, which includes parts of the Nevada mountains and Mexico. For some years, birds have been landing on the floating dump and over that time, they have rapidly evolved into deadly and vicious envenoming consumers of the utmost waste set adrift by the polluting nations for centuries. Eventually as former pests and pets of society fed by human waste became larger and adept at different traits, a food chain developed throughout the drifting waste. This often includes walrus and seals who they themselves became mutated predators, the shark are no longer the king of the water as a drifting new geography makes its way to collision with the south shore. The island city of mutation and degeneration consumes most of the life it encounters, if not life assimilated, by mutations caused by the wastes. The Kingdom of the United States has tried its damnedest to avoid contact, putting out miles and leagues of rubble and boulder but too little too late. The artillery used blasts holes and dents, but the drifting mass will only float and resurface, inevitably, all postponing efforts are useless for it is just too large. Hell, it was the size of Texas 500 years ago, it is definitely a population of monsters, attacking whether they had planned it or not, very dangerous, very.
Giant black birds some other color at their cores or at their bones, covered in oil so that none could tell with teeth and tails that could claw and if need be pull their toxic feathers and throw and launch as disabling darts nesting upon a drifting black heap. Beasts that look like whale dogs, teeth and shadow pack that strike a shocking resemblance to the long extinct bear on the old flag that give no less than napalm and dragons fire. Snakes with poisonous skin, crawling claws and shells and lizard men that can climb with agility, that carry their own armor, some with spears others with spikes. However, the worst among them to by standard belief are the crawlers, the small and burrowing things that are the loathsome writhing interwoven plague that drift into the sands at the shore. Pools of them will gather into a cesspool, when the winds cover them with dust they consume anything that steps into them to the bone. This is no overgrowth because there is method to such madness, a hierarchy of complexity and evil led by nearly human lizards and raptors that order the attack from the center of the mass. The ships never conquer and the planes are shot or crash with suicide machines sent into the air from such a hellish domain. The battle has landed, while other continents made their own defenses and battle their mutant scouts, we are all that remains to defend our lives from diseased ages washed upon our lands.
Soldiers drive through the desert of the salt to the impact site passed the derricks that pump more oil to make ruin and plight. The best ride in the front of the caravan, not leaders but of the secondary ranks, part of the fore running decoys, too skilled to be part of the artillery squadron, too loved to leave at home. The intelligence obtained from satellite surveillance has discovered that with the few successful air raids that the targets only burrow to resurface again later, but more interestingly always a nest above the rubbish as the leadership of the island. Of kings and queens perhaps of each the birds and the lizards, the soldiers sent are to arrive and kill them, hopefully that will get closer to victory, or at least gotten away from battle. For soldiers of such caliber that would be unlikely, to be members of this coalition they had at that time already killed two of everything on the planet and many more so this siege is more of eager fears and less of anxiety.
Upon contact with the landmass the mutants began collecting, anything with biological mass especially the wounded human population. Packs of things with dripping teeth pulling in large folks, large sentinel sentry beasts tearing through everything, complete anarchy and total chaos as these things dissembled everything. For many years the southwest had ordered a rational distribution of resources, they had also pushed themselves into the deserts and when these things hit, there was nowhere for them to go, not all at once. Without calm or contempt, the demonic horde continues to pull anything it can find to the rubbish peninsula, if forces can make it through the infested city, passed the hiding creatures and the survivors that want their weapons, their food, or to eat them just to survive, they still have no cover between hell’s minions and themselves. This is of the least of concern, the artillery would blow holes where the transport needed through, and then all they have to do is find what lies in the walls, to be of least concern. They had done that several times in a dozen cities, and were more worried about the island and the notion that they might come from behind through the sewer lines.
There are 30 belts of caravans descending on the city no longer of the angels and they are ready to run through the light as if it were a battlefield of some early era. Inevitably they are in the buildings, as if a final boss in virtual combat designed to be a penetration of the gates of hell. Artillery air raids, monsters that hurl smaller monsters miles away, creeping insects in the sand, scorpions the size of small dogs, and both airborne and marching enemy that would pierce the resolve, something evil has created a vampire toxin, half-dead, diseased, decaying and mutilated corpses of the citizens crawl the ground. At best to describe, everything small enough burnt back by thermal weapons that scorch, douse the walls with fire, and force them into the buildings, they were testing our greatest fears and had only just begun, we had miles of the city ring before reaching ground zero. They crawl with chutes and ladders or jump straight from the open walls, they leap over each other, climb, and tear through soldiers, and they crawl out of corpses and into their victims. Life like fire as can describe it spews vile disgust and putrid bile, the demolition creatures begin to take notice and stop eating rock and rubble, and begin eating the howling screams. They throw huge objects, hurl others, tearing, breaking and crushing across the battle on any number of legs, some long, some short with jagged mouths, the worst blind and undeterred. From the sewers water rodents, if you can imagine, with flesh on the inside and bones as scales walking on too many legs and saw blade tails. The equivalence to scaling the walls of a castle with only a kind word and a smile, eventually the human defense decides to demolish the boundary buildings and cross over them, a firefight with hell in the corner.
A revolution of evil when the snakes come rushing to the offensives and under heavy fire turn and flee only to collect anything that would become a useful projectile, picking it up like a skimming tread and turn to the military once more and with switchblade scales launch its bounty of sharp objects. Without cover, they would pave the roads with their blood. Everywhere another menace to quash underfoot only yet detraction from the danger of the black mantis wielding light posts and street signs among the many mad and menaced zombies turned by the infective mutagen throwing manhole covers and car doors and whatever not scavenged or remained once the battle began. Remarkable is one of them being stepped on the head by a creature’s spiny leg that pierces it from head to toe. When they make it to halfway to the coast and doing well, particularly because ammunition is inanimate and lifeless, unfortunately the smell of gunpowder and polished steel is favorable to good traditional spiders and ants the size of men, who were more destructive to the rotting wood and drying lawns and soaking pools of suburbia. The giant insects and mutated birds scare because they will catch and not let go, they will hold and tear, and same with cats, but a dog is much different. A dog hunts by taking you off your feet first, then it decides to kill or release. Now every soldier is a head hunter, if they weren't they wouldn't be on this trip, but one man is amiss, to shoot man's best friend as he's playing fetch with a mouthful of someone’s skin is more than disturbing.
Before they had come ashore, their continent was a dissolving island of plastic slowly becoming the oil from which it originated, but now it has pieces of a larger puzzle and like a beehive or an anthill, it slowly becomes a constructed fortress building on the shore with a slimy beach of its own. Their own forces destroy and reconstruct as a fortress of doom, before the military ever arrived to condemn the hive in a close quarter strike. As long as they could avoid projectiles the samurai were fine with their gun blades, they often-saved ammo far better than the strike teams could, and pinning back the embodied disease firing squads could keep the bullets flying. Close to the citadel of the creatures’ stands a large army of zombies, a small portion of the population who had been infected and decided to serve a new hell on earth, they stand in layers shoulder to shoulder one row behind another as far as the eye can see. When shot the bullets pass through their skin without their noticing, hits to the edge only blow apart the loose fodder and they continue to drone with smiles of certainty that they are welcoming a new era of the damned. Moral decay is only half of the equation. The other half is purely factual for they stand no match without weapon because their flesh suffers putrefaction. It peels the dying flesh of their corrupt nervous system driven by plague and not humanity, for they are already dead and do not know it yet, even with weapon they easily lose grip of any club and are easily thrust aside.
The discovery of birds with claws is particularly disliked, some prehistoric monstrous bats with feathers dripping acid in file followed by a layer of dark urchin led by tentacle creatures take many of their best, and still yet the scaled soldiers of the island itself. From the windows, the reptilian soldiers hurl spears and toss eggs that release contents that burns, poisons, pours and crawls often at the same time. The head of a dog or a snake with a shell over its own prized poison in yearned combat with the army's swordsmen and had battle so, many lost to haste or arrogance with the creatures who were stronger before swifter. Bullets bruise and bombs scratch an army of trauma and vindication, the lizards shot but many times over, wasting ammunition with every shot until discovered that they are susceptible to just one shot in the eyes. With caution and wariness, the army of man moves to destroy the architect of such creation that defiles humanity only to unearth the great winged serpents and armored raptors from perches overhead. A slithering teeth machine in a coat of rusting blades moves to strike, but a warring wings of the predator avian swoop in front of it, a decision to eat new humans before the serpent's opportunity.
Of as many that have fought on their desecrated stronghold were these snakes, predator birds and sea dogs waiting around the tower. It is when this spanning flier crashes to the ground before him that a swift, agile and lucky soldier twice receives the opportunity to jump out of his own skin. The first is when demon wing lands, with a stunning halt it hits the ground knocking the dark sunglasses from his face to reveal eyes made of black glass. The other is its landing seems to start the ground shaking, a wavering madness as the earth begins to rise and lower again afterward, a feeling of rumbling from within hell itself and a sense that the earth were to soon tear open ravaged apart and swallow him whole. Some froze with inhibition caused by shaking confusion, some were not as he and they survive, they fight. The venom inside, the infection, are all soon abandoned as the tower at the center of the city of monsters begins to rocket into the air, straight away it flies into the atmosphere. The creatures that did not flee from the racing fire flee to the ship to cling to the vines of putrid filth and windows of the tail; halfway to oblivion those windows fill with fire burning everything in contact igniting a good deal of the atmosphere in the process. It snows ash and corpulent decay as those whom survive and not fighting flees to the lines. They later find that beneath the island of oil and trash is a large engine with technology to study for centuries to come that had propelled the large mass to the shore. The entire region is now temporarily a restricted recovery zone.
They call it the demilitarized waste zone; a micro-continent of that drifting toxic garbage island without anchor that steadily grew and eventually crashed into San Angeles only a few years after becoming the state capital of a larger annex California, which includes parts of the Nevada mountains and Mexico. For some years, birds have been landing on the floating dump and over that time, they have rapidly evolved into deadly and vicious envenoming consumers of the utmost waste set adrift by the polluting nations for centuries. Eventually as former pests and pets of society fed by human waste became larger and adept at different traits, a food chain developed throughout the drifting waste. This often includes walrus and seals who they themselves became mutated predators, the shark are no longer the king of the water as a drifting new geography makes its way to collision with the south shore. The island city of mutation and degeneration consumes most of the life it encounters, if not life assimilated, by mutations caused by the wastes. The Kingdom of the United States has tried its damnedest to avoid contact, putting out miles and leagues of rubble and boulder but too little too late. The artillery used blasts holes and dents, but the drifting mass will only float and resurface, inevitably, all postponing efforts are useless for it is just too large. Hell, it was the size of Texas 500 years ago, it is definitely a population of monsters, attacking whether they had planned it or not, very dangerous, very.
Giant black birds some other color at their cores or at their bones, covered in oil so that none could tell with teeth and tails that could claw and if need be pull their toxic feathers and throw and launch as disabling darts nesting upon a drifting black heap. Beasts that look like whale dogs, teeth and shadow pack that strike a shocking resemblance to the long extinct bear on the old flag that give no less than napalm and dragons fire. Snakes with poisonous skin, crawling claws and shells and lizard men that can climb with agility, that carry their own armor, some with spears others with spikes. However, the worst among them to by standard belief are the crawlers, the small and burrowing things that are the loathsome writhing interwoven plague that drift into the sands at the shore. Pools of them will gather into a cesspool, when the winds cover them with dust they consume anything that steps into them to the bone. This is no overgrowth because there is method to such madness, a hierarchy of complexity and evil led by nearly human lizards and raptors that order the attack from the center of the mass. The ships never conquer and the planes are shot or crash with suicide machines sent into the air from such a hellish domain. The battle has landed, while other continents made their own defenses and battle their mutant scouts, we are all that remains to defend our lives from diseased ages washed upon our lands.
Soldiers drive through the desert of the salt to the impact site passed the derricks that pump more oil to make ruin and plight. The best ride in the front of the caravan, not leaders but of the secondary ranks, part of the fore running decoys, too skilled to be part of the artillery squadron, too loved to leave at home. The intelligence obtained from satellite surveillance has discovered that with the few successful air raids that the targets only burrow to resurface again later, but more interestingly always a nest above the rubbish as the leadership of the island. Of kings and queens perhaps of each the birds and the lizards, the soldiers sent are to arrive and kill them, hopefully that will get closer to victory, or at least gotten away from battle. For soldiers of such caliber that would be unlikely, to be members of this coalition they had at that time already killed two of everything on the planet and many more so this siege is more of eager fears and less of anxiety.
Upon contact with the landmass the mutants began collecting, anything with biological mass especially the wounded human population. Packs of things with dripping teeth pulling in large folks, large sentinel sentry beasts tearing through everything, complete anarchy and total chaos as these things dissembled everything. For many years the southwest had ordered a rational distribution of resources, they had also pushed themselves into the deserts and when these things hit, there was nowhere for them to go, not all at once. Without calm or contempt, the demonic horde continues to pull anything it can find to the rubbish peninsula, if forces can make it through the infested city, passed the hiding creatures and the survivors that want their weapons, their food, or to eat them just to survive, they still have no cover between hell’s minions and themselves. This is of the least of concern, the artillery would blow holes where the transport needed through, and then all they have to do is find what lies in the walls, to be of least concern. They had done that several times in a dozen cities, and were more worried about the island and the notion that they might come from behind through the sewer lines.
There are 30 belts of caravans descending on the city no longer of the angels and they are ready to run through the light as if it were a battlefield of some early era. Inevitably they are in the buildings, as if a final boss in virtual combat designed to be a penetration of the gates of hell. Artillery air raids, monsters that hurl smaller monsters miles away, creeping insects in the sand, scorpions the size of small dogs, and both airborne and marching enemy that would pierce the resolve, something evil has created a vampire toxin, half-dead, diseased, decaying and mutilated corpses of the citizens crawl the ground. At best to describe, everything small enough burnt back by thermal weapons that scorch, douse the walls with fire, and force them into the buildings, they were testing our greatest fears and had only just begun, we had miles of the city ring before reaching ground zero. They crawl with chutes and ladders or jump straight from the open walls, they leap over each other, climb, and tear through soldiers, and they crawl out of corpses and into their victims. Life like fire as can describe it spews vile disgust and putrid bile, the demolition creatures begin to take notice and stop eating rock and rubble, and begin eating the howling screams. They throw huge objects, hurl others, tearing, breaking and crushing across the battle on any number of legs, some long, some short with jagged mouths, the worst blind and undeterred. From the sewers water rodents, if you can imagine, with flesh on the inside and bones as scales walking on too many legs and saw blade tails. The equivalence to scaling the walls of a castle with only a kind word and a smile, eventually the human defense decides to demolish the boundary buildings and cross over them, a firefight with hell in the corner.
A revolution of evil when the snakes come rushing to the offensives and under heavy fire turn and flee only to collect anything that would become a useful projectile, picking it up like a skimming tread and turn to the military once more and with switchblade scales launch its bounty of sharp objects. Without cover, they would pave the roads with their blood. Everywhere another menace to quash underfoot only yet detraction from the danger of the black mantis wielding light posts and street signs among the many mad and menaced zombies turned by the infective mutagen throwing manhole covers and car doors and whatever not scavenged or remained once the battle began. Remarkable is one of them being stepped on the head by a creature’s spiny leg that pierces it from head to toe. When they make it to halfway to the coast and doing well, particularly because ammunition is inanimate and lifeless, unfortunately the smell of gunpowder and polished steel is favorable to good traditional spiders and ants the size of men, who were more destructive to the rotting wood and drying lawns and soaking pools of suburbia. The giant insects and mutated birds scare because they will catch and not let go, they will hold and tear, and same with cats, but a dog is much different. A dog hunts by taking you off your feet first, then it decides to kill or release. Now every soldier is a head hunter, if they weren't they wouldn't be on this trip, but one man is amiss, to shoot man's best friend as he's playing fetch with a mouthful of someone’s skin is more than disturbing.
Before they had come ashore, their continent was a dissolving island of plastic slowly becoming the oil from which it originated, but now it has pieces of a larger puzzle and like a beehive or an anthill, it slowly becomes a constructed fortress building on the shore with a slimy beach of its own. Their own forces destroy and reconstruct as a fortress of doom, before the military ever arrived to condemn the hive in a close quarter strike. As long as they could avoid projectiles the samurai were fine with their gun blades, they often-saved ammo far better than the strike teams could, and pinning back the embodied disease firing squads could keep the bullets flying. Close to the citadel of the creatures’ stands a large army of zombies, a small portion of the population who had been infected and decided to serve a new hell on earth, they stand in layers shoulder to shoulder one row behind another as far as the eye can see. When shot the bullets pass through their skin without their noticing, hits to the edge only blow apart the loose fodder and they continue to drone with smiles of certainty that they are welcoming a new era of the damned. Moral decay is only half of the equation. The other half is purely factual for they stand no match without weapon because their flesh suffers putrefaction. It peels the dying flesh of their corrupt nervous system driven by plague and not humanity, for they are already dead and do not know it yet, even with weapon they easily lose grip of any club and are easily thrust aside.
The discovery of birds with claws is particularly disliked, some prehistoric monstrous bats with feathers dripping acid in file followed by a layer of dark urchin led by tentacle creatures take many of their best, and still yet the scaled soldiers of the island itself. From the windows, the reptilian soldiers hurl spears and toss eggs that release contents that burns, poisons, pours and crawls often at the same time. The head of a dog or a snake with a shell over its own prized poison in yearned combat with the army's swordsmen and had battle so, many lost to haste or arrogance with the creatures who were stronger before swifter. Bullets bruise and bombs scratch an army of trauma and vindication, the lizards shot but many times over, wasting ammunition with every shot until discovered that they are susceptible to just one shot in the eyes. With caution and wariness, the army of man moves to destroy the architect of such creation that defiles humanity only to unearth the great winged serpents and armored raptors from perches overhead. A slithering teeth machine in a coat of rusting blades moves to strike, but a warring wings of the predator avian swoop in front of it, a decision to eat new humans before the serpent's opportunity.
Of as many that have fought on their desecrated stronghold were these snakes, predator birds and sea dogs waiting around the tower. It is when this spanning flier crashes to the ground before him that a swift, agile and lucky soldier twice receives the opportunity to jump out of his own skin. The first is when demon wing lands, with a stunning halt it hits the ground knocking the dark sunglasses from his face to reveal eyes made of black glass. The other is its landing seems to start the ground shaking, a wavering madness as the earth begins to rise and lower again afterward, a feeling of rumbling from within hell itself and a sense that the earth were to soon tear open ravaged apart and swallow him whole. Some froze with inhibition caused by shaking confusion, some were not as he and they survive, they fight. The venom inside, the infection, are all soon abandoned as the tower at the center of the city of monsters begins to rocket into the air, straight away it flies into the atmosphere. The creatures that did not flee from the racing fire flee to the ship to cling to the vines of putrid filth and windows of the tail; halfway to oblivion those windows fill with fire burning everything in contact igniting a good deal of the atmosphere in the process. It snows ash and corpulent decay as those whom survive and not fighting flees to the lines. They later find that beneath the island of oil and trash is a large engine with technology to study for centuries to come that had propelled the large mass to the shore. The entire region is now temporarily a restricted recovery zone.
16 July 2010
Merlin - 28 The Subtle Arts of Murder and Persuasion
Merlin - 28 The Subtle Arts of Murder and Persuasion
Tenacious of hieing cecity confusion and concern in thought, as brightness consumes, to blast at rupture the diamond does. Merlin kneels on knee, holding his fingers of one hand to the ground and the other hand to rudder the blast with fingers extended. No longer attempting to heal vampires by ways of manipulate dreams he is bathed in an inviting cloak of invisibility, he pulls like a sail in a gale, transparent in flames, but the force of the explosion passes through him, Merlin will have revenge and rises to stand and deliver. Ana having blanket incineration holds a power of fire shield, like a flame back draft in a tornado's dying ebb and flow, with a strange semblance of darkness and smoke assuredly from the trace signs of ash in air fall. Troy is virtually unharmed, a dying heat could not lash him in desperation, though his clothes were a bit worse for wear, the edges of his cuffs and collars singed and burnt tassel and threaded drawstring, holding tightly to the phoenix's neck slowly raising his head to look into the smoke. Nickolas is no worse for wear, early to dead, early to rise, sluggishly to his feet with only movements of a mystified mind.
In anarchy stands the chimera, the sense of death giving the demon strength of will to cause terror with manic strengths. Merlin swifts to him with amalgamate rage to swiftly heed the doom, a worthy adversary standing in conventional disdain obstructionist and estimable. With authority a dagger thrown into the breastplate, and Ana forcing a dagger into the neck of the creature, tossed is she listlessly by unobstructed throw of the demon's arm. In the shallow void where the moon has staked a claim to nocturnal road the monstrous creature pulls the dagger from its chest, the monster crushes a rune stone in his hand and immediately with magical dealings aforethought as then the wounds absorb the healing power of the moonlight and the mist.
To scathe and murder the demon walks the spaces between footsteps with heavy march, as Ana staggeringly rises to her feet the demon runs to and grabs her, puts his foot to her stomach and kicks her a great distance from him. Troy sends a flighty arrow to the thing but it is deflected afore long gauntlet, though Merlin urged him not to battle at all. After a second arrow launches the demon moves toward Troy and the phoenix wants none of the affair and flees with an unrepentant escape, flying across the surface like a stone skipping over the water, with Troy aback deliberate in returning stare and holding tightly, in fear it cannot escape fast enough. Nickolas has seen all and is very disturbed, another way to die is what he seeks as a dagger strikes the creature in the face and swordplay begins. The embodied many evils of nightmarish darkness groan from the creature with intrigue and as they begin their sword-to-sword combat it laughs at Nickolas.
Destruction unfolds and takes toll on fortune, with hope of their all of survival Merlin looks to Ana who agrees with him as she points to the now charging demon. Merlin draws a blade of truth, a shining silver sword with golden grip and hilt, cloud connected they three, fight together as a team. Merlin's sword burns within the draw of his own anger, the blade burns hot and sears, and scrapes with white-hot light against the black armor, at first scathe the demon draws his broken edge sword, Merlin pushed back, Nickolas thrown. A resolute stance of defiance, always teetering on the brink, of consequence a whisper to the dark as begins a fight against the shadow.
Ana picks one of Nickolas' daggers from the ground and throws it to the demon fighting her ethereal brethren, which stakes the creature between the shoulders. The demon deacon swings its blade above and behind itself to swing at both Merlin and Nickolas, causing the blade in its back to come loose, but the action gives Ana a satisfying absolution. A kick to Nickolas at shoulder, nearly thrown he turns and slides, the heels of his feet dragging in the dirt he collides with Ana. As he does so she takes daggers from his bandoleer, of what remains from his stock of stick and move tactics. She heats the dagger with magic eternal flame and throws it into the back of the demon. It laments pain terrorizing and continual battle, with all opposition.
Understanding that the battle lengthened might prove fatal to her allies, Ana summons the raining hell, a meteor fireball falls from the sky a mortar of pestilence tearing through the atmosphere with fire from the inside of her eyes. Tired of laughter, with striking cannonade the asteroid falls to the earth next to the haunting creature, the trappings of the wretched beast upset as it is thrown, torn from the earth with furious anger, scattering earth and like debris. Its pouch of magic with open drawstring waits just beyond reach, spilled runes aside vengeful fallen demon reaching for the precious stones. Merlin strikes down and severs the demons defenseless hand. Nickolas breaths rapidly with eyes vacant, the demon reaches to Merlin, its hand begins to glow.
Chimera: "It cannot end as thus!"
Dying emotions and desperation as Nickolas spins his sword at wrist to sweeping pare the other appendage but an arrow pierces in the palm and the black fire mist pours in liquid light over the hand and begins to burn the crimson skin. Hemorrhage of mind and spirit the Chimera Demon rests upon the lane in the failing light. Ana reaches to the arrow as if to pull it, but she heats the arrow cauterization to torment the animal.
Merlin: "Stop Ana. …Nickolas."
With artisan skill Nickolas spins his sword in hand, takes the handle with both hands, the blade pointed downward held high above his head, pinnacle before deathblow the distant groundlings speak.
Blond: "NO, Wait..."
Understanding what is to come, they three leave be. Slowly dying anew they pull and crawl on their fronts, clambering with unsheathed daggers, tearing through the dirt with their sharp edges, like drawn teeth to the dying demon, with thirst in their mind, two impolitic fiends longing for the dying blood of rage.
Tenacious of hieing cecity confusion and concern in thought, as brightness consumes, to blast at rupture the diamond does. Merlin kneels on knee, holding his fingers of one hand to the ground and the other hand to rudder the blast with fingers extended. No longer attempting to heal vampires by ways of manipulate dreams he is bathed in an inviting cloak of invisibility, he pulls like a sail in a gale, transparent in flames, but the force of the explosion passes through him, Merlin will have revenge and rises to stand and deliver. Ana having blanket incineration holds a power of fire shield, like a flame back draft in a tornado's dying ebb and flow, with a strange semblance of darkness and smoke assuredly from the trace signs of ash in air fall. Troy is virtually unharmed, a dying heat could not lash him in desperation, though his clothes were a bit worse for wear, the edges of his cuffs and collars singed and burnt tassel and threaded drawstring, holding tightly to the phoenix's neck slowly raising his head to look into the smoke. Nickolas is no worse for wear, early to dead, early to rise, sluggishly to his feet with only movements of a mystified mind.
In anarchy stands the chimera, the sense of death giving the demon strength of will to cause terror with manic strengths. Merlin swifts to him with amalgamate rage to swiftly heed the doom, a worthy adversary standing in conventional disdain obstructionist and estimable. With authority a dagger thrown into the breastplate, and Ana forcing a dagger into the neck of the creature, tossed is she listlessly by unobstructed throw of the demon's arm. In the shallow void where the moon has staked a claim to nocturnal road the monstrous creature pulls the dagger from its chest, the monster crushes a rune stone in his hand and immediately with magical dealings aforethought as then the wounds absorb the healing power of the moonlight and the mist.
To scathe and murder the demon walks the spaces between footsteps with heavy march, as Ana staggeringly rises to her feet the demon runs to and grabs her, puts his foot to her stomach and kicks her a great distance from him. Troy sends a flighty arrow to the thing but it is deflected afore long gauntlet, though Merlin urged him not to battle at all. After a second arrow launches the demon moves toward Troy and the phoenix wants none of the affair and flees with an unrepentant escape, flying across the surface like a stone skipping over the water, with Troy aback deliberate in returning stare and holding tightly, in fear it cannot escape fast enough. Nickolas has seen all and is very disturbed, another way to die is what he seeks as a dagger strikes the creature in the face and swordplay begins. The embodied many evils of nightmarish darkness groan from the creature with intrigue and as they begin their sword-to-sword combat it laughs at Nickolas.
Destruction unfolds and takes toll on fortune, with hope of their all of survival Merlin looks to Ana who agrees with him as she points to the now charging demon. Merlin draws a blade of truth, a shining silver sword with golden grip and hilt, cloud connected they three, fight together as a team. Merlin's sword burns within the draw of his own anger, the blade burns hot and sears, and scrapes with white-hot light against the black armor, at first scathe the demon draws his broken edge sword, Merlin pushed back, Nickolas thrown. A resolute stance of defiance, always teetering on the brink, of consequence a whisper to the dark as begins a fight against the shadow.
Ana picks one of Nickolas' daggers from the ground and throws it to the demon fighting her ethereal brethren, which stakes the creature between the shoulders. The demon deacon swings its blade above and behind itself to swing at both Merlin and Nickolas, causing the blade in its back to come loose, but the action gives Ana a satisfying absolution. A kick to Nickolas at shoulder, nearly thrown he turns and slides, the heels of his feet dragging in the dirt he collides with Ana. As he does so she takes daggers from his bandoleer, of what remains from his stock of stick and move tactics. She heats the dagger with magic eternal flame and throws it into the back of the demon. It laments pain terrorizing and continual battle, with all opposition.
Understanding that the battle lengthened might prove fatal to her allies, Ana summons the raining hell, a meteor fireball falls from the sky a mortar of pestilence tearing through the atmosphere with fire from the inside of her eyes. Tired of laughter, with striking cannonade the asteroid falls to the earth next to the haunting creature, the trappings of the wretched beast upset as it is thrown, torn from the earth with furious anger, scattering earth and like debris. Its pouch of magic with open drawstring waits just beyond reach, spilled runes aside vengeful fallen demon reaching for the precious stones. Merlin strikes down and severs the demons defenseless hand. Nickolas breaths rapidly with eyes vacant, the demon reaches to Merlin, its hand begins to glow.
Chimera: "It cannot end as thus!"
Dying emotions and desperation as Nickolas spins his sword at wrist to sweeping pare the other appendage but an arrow pierces in the palm and the black fire mist pours in liquid light over the hand and begins to burn the crimson skin. Hemorrhage of mind and spirit the Chimera Demon rests upon the lane in the failing light. Ana reaches to the arrow as if to pull it, but she heats the arrow cauterization to torment the animal.
Merlin: "Stop Ana. …Nickolas."
With artisan skill Nickolas spins his sword in hand, takes the handle with both hands, the blade pointed downward held high above his head, pinnacle before deathblow the distant groundlings speak.
Blond: "NO, Wait..."
Understanding what is to come, they three leave be. Slowly dying anew they pull and crawl on their fronts, clambering with unsheathed daggers, tearing through the dirt with their sharp edges, like drawn teeth to the dying demon, with thirst in their mind, two impolitic fiends longing for the dying blood of rage.
13 July 2010
Merlin - 27 A Light in a Darkened World
Merlin - 27 A Light in a Darkened World
The suns that drift timed elliptical are revolving and one around the other, but for now in a battle beneath the darkness. Fields of solitude in good company with every creature of their dark realm, in arrangement with comfort travelers four have left their slumber to enjoy all the luxuries and happiness of their world. In cherished paradise, the young master Troy has aged three layers of winter leaves, his formative companion the phoenix, has grown to formidable size, though on rare occasion it may leave ice behind in mysterious mischief. Its stock is now the size to ride, it happens to looks like an adolescent on the back of a bear or griffin, or both. Heavenly boons to the affectionate, Nickolas and Ana and the lost art of keeping a secret coincide with every aspiration, in sound health, as Nickolas would wrestle wild dogs if needed be they the meal. Beauty, as Ana is a vision reflection blinding for both herself and her consort, wealth as the prosperity of magic and good fortune, gifted wisdom and benefice of repute with spiritual peace their shared emotions.
A dwelling place where many make stead, Merlin and his fellows could be resilient to the most inhospitable of climes, at this the current world heeds to provoke their temperance, as the suns hide on the other side of the world the forest night grows terrible cold ushering wolves and bats on the dales and vales surrounded by silhouette forest. With the introduction of a sharp temperature comes also the discovery of a road, with little to urge them into the dank forest they trace the path of many wagons past. Aware of the need of a house in order to avoid such troubles, on such ground along the way an ancient house antiquity waits alone and dark in fading moonlight, a dozen leagues from the crooked crossroad signs. Welcome from the innate house, life behind shadow watches them traverse the lane, as the house grows in size visually during their approach to the height of an average cairn. A light softly emanates, only briefly as the light blasts from the house loudly passing through the stovepipe, windows and cracks, with a passing cloud of glowing white luster washing and waking into the wood, an effluent commotion that stirs the mist before them. A shade well fortified by amnesty’s dying art of inception darkness, from the second story window a flash, outside horizons of chaos, the suns hiding below the edge if not dead beyond the visible boundary of the plain and Merlin and his aspirant allies temporarily blinded.
The endless forest absorbs the light like abstract art and the stirred leaves hang calmly again. Driven by mere curiosity their need of a house in order to avoid troubles with new solace Merlin proceeds with leading step and pace, to investigate monition and spiritual peace, with this aim in his mind, he sets out in search of the learned wise persons who can guide him through auspicious time and knowledge. Understanding the nature of his rationale, passing over the water on the grass and cold air of a natural environment, he seeks a plot of his own interests and effigy. Creeping death seeps from beneath flaking paint that hangs in places and edges and sounds of persons living none, a shadow into nearby silence watches a dark abode and confined shadows.
Merlin: “Nickolas, follow closely.”
Nickolas looks into the dark house and nods his head in agreement. Thin lines of light no stronger than hair and louder than a match course from Merlin's wrist to his finger tips, a torch of moonlight reflection with deciduous caution, as with every creaking floorboard the glimmer dims. Cold night shadow and graceless clouds give way to astrological glory, familiar light passes over shadows while the furniture creates others in the satellite movements. From just outside the door, Ana puts her hand on her chest and points aside with the other hand as she begins walking around the edifice as the young incendiary squire shivers the night air upon animal that clods dirt from talon craw.
Nickolas: “Fate favors the prepared.”
Merlin: “You're one to talk.”
At the staircase Merlin points to the second floor, examining the artwork Nickolas discards effort and interest of such liturgy and leads way to the upper study. In isolation doom, they find a martyr lifeless, surrounded by the blood of the scribe. Outside Ana has circled once over and found nothing with seeming disappointment with a troubled straddled Troy not far behind each step.
Ana: “Well...the farce outside is over...”
She climbs through the window where she stands, leaving the boy and his bird in added confusion. A dying snake murdering itself by consumption adorns bound to the cover of a leather book. Opening the latch to the side of the bound volume, she queries the pages as worlds collide. Adrift the smell of blood invites the hungering demons, in the absence of light blood is the source of life, from scent vampires drift upon the house to feed and plague.
Merlin: “We must spend our time here; I'll meet you down stairs.”
Merlin looks over the scene, rancid parity and livid dream, stained credulity a sin for every ill and a pox on will, the balance of power mangled in a twist of fate and disconnected symbols of disorder. In the window perches the banished vampire princess staring at the blood of the floor thereon more than concerning Merlin's defensibility.
Thinly veiled curtains veiling sway in the window from the breeze in the bathing moonlight. Tandem they notice the blood on painted pictures, she looks around the curtain but Merlin does not notice her, he is keen on a diamond lying on the table, he can however and does notice the portion of her that leans out from the curtain, blind behind the screen, to his amazement. The spattering is on the tarot cards and still dripping from fingertips shines in the moonlight by her feet.
Blond: “It's in the cards.”
Merlin looks over the cards, five cards displayed on lines pentagram encircled, a magician, a man hanged, lovers, the star, and death cards lay strewn.
Blond: “Tarot cards…”
Merlin: “Why did you do this?”
Blond: “And leave all of this.”
Brunet: “And where is the assassin?”
Dark tranquility lays on their stoic emotion as they stare blankly at Merlin.
Merlin: “I can hardly wait to leave this place.”
Blond: “Was he one of you?”
Merlin: “No, I’m passerby.”
Brunet: “You heard the blast.”
Merlin: “Saw it…a splendid wash, like The Waters of Avalon…made of the mist.”
The vampires look to each other a silent pause that could be more than meets the eye, the male vampire looks to Merlin thereafter so does she. A place where there is no warmth or hatred, only unfaithful wrath and missing servility. The price of existence pale white with white hair, tan leather clothes trending trench coat, not well dressed for camouflage in a mourning palace but well equipped for combat. She drifts, not stepping in the blood, whole body intact as Merlin finishes with searching the desk, becomes disenchanted by the blood.
Merlin: “Dare I ask where the others are?”
Brunet: “Do you speak of kith or kin?”
Merlin: “Either perhaps, but I speak of my partisans beneath us.”
Blond: “They are tranquilly below.”
Merlin: “If you'll excuse me then, I’m needed elsewhere.”
Merlin's eyes become white as he takes the bottle of wine and the clear mirror stone, a book in one hand and the clouded glass bottle with polished symbols cradled in the same arm, the valuable shard already hidden.
Blond: “We'll just be a minute.”
He steps into the hallway as the black haired debonair vampire in a new costume slides for to close the door behind him, he glances in one last time to see her quite nearly hovering over the crimson pool smelling it's fervent aroma with a look of relief, she looks up again to Merlin as the other closes the door.
Downstairs with one hand in the lap of her garment and the other to turn the book of archaic intricate patterns of madness, control with bends to test the papers age before another flip through lost unknown engrossing criterion.
Nickolas: “What is it?”
Ana: “It is a fortune in forgotten language.”
Nickolas: “what does it say?” peeking over her shoulder.
Ana: “Mostly ranting madness, a soliloquy.” her fingers trace the dead Viking language, “a wild and haunted house of solace without a key...chaos”
Outside Troy argues with the phoenix, the disagreement is with both that he should not enter the house and every instance that he tries, the phoenix bites his collar and pulls him back out again, to the point where the bird is at odds between him and the doorway. Eventually he reroutes and enters through the window leaving the bird to stare inward and give a sardonic squawk.
Troy: “What say you of chaos?” Troy dusts himself.
Merlin: “Read the back pages.” Merlin himself enters but from the stairs.
Ana: “He was close to a cure to break translation?”
Merlin: “That is, a curse.”
Ana: “This makes no sense. Come look at this brother.”
For the first time in her endeavor to read the dusty old book she breaks he patient stare and looks to Merlin. He slowly looks over the pages, he stops and tips back the bottle top, his old face youthful requited.
Merlin: “He was given a curse of the mind and he wants to find The Ouroboros Star.”
Ana: “That makes sense.” She closes the book to show Merlin the cover.
Troy: “I don't understand.”
Nickolas: “He had sought a star, what not, having to do with that serpent.”
Merlin: “In the order of discovering the body in elegy...I was met by two vampires.”
Merlin takes another drink, hands the bottle to Nickolas, and takes a seat without crossing the distance. A twist of a wick on a nearly finished candle begins a small flame as he opens a script taken from the room upstairs.
Ana: “Are you kidding?”
Troy: “What do you mean vampires?”
Phoenix: “…Squawk.”
Blond stands somber and relic in the doorway, an ancient of evil mystery and as silent, Nickolas stares at the ceiling and back to Merlin trying to pass the bottle off again with no open hand of retrieval.
Blond: “We would like to stay here in case the folk come, to seem human for a night.”
Brunet: “The night is cold and dreadfully damp.”
Brunet sits in the windowsill as if it were a chair, one knee bent with foot against the frame, the other leg straight at the knee keeping him ballast within the room, his hand laden on the phoenix's head which went with well acceptance, with the exception of Troy who flustered approaches the window.
Merlin: “There seems to be enough room for all of us to share the fire.”
As soon as Merlin mentions it, the fireplace ignites and everyone begins to get comfortable. The exiled vampire princess tells them of the things she has expert and her grief upon forsaken outcast, trading stories and sharing secrets of an expatriated vampire monarchy. Ana patience with Nickolas, teaches him to read the archaic language, and the fireside chats parse the evening tearing tales from the tome and making sense of them, yet the whole night Merlin carries fascination with his new diamond the size of an apple and suspiciously watching the vampires.
Outside the chimera has waited, waited for them to run tell of the grave misfortune to the nearest law or fearless horde. Camouflaged with the darkness in the wilderness, slipping like whisper behind the fire sight phoenix it watches the old house, spying from vied meandering position to take notice of how many fortify the compound, as a pacing Phoenix walks sentry gnawing on fences and stump easily tearing away bark to keep its luster at a powerfully dim glow. Pointedly adjacent with stern focus a prying malicious staring at open windows it catches sight of Merlin spinning the diamond in his hand and becomes locked in gesture, frozen in contrivance hatred and vengeance explored. Carve hatred in allotted directive, the demon bleeds on his face to see, its anger may protest to conflict be, it dares to notably comport tyrannical pride as he confirms Merlin's reality. Lethal on the verge of haste endures rapture and frenetically schemes malicious plot.
The fresh air reaches across the plains, as overly efficient as the long night, but the darkness separates from the soil and the morning is the time of spring. Still ever as dusk, the black sky becomes dying blue and the starlight horizon holds strong in the hearth of the stratum, they walk pardon in brisk air the vampires disparate echo silence and stare at the roots beyond the clearing ready to vanish at the first sign of light. As they move, she moves quickly alongside them on the blind side without them noticing. The wind a solitary noise they turn to witness gust but unbeknown, as they turn back she is in front of them. Troy is heavily amused and the others startled holding challenge to desperate trust, behaved they still portend nether realm faction.
The vampires walk and glide, the exiled princess of the dark afterlife sways in random directions at times as if drifts about tossed by the wind. Maybe running the ground behind her cloak, possibly stepping on the fabric of her wears, she stammers at fault, the staggers of both vampire become lurches, their feet forced to the ground eventually burdened to a sluggish sorrowed crawl from unsympathetic inhibition. The promiscuous bloodletting sacrifice full of poison takes a wicked damnation of their survival. Professed pain the sight at the tears of blood, no less than plague causing minute stigmata. Possessed and full of venom, the chimera meditates seditious malice over cupped talon hands filled with cursed glowing runes and chants a spell. The symbols of the stones begin to glow of violent possession an echo in the dark. Merlin walks with the diamond in levitation and mystical revolution, as he attends to their wayside he relinquishes control of the crystal, but its song remains the same. The poison blinds and fevers them, their visions prophetic of the sun. The benefice of a spinning diamond in thin air is a single sound, a solemn note, a sultry confusion. The angry warlock reaches peak hatred and dark story a death toll to wonder without aptly wit, the diamond will not halt or hold it begins to rupture, in the edges of ill vision dark edges and a glowing light a burgeoning fracture until the diamond suddenly bursts.
The suns that drift timed elliptical are revolving and one around the other, but for now in a battle beneath the darkness. Fields of solitude in good company with every creature of their dark realm, in arrangement with comfort travelers four have left their slumber to enjoy all the luxuries and happiness of their world. In cherished paradise, the young master Troy has aged three layers of winter leaves, his formative companion the phoenix, has grown to formidable size, though on rare occasion it may leave ice behind in mysterious mischief. Its stock is now the size to ride, it happens to looks like an adolescent on the back of a bear or griffin, or both. Heavenly boons to the affectionate, Nickolas and Ana and the lost art of keeping a secret coincide with every aspiration, in sound health, as Nickolas would wrestle wild dogs if needed be they the meal. Beauty, as Ana is a vision reflection blinding for both herself and her consort, wealth as the prosperity of magic and good fortune, gifted wisdom and benefice of repute with spiritual peace their shared emotions.
A dwelling place where many make stead, Merlin and his fellows could be resilient to the most inhospitable of climes, at this the current world heeds to provoke their temperance, as the suns hide on the other side of the world the forest night grows terrible cold ushering wolves and bats on the dales and vales surrounded by silhouette forest. With the introduction of a sharp temperature comes also the discovery of a road, with little to urge them into the dank forest they trace the path of many wagons past. Aware of the need of a house in order to avoid such troubles, on such ground along the way an ancient house antiquity waits alone and dark in fading moonlight, a dozen leagues from the crooked crossroad signs. Welcome from the innate house, life behind shadow watches them traverse the lane, as the house grows in size visually during their approach to the height of an average cairn. A light softly emanates, only briefly as the light blasts from the house loudly passing through the stovepipe, windows and cracks, with a passing cloud of glowing white luster washing and waking into the wood, an effluent commotion that stirs the mist before them. A shade well fortified by amnesty’s dying art of inception darkness, from the second story window a flash, outside horizons of chaos, the suns hiding below the edge if not dead beyond the visible boundary of the plain and Merlin and his aspirant allies temporarily blinded.
The endless forest absorbs the light like abstract art and the stirred leaves hang calmly again. Driven by mere curiosity their need of a house in order to avoid troubles with new solace Merlin proceeds with leading step and pace, to investigate monition and spiritual peace, with this aim in his mind, he sets out in search of the learned wise persons who can guide him through auspicious time and knowledge. Understanding the nature of his rationale, passing over the water on the grass and cold air of a natural environment, he seeks a plot of his own interests and effigy. Creeping death seeps from beneath flaking paint that hangs in places and edges and sounds of persons living none, a shadow into nearby silence watches a dark abode and confined shadows.
Merlin: “Nickolas, follow closely.”
Nickolas looks into the dark house and nods his head in agreement. Thin lines of light no stronger than hair and louder than a match course from Merlin's wrist to his finger tips, a torch of moonlight reflection with deciduous caution, as with every creaking floorboard the glimmer dims. Cold night shadow and graceless clouds give way to astrological glory, familiar light passes over shadows while the furniture creates others in the satellite movements. From just outside the door, Ana puts her hand on her chest and points aside with the other hand as she begins walking around the edifice as the young incendiary squire shivers the night air upon animal that clods dirt from talon craw.
Nickolas: “Fate favors the prepared.”
Merlin: “You're one to talk.”
At the staircase Merlin points to the second floor, examining the artwork Nickolas discards effort and interest of such liturgy and leads way to the upper study. In isolation doom, they find a martyr lifeless, surrounded by the blood of the scribe. Outside Ana has circled once over and found nothing with seeming disappointment with a troubled straddled Troy not far behind each step.
Ana: “Well...the farce outside is over...”
She climbs through the window where she stands, leaving the boy and his bird in added confusion. A dying snake murdering itself by consumption adorns bound to the cover of a leather book. Opening the latch to the side of the bound volume, she queries the pages as worlds collide. Adrift the smell of blood invites the hungering demons, in the absence of light blood is the source of life, from scent vampires drift upon the house to feed and plague.
Merlin: “We must spend our time here; I'll meet you down stairs.”
Merlin looks over the scene, rancid parity and livid dream, stained credulity a sin for every ill and a pox on will, the balance of power mangled in a twist of fate and disconnected symbols of disorder. In the window perches the banished vampire princess staring at the blood of the floor thereon more than concerning Merlin's defensibility.
Thinly veiled curtains veiling sway in the window from the breeze in the bathing moonlight. Tandem they notice the blood on painted pictures, she looks around the curtain but Merlin does not notice her, he is keen on a diamond lying on the table, he can however and does notice the portion of her that leans out from the curtain, blind behind the screen, to his amazement. The spattering is on the tarot cards and still dripping from fingertips shines in the moonlight by her feet.
Blond: “It's in the cards.”
Merlin looks over the cards, five cards displayed on lines pentagram encircled, a magician, a man hanged, lovers, the star, and death cards lay strewn.
Blond: “Tarot cards…”
Merlin: “Why did you do this?”
Blond: “And leave all of this.”
Brunet: “And where is the assassin?”
Dark tranquility lays on their stoic emotion as they stare blankly at Merlin.
Merlin: “I can hardly wait to leave this place.”
Blond: “Was he one of you?”
Merlin: “No, I’m passerby.”
Brunet: “You heard the blast.”
Merlin: “Saw it…a splendid wash, like The Waters of Avalon…made of the mist.”
The vampires look to each other a silent pause that could be more than meets the eye, the male vampire looks to Merlin thereafter so does she. A place where there is no warmth or hatred, only unfaithful wrath and missing servility. The price of existence pale white with white hair, tan leather clothes trending trench coat, not well dressed for camouflage in a mourning palace but well equipped for combat. She drifts, not stepping in the blood, whole body intact as Merlin finishes with searching the desk, becomes disenchanted by the blood.
Merlin: “Dare I ask where the others are?”
Brunet: “Do you speak of kith or kin?”
Merlin: “Either perhaps, but I speak of my partisans beneath us.”
Blond: “They are tranquilly below.”
Merlin: “If you'll excuse me then, I’m needed elsewhere.”
Merlin's eyes become white as he takes the bottle of wine and the clear mirror stone, a book in one hand and the clouded glass bottle with polished symbols cradled in the same arm, the valuable shard already hidden.
Blond: “We'll just be a minute.”
He steps into the hallway as the black haired debonair vampire in a new costume slides for to close the door behind him, he glances in one last time to see her quite nearly hovering over the crimson pool smelling it's fervent aroma with a look of relief, she looks up again to Merlin as the other closes the door.
Downstairs with one hand in the lap of her garment and the other to turn the book of archaic intricate patterns of madness, control with bends to test the papers age before another flip through lost unknown engrossing criterion.
Nickolas: “What is it?”
Ana: “It is a fortune in forgotten language.”
Nickolas: “what does it say?” peeking over her shoulder.
Ana: “Mostly ranting madness, a soliloquy.” her fingers trace the dead Viking language, “a wild and haunted house of solace without a key...chaos”
Outside Troy argues with the phoenix, the disagreement is with both that he should not enter the house and every instance that he tries, the phoenix bites his collar and pulls him back out again, to the point where the bird is at odds between him and the doorway. Eventually he reroutes and enters through the window leaving the bird to stare inward and give a sardonic squawk.
Troy: “What say you of chaos?” Troy dusts himself.
Merlin: “Read the back pages.” Merlin himself enters but from the stairs.
Ana: “He was close to a cure to break translation?”
Merlin: “That is, a curse.”
Ana: “This makes no sense. Come look at this brother.”
For the first time in her endeavor to read the dusty old book she breaks he patient stare and looks to Merlin. He slowly looks over the pages, he stops and tips back the bottle top, his old face youthful requited.
Merlin: “He was given a curse of the mind and he wants to find The Ouroboros Star.”
Ana: “That makes sense.” She closes the book to show Merlin the cover.
Troy: “I don't understand.”
Nickolas: “He had sought a star, what not, having to do with that serpent.”
Merlin: “In the order of discovering the body in elegy...I was met by two vampires.”
Merlin takes another drink, hands the bottle to Nickolas, and takes a seat without crossing the distance. A twist of a wick on a nearly finished candle begins a small flame as he opens a script taken from the room upstairs.
Ana: “Are you kidding?”
Troy: “What do you mean vampires?”
Phoenix: “…Squawk.”
Blond stands somber and relic in the doorway, an ancient of evil mystery and as silent, Nickolas stares at the ceiling and back to Merlin trying to pass the bottle off again with no open hand of retrieval.
Blond: “We would like to stay here in case the folk come, to seem human for a night.”
Brunet: “The night is cold and dreadfully damp.”
Brunet sits in the windowsill as if it were a chair, one knee bent with foot against the frame, the other leg straight at the knee keeping him ballast within the room, his hand laden on the phoenix's head which went with well acceptance, with the exception of Troy who flustered approaches the window.
Merlin: “There seems to be enough room for all of us to share the fire.”
As soon as Merlin mentions it, the fireplace ignites and everyone begins to get comfortable. The exiled vampire princess tells them of the things she has expert and her grief upon forsaken outcast, trading stories and sharing secrets of an expatriated vampire monarchy. Ana patience with Nickolas, teaches him to read the archaic language, and the fireside chats parse the evening tearing tales from the tome and making sense of them, yet the whole night Merlin carries fascination with his new diamond the size of an apple and suspiciously watching the vampires.
Outside the chimera has waited, waited for them to run tell of the grave misfortune to the nearest law or fearless horde. Camouflaged with the darkness in the wilderness, slipping like whisper behind the fire sight phoenix it watches the old house, spying from vied meandering position to take notice of how many fortify the compound, as a pacing Phoenix walks sentry gnawing on fences and stump easily tearing away bark to keep its luster at a powerfully dim glow. Pointedly adjacent with stern focus a prying malicious staring at open windows it catches sight of Merlin spinning the diamond in his hand and becomes locked in gesture, frozen in contrivance hatred and vengeance explored. Carve hatred in allotted directive, the demon bleeds on his face to see, its anger may protest to conflict be, it dares to notably comport tyrannical pride as he confirms Merlin's reality. Lethal on the verge of haste endures rapture and frenetically schemes malicious plot.
The fresh air reaches across the plains, as overly efficient as the long night, but the darkness separates from the soil and the morning is the time of spring. Still ever as dusk, the black sky becomes dying blue and the starlight horizon holds strong in the hearth of the stratum, they walk pardon in brisk air the vampires disparate echo silence and stare at the roots beyond the clearing ready to vanish at the first sign of light. As they move, she moves quickly alongside them on the blind side without them noticing. The wind a solitary noise they turn to witness gust but unbeknown, as they turn back she is in front of them. Troy is heavily amused and the others startled holding challenge to desperate trust, behaved they still portend nether realm faction.
The vampires walk and glide, the exiled princess of the dark afterlife sways in random directions at times as if drifts about tossed by the wind. Maybe running the ground behind her cloak, possibly stepping on the fabric of her wears, she stammers at fault, the staggers of both vampire become lurches, their feet forced to the ground eventually burdened to a sluggish sorrowed crawl from unsympathetic inhibition. The promiscuous bloodletting sacrifice full of poison takes a wicked damnation of their survival. Professed pain the sight at the tears of blood, no less than plague causing minute stigmata. Possessed and full of venom, the chimera meditates seditious malice over cupped talon hands filled with cursed glowing runes and chants a spell. The symbols of the stones begin to glow of violent possession an echo in the dark. Merlin walks with the diamond in levitation and mystical revolution, as he attends to their wayside he relinquishes control of the crystal, but its song remains the same. The poison blinds and fevers them, their visions prophetic of the sun. The benefice of a spinning diamond in thin air is a single sound, a solemn note, a sultry confusion. The angry warlock reaches peak hatred and dark story a death toll to wonder without aptly wit, the diamond will not halt or hold it begins to rupture, in the edges of ill vision dark edges and a glowing light a burgeoning fracture until the diamond suddenly bursts.
12 July 2010
Night Terrors 5 - Tempus Fugit
Night Terrors 5 - Tempus Fugit
A day where the skies are poison orange forever and cloud covers the heights of the city well filled with domed buildings with belts of light. The tallest building in town is The Invinidine Complex, where the radio station plays what the wind will carry through the twisted transistor. The broadcast is to the world, or the known world as what is by a domineering government, a demographic planned from inception with clandestine sponsorship between every home and every propaganda school. For the year is forever capitulation and the time is information for only the privileged, and when your ambitions get in the way of your practical life a government friend will tell you what your best option will be, especially if you haven't planned. The enemy however is the mass hysteria, for the society that has planned itself to the teeth, will even rid you if the situation warrants or for the proper price. On this day, probably blinded by what she believes or just comfortable with simple ways and endless days, a digital correspondent working in broadcasting rounds the final messages to the general public as no other can, as the best of her grade. A font of information stately different then the envious derisively set on taking her job, another child born with a silver spoon and gluttonous envy seeking perdition, when convenient over populous accident sells her short. For the strong edge of integrity, another in the family of deceitful happenstance wants her dead to claim only then her career and with paid bond, had their wishes granted, before she could know.
The girl in the broadcast finishes and promptly departs. Her locality bracelet lights a bright green and moments later a red, blind haste more than panic she rushes through the floor to the elevator, her exploits of investigations and prying interments had taught her evasive maneuvers, taking leave of shrewd lagging objects she grabs her knife only pocketing it before running to the elevator. She pulls apart the doors with instinct to make it to the bottom floor while letting the cables sleep, oblivious to the lights indicating the level of the lift the doors open with a squad of police state hunters halfway to the floor. After a word, she kicks one in the face and flights through the room with guns protruding from the elevator doors firing at anything they can hit. Tones sound when elevators arrive to level, several in fact to hear as she checks the ammunition in her pistol, and she reloads the clip, cursing the day. Through the halls, the demons crawl as through the skies the devil flies, to lynch her are the monsters of science. Hot on her trail, the hounds of hell hunt the traveling beacon and the smell of fear, maniacal beasts with gods and sins of their debt they were once human. One of the creatures slides a corner without traction while crashing through anything mounted to the floor, haunting her with fear as she loads her last ammo clip. Over a wall a rifle points to her chest, firelight exits the gun and concussion beam disables her.
She awakens on the roof as they shake her contemptuously, guards, guns, and machine conveyances only a short distance beneath the flying traffic. To her they read last rites, reading litigious charges and other political words of obscurity. This is primarily the treatment for press that press, how she goes without screaming would escape unexplained for they throw her over the edge in parity. A media center was surely infatuated with the internal conflict and rest assured was recording her penalty, lifeless and silent sequestered as if an angel sifting the winds of plague, she falls to the ground covered in countless doldrum denizens smashing magnificently horrendous into their many numbers. The shredded viscera, torn sinew and broken bones, fly as the many citizens in every fashion drop their focus and run to consume the wasted lives, but she is stricken not. Covered in blood, red soaking wet with diamond eyes suffering a life once lost, sanctimonious she fends ought as she endures the wrought hands and starved image of the invisible. Dazed and confused the hunting demon hellions begin to crawl over the building ledge and down the wall.
Intension whispers in every shadow, she turns and gazes at the crowds who gasp in some exultant insipid horror. "Immortal! Immortal!" they cry to the cameras, severe panic causes dissolution of the horde, with every mention of the word that was once dry in the back of her mind, each unto the other the crowd ignites in strife and lawlessness as dangerous animals in caustic effort to flee from dread and carnage consumed. With palpable anxiety, she runs in a perfect circle, emphatically consumed in hubris and time marked by violence committed by those in power that produce widespread terror. From a vanished nowhere, a transport comes forth with two men of much weaponry. The driver shouts a name and the second empties from the back seat and takes a knee behind the vehicle. The driver shoots as does the second individual, but the passenger than looks to the driver, to her, and back again as he takes many bullets to his body and the door waits wide open for her as the driver shouts, beckoning her to come with them. With the guards upon them all, she complies and takes the escort with new inimical allies.
A day where the skies are poison orange forever and cloud covers the heights of the city well filled with domed buildings with belts of light. The tallest building in town is The Invinidine Complex, where the radio station plays what the wind will carry through the twisted transistor. The broadcast is to the world, or the known world as what is by a domineering government, a demographic planned from inception with clandestine sponsorship between every home and every propaganda school. For the year is forever capitulation and the time is information for only the privileged, and when your ambitions get in the way of your practical life a government friend will tell you what your best option will be, especially if you haven't planned. The enemy however is the mass hysteria, for the society that has planned itself to the teeth, will even rid you if the situation warrants or for the proper price. On this day, probably blinded by what she believes or just comfortable with simple ways and endless days, a digital correspondent working in broadcasting rounds the final messages to the general public as no other can, as the best of her grade. A font of information stately different then the envious derisively set on taking her job, another child born with a silver spoon and gluttonous envy seeking perdition, when convenient over populous accident sells her short. For the strong edge of integrity, another in the family of deceitful happenstance wants her dead to claim only then her career and with paid bond, had their wishes granted, before she could know.
The girl in the broadcast finishes and promptly departs. Her locality bracelet lights a bright green and moments later a red, blind haste more than panic she rushes through the floor to the elevator, her exploits of investigations and prying interments had taught her evasive maneuvers, taking leave of shrewd lagging objects she grabs her knife only pocketing it before running to the elevator. She pulls apart the doors with instinct to make it to the bottom floor while letting the cables sleep, oblivious to the lights indicating the level of the lift the doors open with a squad of police state hunters halfway to the floor. After a word, she kicks one in the face and flights through the room with guns protruding from the elevator doors firing at anything they can hit. Tones sound when elevators arrive to level, several in fact to hear as she checks the ammunition in her pistol, and she reloads the clip, cursing the day. Through the halls, the demons crawl as through the skies the devil flies, to lynch her are the monsters of science. Hot on her trail, the hounds of hell hunt the traveling beacon and the smell of fear, maniacal beasts with gods and sins of their debt they were once human. One of the creatures slides a corner without traction while crashing through anything mounted to the floor, haunting her with fear as she loads her last ammo clip. Over a wall a rifle points to her chest, firelight exits the gun and concussion beam disables her.
She awakens on the roof as they shake her contemptuously, guards, guns, and machine conveyances only a short distance beneath the flying traffic. To her they read last rites, reading litigious charges and other political words of obscurity. This is primarily the treatment for press that press, how she goes without screaming would escape unexplained for they throw her over the edge in parity. A media center was surely infatuated with the internal conflict and rest assured was recording her penalty, lifeless and silent sequestered as if an angel sifting the winds of plague, she falls to the ground covered in countless doldrum denizens smashing magnificently horrendous into their many numbers. The shredded viscera, torn sinew and broken bones, fly as the many citizens in every fashion drop their focus and run to consume the wasted lives, but she is stricken not. Covered in blood, red soaking wet with diamond eyes suffering a life once lost, sanctimonious she fends ought as she endures the wrought hands and starved image of the invisible. Dazed and confused the hunting demon hellions begin to crawl over the building ledge and down the wall.
Intension whispers in every shadow, she turns and gazes at the crowds who gasp in some exultant insipid horror. "Immortal! Immortal!" they cry to the cameras, severe panic causes dissolution of the horde, with every mention of the word that was once dry in the back of her mind, each unto the other the crowd ignites in strife and lawlessness as dangerous animals in caustic effort to flee from dread and carnage consumed. With palpable anxiety, she runs in a perfect circle, emphatically consumed in hubris and time marked by violence committed by those in power that produce widespread terror. From a vanished nowhere, a transport comes forth with two men of much weaponry. The driver shouts a name and the second empties from the back seat and takes a knee behind the vehicle. The driver shoots as does the second individual, but the passenger than looks to the driver, to her, and back again as he takes many bullets to his body and the door waits wide open for her as the driver shouts, beckoning her to come with them. With the guards upon them all, she complies and takes the escort with new inimical allies.
09 July 2010
Merlin - 26 Disconnected
Merlin - 26 Disconnected
Desolation, a symmetric house in the woods officious, requite solve for mettle. The contents of the domicile a crapulous excommunicated vicar, wearing robe with no marker, cloth of an order and missing formative pendant, reading tome and piled parchments with dirty edges from letching turning replication writing, partially drawing, in a dark library, all that remains of his rapprochement are strewn weapons of a doctor and unkempt animal traps. The room has a light cover of dust and web everywhere but the windowsills and seats thereby and the path from the door to an old potbelly stove. He rifles yaw, through the leaves of the book, turning forward and making a mark then turning back and making another transcript, in a multi layer map without rhyme or reason by short quill and plentiful ink well.
Outside evanescence, the moonlit eve of shadow shining through open paned windows, within only a lonely lit candle to light the way forever dead serenity, storm of the mind condescending and chooses to quit the burden. Tranquility, peace and privacy in an old wooden house, much hollow the timber thin and squeaking in places as he carries his candle with him to the hall and then to the stairs, ascending to a second floor and into a room once more with walls lined with collected works of literature aging beyond disbelief. Setting the candle on the desk, he moves to the wall above the bookshelves across from the desk and feels the wall with his aged fingers looking for something missing.
A tiny coffer furtively placed, a box hidden in the wall anent the timely vicar, to rid knowledge of guilty pleasures and other ancient secrets and shadows. A small drawer with small ampules, only one this evening is to his desire, a black sealed vile with a corked top sealed with black wax encapsulating a most dark concoction. In view of the moon, a bottle poured into a glass cylinder and the added contents of the potion, and a seat nearly facing the open balcony bathed in lunar light, the vicar drifts into oblivion within the drifting breeze that hauls lucent white silk curtain, to resign to what dreams may come.
A house at roadside, horse fences across the lane and a small pasture before the forest, solemn in nature. At first sight, the house looks a reckless abandon, an unkempt dark tranquil abode exiled by the empires come and gone, in the eyes of the chimera demon, dismounts steed with hefty fall and jolted armor and doubtless unsheathes dagger and circumspect enters the house from without the stirring night.
The disturbed facade becomes complete as he rises over the stairs a despot in utmost darkness as an old prophet with a ponderous life waits unbeknownst. Outside the tower house walls illuminating seasons in the abyss play as a silent message of blood aromatic tinges the air, into the office of the wonted umbrage. Chimera tastes by finger the contents of the tall glassware and spits it to the floor, the mordant omission illumine the drink is but the bitter taste of death, an abhorrent loathsome poison, eyes like bright darkness illuminate at the wine afore rival night mask.
Near death, suffering as he holds onto fiendish decaying glory, his eyes open blatant to untruth, the corruption of his mind reflects a summer eve in the mirror as a bleak winter, but soon turns to the window to see foreboding darkness.
Chimera: "Why are you leaving old one?"
Cleric: "I am lost in the darkness."
The old man spoke in a forgotten language to the chimera though having understanding of implied question, the chimera demon had no possible comprehension of the Ouroboros language given and thus so the cleric surrenders to lunacy and soon fades with tired eyes, staring on remnant shallow breaths as primordial subconscious icons lumber through a dreamscape archetype of multitude darkness. From a sheath on the belt, the demon knight pulls a broadsword with a rigid broken end, sharp and sheen, edged and clean, only the remainder crookedly wrecked, but still as ever long as an arm, the sword is drawn and the chimera thrusts it into the old keeper of the faith.
An unexpected torment matching burdened lament, a wail of cry as then the demon levers the blade once through pierced visceral innards, pulls his favored dagger, and slices once at the throat to source silence and blood simple, natural genocide met with assassination in a vulgar display of power. Among the suicide silence, the chimera demon does a spell with the tarot reader's blood in some forgotten language of growl and whisper as he bleeds through the sleep onto the paper of a fallen book pooling on the floor with blood and thunder.
The demon makes increased potion, partially of the blood from the vampire suitor of the vesper muse and partially of his own sulfur and arsenic blood adding minutia powder of dried broken bones or the scales of relic creatures mortared henceforth and utilized forthwith. He dabs a drab cloth claimed from the surgery affects and blotting applies the vile abrasive liquid on his wounds as a hard black shell begins to form with rigid surface between the dark scales as he cringes from the pain and the sulfur burn that slightly smokes through and beneath the painted death.
Desolation, a symmetric house in the woods officious, requite solve for mettle. The contents of the domicile a crapulous excommunicated vicar, wearing robe with no marker, cloth of an order and missing formative pendant, reading tome and piled parchments with dirty edges from letching turning replication writing, partially drawing, in a dark library, all that remains of his rapprochement are strewn weapons of a doctor and unkempt animal traps. The room has a light cover of dust and web everywhere but the windowsills and seats thereby and the path from the door to an old potbelly stove. He rifles yaw, through the leaves of the book, turning forward and making a mark then turning back and making another transcript, in a multi layer map without rhyme or reason by short quill and plentiful ink well.
Outside evanescence, the moonlit eve of shadow shining through open paned windows, within only a lonely lit candle to light the way forever dead serenity, storm of the mind condescending and chooses to quit the burden. Tranquility, peace and privacy in an old wooden house, much hollow the timber thin and squeaking in places as he carries his candle with him to the hall and then to the stairs, ascending to a second floor and into a room once more with walls lined with collected works of literature aging beyond disbelief. Setting the candle on the desk, he moves to the wall above the bookshelves across from the desk and feels the wall with his aged fingers looking for something missing.
A tiny coffer furtively placed, a box hidden in the wall anent the timely vicar, to rid knowledge of guilty pleasures and other ancient secrets and shadows. A small drawer with small ampules, only one this evening is to his desire, a black sealed vile with a corked top sealed with black wax encapsulating a most dark concoction. In view of the moon, a bottle poured into a glass cylinder and the added contents of the potion, and a seat nearly facing the open balcony bathed in lunar light, the vicar drifts into oblivion within the drifting breeze that hauls lucent white silk curtain, to resign to what dreams may come.
A house at roadside, horse fences across the lane and a small pasture before the forest, solemn in nature. At first sight, the house looks a reckless abandon, an unkempt dark tranquil abode exiled by the empires come and gone, in the eyes of the chimera demon, dismounts steed with hefty fall and jolted armor and doubtless unsheathes dagger and circumspect enters the house from without the stirring night.
The disturbed facade becomes complete as he rises over the stairs a despot in utmost darkness as an old prophet with a ponderous life waits unbeknownst. Outside the tower house walls illuminating seasons in the abyss play as a silent message of blood aromatic tinges the air, into the office of the wonted umbrage. Chimera tastes by finger the contents of the tall glassware and spits it to the floor, the mordant omission illumine the drink is but the bitter taste of death, an abhorrent loathsome poison, eyes like bright darkness illuminate at the wine afore rival night mask.
Near death, suffering as he holds onto fiendish decaying glory, his eyes open blatant to untruth, the corruption of his mind reflects a summer eve in the mirror as a bleak winter, but soon turns to the window to see foreboding darkness.
Chimera: "Why are you leaving old one?"
Cleric: "I am lost in the darkness."
The old man spoke in a forgotten language to the chimera though having understanding of implied question, the chimera demon had no possible comprehension of the Ouroboros language given and thus so the cleric surrenders to lunacy and soon fades with tired eyes, staring on remnant shallow breaths as primordial subconscious icons lumber through a dreamscape archetype of multitude darkness. From a sheath on the belt, the demon knight pulls a broadsword with a rigid broken end, sharp and sheen, edged and clean, only the remainder crookedly wrecked, but still as ever long as an arm, the sword is drawn and the chimera thrusts it into the old keeper of the faith.
An unexpected torment matching burdened lament, a wail of cry as then the demon levers the blade once through pierced visceral innards, pulls his favored dagger, and slices once at the throat to source silence and blood simple, natural genocide met with assassination in a vulgar display of power. Among the suicide silence, the chimera demon does a spell with the tarot reader's blood in some forgotten language of growl and whisper as he bleeds through the sleep onto the paper of a fallen book pooling on the floor with blood and thunder.
The demon makes increased potion, partially of the blood from the vampire suitor of the vesper muse and partially of his own sulfur and arsenic blood adding minutia powder of dried broken bones or the scales of relic creatures mortared henceforth and utilized forthwith. He dabs a drab cloth claimed from the surgery affects and blotting applies the vile abrasive liquid on his wounds as a hard black shell begins to form with rigid surface between the dark scales as he cringes from the pain and the sulfur burn that slightly smokes through and beneath the painted death.
07 July 2010
Merlin – 25 Shadows Fall
Merlin – 25 Shadows Fall
Wandering a forest, red leaves on cold night duskfall, of mist on the ground and breath are all to see in the moonlight, deep in the autumn evening forest frost past the pines that hold out the cold. After laying down in the fallen wet leaves and leaning against a tree, crossing arms upon the chest in a timid shiver closing eyes and focus on a point. A bird flies stolen by the wind upward into the black night sky and dying without a sound, a dream of an owl vaguely resting on a newborn summer sunset peering into a soon endless night. On a branch of a dead tree in the wood, a paisley bird or dead tree limb with desiccated peeling fallen bark, like a contrast coal sketch it seems as if it sings a failing song dying, it falls through the air landing on the ground. Aside from shaking the rain from the branches in its perilous fall, the beak is part of a tree and the bird a seed, it begins to grow into a dimly lit rapidly expanding tree of power, and energy amazing. The sun comes up and the leaves of a growing tree turn into new birds and scatter at the first strike of light, dark ravens now gone to breathe the wind.
A solitary sun passes thorough, the gravel rolls at sunset, endless countless grit with rolling lines that wave and amaze as they sway, everywhere hills endless sand at glamour, granule spheres of glass at sunset and a megalithic bluff anent rising star of a slowly turning and spiraling horizon. Rolling wind whistling and hissing, roving aspect points, standing to view surveying the land becoming nauseous and eventually ado dizzied at the same time, like jumping or trying to run across emptiness in the dark lungs of smoke at the speed of light in infinite time to the nearest awakening.
Gasping for breath, sitting up alarmed and aghast, awoken and soaked in the clouded fog, the grey and yellow prophet in bloody sullied robe begins gathering more kindling to dry sultrily his red cloak from sweat and the midnight rain. Tangent temerity for an abstruse distraction from memories of vampires and chimeras while huddling a small fire and staring at dark delusions in specific darkness he shakes his strife torment and recounts what he has undergone, three days grace from escape.
Wandering a forest, red leaves on cold night duskfall, of mist on the ground and breath are all to see in the moonlight, deep in the autumn evening forest frost past the pines that hold out the cold. After laying down in the fallen wet leaves and leaning against a tree, crossing arms upon the chest in a timid shiver closing eyes and focus on a point. A bird flies stolen by the wind upward into the black night sky and dying without a sound, a dream of an owl vaguely resting on a newborn summer sunset peering into a soon endless night. On a branch of a dead tree in the wood, a paisley bird or dead tree limb with desiccated peeling fallen bark, like a contrast coal sketch it seems as if it sings a failing song dying, it falls through the air landing on the ground. Aside from shaking the rain from the branches in its perilous fall, the beak is part of a tree and the bird a seed, it begins to grow into a dimly lit rapidly expanding tree of power, and energy amazing. The sun comes up and the leaves of a growing tree turn into new birds and scatter at the first strike of light, dark ravens now gone to breathe the wind.
A solitary sun passes thorough, the gravel rolls at sunset, endless countless grit with rolling lines that wave and amaze as they sway, everywhere hills endless sand at glamour, granule spheres of glass at sunset and a megalithic bluff anent rising star of a slowly turning and spiraling horizon. Rolling wind whistling and hissing, roving aspect points, standing to view surveying the land becoming nauseous and eventually ado dizzied at the same time, like jumping or trying to run across emptiness in the dark lungs of smoke at the speed of light in infinite time to the nearest awakening.
Gasping for breath, sitting up alarmed and aghast, awoken and soaked in the clouded fog, the grey and yellow prophet in bloody sullied robe begins gathering more kindling to dry sultrily his red cloak from sweat and the midnight rain. Tangent temerity for an abstruse distraction from memories of vampires and chimeras while huddling a small fire and staring at dark delusions in specific darkness he shakes his strife torment and recounts what he has undergone, three days grace from escape.
06 July 2010
Night Terrors 4 - Ride Insane
Night Terrors 4 - Ride Insane
Nothing and the virulent plague, a nihilist space conflicting with humanity in the cursed plains somewhere in the morose high wastes, a saint unwitting drives an arrow through the desert. He would race the world forever his reverie does not stop at a crash, his thoughts of others not, a choice to freedom to become relieved by respite of the massive horticultural cities and prized farmland with its own sparse selection of towerous monoliths, wild is the darkened world laden with society. In the forsaken forgotten desert, coursing at faster speeds, a longing red wasteland with occasional remnant skeleton and lurching vultures, in passing conflict with limits and peace in cruising through hell fleeing inner demons, from the mixing fires below the surreal dusted barrier align the demons without, like scarabs crawl through the void. In the road a tear, straight across the way a single opening minutes to blazing midnight quickly undone, opened by the salt of the earth. Several of the creatures crawl from the fires, before memories of glass sand drowning in his blood begin in clarity he slams the breaks. The car spins and whips about face and the accelerator drops to haul carriage, a new direction in disturbed perfect insanity, a moment epitaph ethic turning back to ascertain focus to reckon the pursuant kindred attacking with passion. Dark winged creatures dripping tar that eats the ore from the sands of the earth, not knowing how much he could take, secret thoughts inside him wake speeding through the promontory dead lands, scorpions watch from bluffs and cliffs, fantasy heresy from the lower world drip cyanide that burns and scorns the dwelt decay. Lost parallel dreams as driven with determination and sweet insanity, spinning wheels of a convertible tankard with guns of every sort across the seats of an iron swan make haste with revolutionary wheel. He fires modified extended full clip over his shoulder without turning, only using the mirrors to stay the road. The skies burn with fire and acrid sulfur ethereal transpiring as covetous haven hell hath no fury, only rolling red clouds with black burning cover. As he takes the rifle and jams it between the seat and the gas pedal and turns to fight, first cutting a clawed hand at its wrist with a hatchet then throwing its blade between the eyes of another, a storm on wheels of point and shoot resolute combat. Half standing and kneeling on seats as errant demon begin landing to bring wrath, shooting pistol sets between the teeth of evil vile demonic flying war serpents, striking and turning back the enemy. Some carry battered battlements worn and jagged from old encounter quarrels or flaying wars. Beneath the wheels a river stone that washes fallen foe, as closely crawls a cunning creature to the front of the car as one reaches for the steering at the helm, than another at the wheel well. Those that intend to derivate the course are fallen, to scream before perishing the wayside, the origins and endings of the endless apocalypse. Peering from under the car enemy primordial at the clouds of fire, the sly poisoned shell begins to the hood holding the window waiting, despondent brutality everlasting pain annihilation and obliteration the essence of its creation, torturous in vicious wasteland. Lost the way to jump ship, he battles the ultimate attack sword to sword, in retaliation red blood for black, burdened in a final fight, taking both hands he slices the creature from waist to face. Its arms fall open as its sword spins free from its claw, falling back overboard. The air beneficent, he pulls a gun to end all guns from his holster in his inner jacket and spins, pointing it at the windshield demon and looses a single round piercing the demon between the eyes, blood displayed as it falls over the glass. He sits again in the driver’s seat, pushing aside the lodged rifle and augments the radio volume, leaving the creature on the glass as he drives out of sight and again out of mind as the belonged death raptures and the burning heavens decay the ash to wind.
Nothing and the virulent plague, a nihilist space conflicting with humanity in the cursed plains somewhere in the morose high wastes, a saint unwitting drives an arrow through the desert. He would race the world forever his reverie does not stop at a crash, his thoughts of others not, a choice to freedom to become relieved by respite of the massive horticultural cities and prized farmland with its own sparse selection of towerous monoliths, wild is the darkened world laden with society. In the forsaken forgotten desert, coursing at faster speeds, a longing red wasteland with occasional remnant skeleton and lurching vultures, in passing conflict with limits and peace in cruising through hell fleeing inner demons, from the mixing fires below the surreal dusted barrier align the demons without, like scarabs crawl through the void. In the road a tear, straight across the way a single opening minutes to blazing midnight quickly undone, opened by the salt of the earth. Several of the creatures crawl from the fires, before memories of glass sand drowning in his blood begin in clarity he slams the breaks. The car spins and whips about face and the accelerator drops to haul carriage, a new direction in disturbed perfect insanity, a moment epitaph ethic turning back to ascertain focus to reckon the pursuant kindred attacking with passion. Dark winged creatures dripping tar that eats the ore from the sands of the earth, not knowing how much he could take, secret thoughts inside him wake speeding through the promontory dead lands, scorpions watch from bluffs and cliffs, fantasy heresy from the lower world drip cyanide that burns and scorns the dwelt decay. Lost parallel dreams as driven with determination and sweet insanity, spinning wheels of a convertible tankard with guns of every sort across the seats of an iron swan make haste with revolutionary wheel. He fires modified extended full clip over his shoulder without turning, only using the mirrors to stay the road. The skies burn with fire and acrid sulfur ethereal transpiring as covetous haven hell hath no fury, only rolling red clouds with black burning cover. As he takes the rifle and jams it between the seat and the gas pedal and turns to fight, first cutting a clawed hand at its wrist with a hatchet then throwing its blade between the eyes of another, a storm on wheels of point and shoot resolute combat. Half standing and kneeling on seats as errant demon begin landing to bring wrath, shooting pistol sets between the teeth of evil vile demonic flying war serpents, striking and turning back the enemy. Some carry battered battlements worn and jagged from old encounter quarrels or flaying wars. Beneath the wheels a river stone that washes fallen foe, as closely crawls a cunning creature to the front of the car as one reaches for the steering at the helm, than another at the wheel well. Those that intend to derivate the course are fallen, to scream before perishing the wayside, the origins and endings of the endless apocalypse. Peering from under the car enemy primordial at the clouds of fire, the sly poisoned shell begins to the hood holding the window waiting, despondent brutality everlasting pain annihilation and obliteration the essence of its creation, torturous in vicious wasteland. Lost the way to jump ship, he battles the ultimate attack sword to sword, in retaliation red blood for black, burdened in a final fight, taking both hands he slices the creature from waist to face. Its arms fall open as its sword spins free from its claw, falling back overboard. The air beneficent, he pulls a gun to end all guns from his holster in his inner jacket and spins, pointing it at the windshield demon and looses a single round piercing the demon between the eyes, blood displayed as it falls over the glass. He sits again in the driver’s seat, pushing aside the lodged rifle and augments the radio volume, leaving the creature on the glass as he drives out of sight and again out of mind as the belonged death raptures and the burning heavens decay the ash to wind.
03 July 2010
Merlin – 24 Apostasy
Merlin – 24 Apostasy
When the suns hast freedom to desecrate through reverence the waves of amber grain, the flowers of open pasture close themselves to the world and hold their leaves to shelter while hiding on the torrid ground, it is only in the reflection of the pale moon that they blossom. These eager blooms peak from beneath wary leaves through the wilting limbs of the great forests while the suns join elliptical excelsior. As the suns begin to make rest over the horizons they hold just, peering over the land and travel the edge separately until they join and sink together, as the wolves howl and the piercing eyes of the owls open once more.
Trenchant lurking eyes not far from the edge of dissolute madness, clouded and red turbid windows into undiscovered hate, and this particular chimera demon has lived a life of resentful shame, through wars to impede countless years, killing for wealth in the name of personal faith to best his ego. Over idle ground, his years spent murdering the innocent wise leaders, with sound mind and solemn body, to replace them with darkness and anxiety.
The monks, they are camped in the woods, nearing the fields, cult ritual and rites, nuptial tithing to the heavy dark, ritual sacrament practicing their sacred order’s tradition of shedding the blackness of night with incantation spoken in dirge, in the garb of their sacred order with blood simple official colors and special coronation in particular credence. As a hawk is howling at the precipice of nothing, three scant monks, no more experienced with practical magic than their sole experience with Merlin and Nickolas in the woods near the ocean city just north of the horde lands. In the extemporaneous forest a form of sacrament, conducting a ritualistic ceremony to realize the truth of the spiritual life, the esoteric beginning of dogma and stale tradition, and the very cult practices of those that met similar pagan heritage with violent force many centuries prior.
With anger and evil the chimera demon at first discovery decrees them as prolific hypocrisy and declares them enemies to himself. With the stealth of inner silence, the warlock of many hides grabs two by their collars and pulls them back to the ground and strikes the standing one leading their chorus to the moon, discombobulating him. The wicked beast then renders the other two unconscious, in the moments they knew not what assailed them, as they are fell.
He is dragging them, bound by their feet, and they begin to wake, one by one, the first long before the others, scared of abysmal fate seen, as doth any apocalyptic worldview, an antaean figure in a black costume pulling them through the coppice like lifeless bounty, serious becoming the occasion.
White: “God damn awaken, it’s raining hell.”
Brown: “Are we still in Weald?”
Red: “Cloud buried.”
Brown: “It’s an overlord demon.”
White: “Mazes of fate think!”
They speak in voluble whispers but with apocalyptical frantic emotion and become too loud. With freedom just out of reach, alone on a darkened trail near a dead end, they stop as the demon hears them awaken. He drops the cord standing sole intimidating, provoking surrender to suffering as they stare, shaking in fear as it stares to them.
Chimera: “Never make an effort to understand the world.”
White: “Be intolerant and judgmental as you can be.”
Red: “Keep to your own demons elsewhere evil.”
Chimera: “What is of say that I will harm thee?”
Black: “You have not yet begun to harm us.”
Chimera: “You speak of war.”
White: “The world is this way,”
With a fallen branch held with a deathly embrace the demon raises it above his head and strikes the darkest one unconscious, and then the others, beginning to drag them again. Then as later, he ties them to a tree each and makes a fire deep in the forest black among the evil empire of unforgiving darkness. The demon sits around a fire in night forest as the demonstrative canopy reclaims its cover from the brazen suns. Eating as two of them watch tied each to a stoic tall thin tree grown through the endless layer of small dry leaves, as are two attached one is lost.
He takes from the missing one their holy book by reaching into the expansive cloak that covers much forest floor, as they stare in slight terror. As it sits, it reads the sacerdotal book reflecting fond disposition, quoting the text to explain their ill fate as certainly they obsess about revenge, scanning his armor with their desperate eyes for the first trace of forgotten flaw whilst the demonic creature in burning sermon of what he does not consume. Enthusiastic decontrol as errant truancy keeps taunting them with details of their demise and other deceitful lies.
Chimera: “, And this is a wondrous place to burn. Only the living can die as death is moved.”
The monk with fire-colored hair screams desperately into the night to wake the slumberous of the silent night, awakening that which stirs in the eternal evening as he tries to escape. The captives notice eyes from the forest floor, distantly staring from just beneath the light of the fire. The ginger top looks to the very pale other, pale of origin and not of fear he looks to the spying eyes and back again without turning his neck. The demon with power of renewed bleak communion crawls to the light-faced monk.
Chimera: “Where is your god?”
White: “Is that where we err, into your hatred of faith, you are my god to my worship let us free and I will follow you to hell.”
Chimera: "You will?"
White: “As sure as possibly can be.”
Chimera: "Take whatever we desire…"
The monk shakes hoping for freedom from the ties that bind, but the demon only sits and leaves him to languish. Spark becomes a flame becoming fire, to light the way or warm the midnight skies, timber becomes ablaze as the demon forges a blade’s sharp edge to carve the second stranger, as the vampires Blond and Brunet watch from the darkness.
Chimera: “We will keep you hostage fair child, they will surely come for you and not the others.”
White: “What do you suggest?”
Chimera: “They always want to bargain for the light ones.”
On this Black Sabbath, behind the wall of sleep, the other survivor, whom coy had feigned unconsciousness, has given up the ploy to escape with surprise after realizing the ropes binding his hands and he to the tree cannot be broken, begins frantic throes and disgruntled fretful clamor to the contaminated layers woe. Dancing fire is the scene where hostages helpless are in company with a hellish mercenary covered in lawless armor, incontrovertible fearlessness, and unwise recluse torn and tattered scale. Placed in a situation that impedes physical movement, detestable a foul crime of spiritually wretched mode and morally in vicinity of obscenity, the creature sits with loathsome wounds still slowly healing from his most previous conflict encounter, the captives sit with hearts filled and covered with fear. Suddenly obsolescent to their place and the disposition of an ally vampire who will hath blood by any fair means or foul, a notably unpleasant distressing obstructive fear at the sight of every concatenate razor sharp edge in the darkling's armor impure with wrought wounds.
In their nascent adoration while walking in the moonlight, fondness and roseate they explore each others' boast, lovers bonding as suddenly they heard a scream in the night, a timid endlessly long cry for survival, the kind of hopeless lament of prey murder unrelenting that astonished their attentions. Now an indisputable intrigue, two minds as one stare a fire for the endless night has begun, both suns hiding for some time the world to come, Blond with Brunet having found sacrilege victims, sneaks to the installation.
Blond: “Who is he?”
Brunet: “I don’t know, he came from nowhere in the dark, he's killed one already.”
Blond: “They both could hold us for a full moon.”
They continue studying the chimera and the hostage monks, the excommunicated vampire princess and her new devout passion pore enthralled by the demon. The evil demon with nescience broken mirror spirit sits carving and eating, slow and exacted heavy motion steadily primordial and isochronal.
Red: “Are you going to kill us?”
Chimera: “No use in letting you tell others I exist.”
White: “You could let us free and I will bring you another.”
A facetious quip hoping to paragon the impression of prey, to surpass being the effigy of a hearty struggling supper consumed by staggering fears of pain and torture, antipathy and aversion adverse to avert into the macabre.
Red: “Come hell or high priest.”
White: “Many others, I will give a blood oath.”
Chimera: “It is not your blood I need…God hates us all…I am going to dismember you.”
Heavy with smoke or mist, turbid depths of degradation and misery characterized by an emotional response, frantic as Chimera stops dragging sharp knife’s edges across stone and points with knife to the fallen comrade, the pale monk discomposes at the sight of his companion.
Circadian nil of lurid night, endless vacancy of the nocturnal domain the hap of creatures such as the chimera demon given to urges in whilst to wreak havoc on the restless and sleeping. The vampire girl presents herself in an appearance as a normal weak apposite human. In their plan, they are overly optimistic and presage the outcome as favorable and wise, ever so quickly Brunet sneaks to hold a knife to the demon’s neck from behind him and Blond speaks.
Brunet: “Do not breathe.”
Blond: “We will do you a favor and kill the others for you, and you run in the darkness breeder.”
His wounds still sacrilegiously hallowing bloody and torn, with wounded molt scale missing or breaking through, the demon vapidly stares with solid eyes and utters not a sound. They move to murder him, but he reveals himself formidable, moves fast, and holds Blond against a tree by neck, after sliding faster than the shadows, without dropping the book. She stabs to him, yet for his disgraceful appearance his size is more than hers, her blade cannot reach his side or face, he compresses more as she drops her dagger, he rolls his head as tired by the vespertine winds.
Chimera: “You are vampires.”
Blond: “Yes.”
Brunet levitates to slide swift as a crimson owl, stabbing him in the stomach. Holding her, the demon takes his shoulder and tosses him aside position effortlessly to a tree.
Chimera: “Should I kill her leech?”
Brunet: “...No.”
Chimera pushes with his hand around her neck, choking her slightly to test the resolve of living dead, and then releases her, he turns and stares into the darkness, feckless and nescient he turns to them and begins to sermonize as he opens the latching of his vestment.
Chimera: “A trade, my blood for yours and in return I will leave you these two a parting gift, as another child of burning time.”
He waits inadequately and silent, while one sedulously helps the other to stand as the humans stare.
Chimera: “Use this cask.”
The darkling holds aside his leather armor, revealing another grisly area of scoria and damaged flesh around and beneath the edge of a loft tunic to pull and throw a small pouch to their feet. Brunet opens his shirt and Blond takes her dagger and cuts him from his neck to his chest, he begins to pour his essence into the cask, black blood of immense disease and death. The demon grabs him and wretches his shoulder causing some anguish for him, and worrisome grief for her, until the blood flows over and of then, overflows the silver cask and they deliver him the container.
The ignominious demon drops the book, slits his wrist and begins to pour. The blood is thick opaque with or as if with roiled sediment. His bloodshot eyes turn white as the dark bloody waters within shrink and recede, showing a martyr existence as the wound on his arm sears without sealing. She steps forward, ghostly pale as the moon, but hesitates in lingering darkness esurient, a primal fear of bromidic ukase religion.
Brunet: “Wait.”
Brunet steps forward to take her place.
Chimera: “My time sophisticated leeches.”
Brunet then Blond laugh somewhat awkwardly, they look to each other with a stare of consternation.
Chimera begins serving spilling blood that slowly pours into hand, interrupting the monks discussing their plight, dripping from the side of his talon hand standing in the shadow realm.
Chimera: “You are alone with us.”
Darken demon smiles; it stares to the hostages, as Brunet begins to drink of the darkness lord. The suitor vampire’s eyes widen and glare, his skin becomes heavily luminescent against shining firelight as he slowly lifts, resolve of instinct appeased, and a shown pleasure. Levitating he spreads his arms and slides away from the outstretched arm euphoric and stunned with bliss, his eyes awash with eccentric delight. The wildling vampire countess of endless abandoned region flights to the wound after only a single wasted drop and continues the same excitement of a risen faithless sermon, the blood turned to tears, ecstasy of the mind.
Chimera walks over to the dead monk and tears into the carrion, he rends and wrests into the body lest aggregate, to tear the heart within wounds, a remorseless corpse given not to wry complicity, eventually pulling the heart.
Chimera: “You understand.”
The rapacious evil spirit venomous, tosses a piece of the dead boy’s flesh through the trees, consumed it gives sound by and of the darkness. Chimera brings from the shadow, a horse so dark unseen until the demon clasps its reigns and brings it closer to the fire, gets upon his black steed and rides fast out of their distant nocturnal sight of a translucent netherworld. The moon shines from above only to them through scarce breaches in the deep desolate wasted darkness, nowhere and abandoned by the caged mechanical hearts of society or the ignorant torches and crude weapons of defenseless hate, the agent of demonic secrecy leaves back into the dark distance, the echoes of his mare's thundered tread within the shadows deeper cast.
Brunet: “Sated?”
Blond: “, As we walk our desperate graves.”
She wipes her mouth staring into the haze absence of light. Fear of death the dark inside has overcome the two remaining monks in sacrificial red robes. Their lost hope and screams of their consciousness pass through their thoughts, as does the blackened demon through the darkness. Their fidgeting breaks the silence and their focus on the darkness, reinvigorated recently espoused turn to the incarcerated.
Blond: “Let them go.”
Red: “Are you going to kill us?”
Brunet: “Not hence, you are free to go quickly.”
White is first untied, with his hands he wipes his sore arms where the ropes had held him tightly, and as reminded by his restless compatriot he unties Red. In immense fear and panic, Red runs and screams, as soon as White releases him straight upon the woman vampire as she stares at the moon twice so brightly lit by two hiding stars.
Red: "And shall live no demon of hell!"
While running, Red grabs a fiery club and attacks Blond, Brunet swiftly stops him by turning his head beyond its capability, deficient in clarity or purity, producing obscurity in mind and emotion to the sole survivor who watches a still running feckless body stumble.
Blond: “Do you have a village?”
White: “Yes...far from here.”
Blond: “Make haste hence anon, and tell them of your nightmare until avenged sevenfold.”
When the suns hast freedom to desecrate through reverence the waves of amber grain, the flowers of open pasture close themselves to the world and hold their leaves to shelter while hiding on the torrid ground, it is only in the reflection of the pale moon that they blossom. These eager blooms peak from beneath wary leaves through the wilting limbs of the great forests while the suns join elliptical excelsior. As the suns begin to make rest over the horizons they hold just, peering over the land and travel the edge separately until they join and sink together, as the wolves howl and the piercing eyes of the owls open once more.
Trenchant lurking eyes not far from the edge of dissolute madness, clouded and red turbid windows into undiscovered hate, and this particular chimera demon has lived a life of resentful shame, through wars to impede countless years, killing for wealth in the name of personal faith to best his ego. Over idle ground, his years spent murdering the innocent wise leaders, with sound mind and solemn body, to replace them with darkness and anxiety.
The monks, they are camped in the woods, nearing the fields, cult ritual and rites, nuptial tithing to the heavy dark, ritual sacrament practicing their sacred order’s tradition of shedding the blackness of night with incantation spoken in dirge, in the garb of their sacred order with blood simple official colors and special coronation in particular credence. As a hawk is howling at the precipice of nothing, three scant monks, no more experienced with practical magic than their sole experience with Merlin and Nickolas in the woods near the ocean city just north of the horde lands. In the extemporaneous forest a form of sacrament, conducting a ritualistic ceremony to realize the truth of the spiritual life, the esoteric beginning of dogma and stale tradition, and the very cult practices of those that met similar pagan heritage with violent force many centuries prior.
With anger and evil the chimera demon at first discovery decrees them as prolific hypocrisy and declares them enemies to himself. With the stealth of inner silence, the warlock of many hides grabs two by their collars and pulls them back to the ground and strikes the standing one leading their chorus to the moon, discombobulating him. The wicked beast then renders the other two unconscious, in the moments they knew not what assailed them, as they are fell.
He is dragging them, bound by their feet, and they begin to wake, one by one, the first long before the others, scared of abysmal fate seen, as doth any apocalyptic worldview, an antaean figure in a black costume pulling them through the coppice like lifeless bounty, serious becoming the occasion.
White: “God damn awaken, it’s raining hell.”
Brown: “Are we still in Weald?”
Red: “Cloud buried.”
Brown: “It’s an overlord demon.”
White: “Mazes of fate think!”
They speak in voluble whispers but with apocalyptical frantic emotion and become too loud. With freedom just out of reach, alone on a darkened trail near a dead end, they stop as the demon hears them awaken. He drops the cord standing sole intimidating, provoking surrender to suffering as they stare, shaking in fear as it stares to them.
Chimera: “Never make an effort to understand the world.”
White: “Be intolerant and judgmental as you can be.”
Red: “Keep to your own demons elsewhere evil.”
Chimera: “What is of say that I will harm thee?”
Black: “You have not yet begun to harm us.”
Chimera: “You speak of war.”
White: “The world is this way,”
With a fallen branch held with a deathly embrace the demon raises it above his head and strikes the darkest one unconscious, and then the others, beginning to drag them again. Then as later, he ties them to a tree each and makes a fire deep in the forest black among the evil empire of unforgiving darkness. The demon sits around a fire in night forest as the demonstrative canopy reclaims its cover from the brazen suns. Eating as two of them watch tied each to a stoic tall thin tree grown through the endless layer of small dry leaves, as are two attached one is lost.
He takes from the missing one their holy book by reaching into the expansive cloak that covers much forest floor, as they stare in slight terror. As it sits, it reads the sacerdotal book reflecting fond disposition, quoting the text to explain their ill fate as certainly they obsess about revenge, scanning his armor with their desperate eyes for the first trace of forgotten flaw whilst the demonic creature in burning sermon of what he does not consume. Enthusiastic decontrol as errant truancy keeps taunting them with details of their demise and other deceitful lies.
Chimera: “, And this is a wondrous place to burn. Only the living can die as death is moved.”
The monk with fire-colored hair screams desperately into the night to wake the slumberous of the silent night, awakening that which stirs in the eternal evening as he tries to escape. The captives notice eyes from the forest floor, distantly staring from just beneath the light of the fire. The ginger top looks to the very pale other, pale of origin and not of fear he looks to the spying eyes and back again without turning his neck. The demon with power of renewed bleak communion crawls to the light-faced monk.
Chimera: “Where is your god?”
White: “Is that where we err, into your hatred of faith, you are my god to my worship let us free and I will follow you to hell.”
Chimera: "You will?"
White: “As sure as possibly can be.”
Chimera: "Take whatever we desire…"
The monk shakes hoping for freedom from the ties that bind, but the demon only sits and leaves him to languish. Spark becomes a flame becoming fire, to light the way or warm the midnight skies, timber becomes ablaze as the demon forges a blade’s sharp edge to carve the second stranger, as the vampires Blond and Brunet watch from the darkness.
Chimera: “We will keep you hostage fair child, they will surely come for you and not the others.”
White: “What do you suggest?”
Chimera: “They always want to bargain for the light ones.”
On this Black Sabbath, behind the wall of sleep, the other survivor, whom coy had feigned unconsciousness, has given up the ploy to escape with surprise after realizing the ropes binding his hands and he to the tree cannot be broken, begins frantic throes and disgruntled fretful clamor to the contaminated layers woe. Dancing fire is the scene where hostages helpless are in company with a hellish mercenary covered in lawless armor, incontrovertible fearlessness, and unwise recluse torn and tattered scale. Placed in a situation that impedes physical movement, detestable a foul crime of spiritually wretched mode and morally in vicinity of obscenity, the creature sits with loathsome wounds still slowly healing from his most previous conflict encounter, the captives sit with hearts filled and covered with fear. Suddenly obsolescent to their place and the disposition of an ally vampire who will hath blood by any fair means or foul, a notably unpleasant distressing obstructive fear at the sight of every concatenate razor sharp edge in the darkling's armor impure with wrought wounds.
In their nascent adoration while walking in the moonlight, fondness and roseate they explore each others' boast, lovers bonding as suddenly they heard a scream in the night, a timid endlessly long cry for survival, the kind of hopeless lament of prey murder unrelenting that astonished their attentions. Now an indisputable intrigue, two minds as one stare a fire for the endless night has begun, both suns hiding for some time the world to come, Blond with Brunet having found sacrilege victims, sneaks to the installation.
Blond: “Who is he?”
Brunet: “I don’t know, he came from nowhere in the dark, he's killed one already.”
Blond: “They both could hold us for a full moon.”
They continue studying the chimera and the hostage monks, the excommunicated vampire princess and her new devout passion pore enthralled by the demon. The evil demon with nescience broken mirror spirit sits carving and eating, slow and exacted heavy motion steadily primordial and isochronal.
Red: “Are you going to kill us?”
Chimera: “No use in letting you tell others I exist.”
White: “You could let us free and I will bring you another.”
A facetious quip hoping to paragon the impression of prey, to surpass being the effigy of a hearty struggling supper consumed by staggering fears of pain and torture, antipathy and aversion adverse to avert into the macabre.
Red: “Come hell or high priest.”
White: “Many others, I will give a blood oath.”
Chimera: “It is not your blood I need…God hates us all…I am going to dismember you.”
Heavy with smoke or mist, turbid depths of degradation and misery characterized by an emotional response, frantic as Chimera stops dragging sharp knife’s edges across stone and points with knife to the fallen comrade, the pale monk discomposes at the sight of his companion.
Circadian nil of lurid night, endless vacancy of the nocturnal domain the hap of creatures such as the chimera demon given to urges in whilst to wreak havoc on the restless and sleeping. The vampire girl presents herself in an appearance as a normal weak apposite human. In their plan, they are overly optimistic and presage the outcome as favorable and wise, ever so quickly Brunet sneaks to hold a knife to the demon’s neck from behind him and Blond speaks.
Brunet: “Do not breathe.”
Blond: “We will do you a favor and kill the others for you, and you run in the darkness breeder.”
His wounds still sacrilegiously hallowing bloody and torn, with wounded molt scale missing or breaking through, the demon vapidly stares with solid eyes and utters not a sound. They move to murder him, but he reveals himself formidable, moves fast, and holds Blond against a tree by neck, after sliding faster than the shadows, without dropping the book. She stabs to him, yet for his disgraceful appearance his size is more than hers, her blade cannot reach his side or face, he compresses more as she drops her dagger, he rolls his head as tired by the vespertine winds.
Chimera: “You are vampires.”
Blond: “Yes.”
Brunet levitates to slide swift as a crimson owl, stabbing him in the stomach. Holding her, the demon takes his shoulder and tosses him aside position effortlessly to a tree.
Chimera: “Should I kill her leech?”
Brunet: “...No.”
Chimera pushes with his hand around her neck, choking her slightly to test the resolve of living dead, and then releases her, he turns and stares into the darkness, feckless and nescient he turns to them and begins to sermonize as he opens the latching of his vestment.
Chimera: “A trade, my blood for yours and in return I will leave you these two a parting gift, as another child of burning time.”
He waits inadequately and silent, while one sedulously helps the other to stand as the humans stare.
Chimera: “Use this cask.”
The darkling holds aside his leather armor, revealing another grisly area of scoria and damaged flesh around and beneath the edge of a loft tunic to pull and throw a small pouch to their feet. Brunet opens his shirt and Blond takes her dagger and cuts him from his neck to his chest, he begins to pour his essence into the cask, black blood of immense disease and death. The demon grabs him and wretches his shoulder causing some anguish for him, and worrisome grief for her, until the blood flows over and of then, overflows the silver cask and they deliver him the container.
The ignominious demon drops the book, slits his wrist and begins to pour. The blood is thick opaque with or as if with roiled sediment. His bloodshot eyes turn white as the dark bloody waters within shrink and recede, showing a martyr existence as the wound on his arm sears without sealing. She steps forward, ghostly pale as the moon, but hesitates in lingering darkness esurient, a primal fear of bromidic ukase religion.
Brunet: “Wait.”
Brunet steps forward to take her place.
Chimera: “My time sophisticated leeches.”
Brunet then Blond laugh somewhat awkwardly, they look to each other with a stare of consternation.
Chimera begins serving spilling blood that slowly pours into hand, interrupting the monks discussing their plight, dripping from the side of his talon hand standing in the shadow realm.
Chimera: “You are alone with us.”
Darken demon smiles; it stares to the hostages, as Brunet begins to drink of the darkness lord. The suitor vampire’s eyes widen and glare, his skin becomes heavily luminescent against shining firelight as he slowly lifts, resolve of instinct appeased, and a shown pleasure. Levitating he spreads his arms and slides away from the outstretched arm euphoric and stunned with bliss, his eyes awash with eccentric delight. The wildling vampire countess of endless abandoned region flights to the wound after only a single wasted drop and continues the same excitement of a risen faithless sermon, the blood turned to tears, ecstasy of the mind.
Chimera walks over to the dead monk and tears into the carrion, he rends and wrests into the body lest aggregate, to tear the heart within wounds, a remorseless corpse given not to wry complicity, eventually pulling the heart.
Chimera: “You understand.”
The rapacious evil spirit venomous, tosses a piece of the dead boy’s flesh through the trees, consumed it gives sound by and of the darkness. Chimera brings from the shadow, a horse so dark unseen until the demon clasps its reigns and brings it closer to the fire, gets upon his black steed and rides fast out of their distant nocturnal sight of a translucent netherworld. The moon shines from above only to them through scarce breaches in the deep desolate wasted darkness, nowhere and abandoned by the caged mechanical hearts of society or the ignorant torches and crude weapons of defenseless hate, the agent of demonic secrecy leaves back into the dark distance, the echoes of his mare's thundered tread within the shadows deeper cast.
Brunet: “Sated?”
Blond: “, As we walk our desperate graves.”
She wipes her mouth staring into the haze absence of light. Fear of death the dark inside has overcome the two remaining monks in sacrificial red robes. Their lost hope and screams of their consciousness pass through their thoughts, as does the blackened demon through the darkness. Their fidgeting breaks the silence and their focus on the darkness, reinvigorated recently espoused turn to the incarcerated.
Blond: “Let them go.”
Red: “Are you going to kill us?”
Brunet: “Not hence, you are free to go quickly.”
White is first untied, with his hands he wipes his sore arms where the ropes had held him tightly, and as reminded by his restless compatriot he unties Red. In immense fear and panic, Red runs and screams, as soon as White releases him straight upon the woman vampire as she stares at the moon twice so brightly lit by two hiding stars.
Red: "And shall live no demon of hell!"
While running, Red grabs a fiery club and attacks Blond, Brunet swiftly stops him by turning his head beyond its capability, deficient in clarity or purity, producing obscurity in mind and emotion to the sole survivor who watches a still running feckless body stumble.
Blond: “Do you have a village?”
White: “Yes...far from here.”
Blond: “Make haste hence anon, and tell them of your nightmare until avenged sevenfold.”
01 July 2010
Merlin - 23 The Moonlit Mistress
Merlin - 23 The Moonlit Mistress
In turn to the sunder threat, the shadow watches from the utmost evil darkness, poring olden iniquity, shadows within shadows the night feeds upon itself resulting in only the life viable of the sunset moon. The ruin portend, the ghastly dark that feeds on the rust of fallen armor, a world unto the grave negated space where scion is at tragic fate in predator anger, a realm of obscurity and promised demise beholden to vantage skill and instinctual renewal of all ages of darkness.
The disturbed indestructible skies stare into the night, a sacred silence somewhere between the sacred signs, a thick occlude covered in moth holes drifting across the sky. Disorder falls to antiquity and not but soon after into a forgotten oblivion. Where time is but a loop, a loose stitch in the universal cloth, a dreamer might seize upon a chance, a fatal slip and plunge the fate of planets into chaos. Though her sorrowed heart is a rancid consuming spoil without allay, the vampire princess after witness account of betrayal in her coven, begins this afterlife anew.
A galliard night to remember by brief chance in the high sea of the moonlit forest, beneath a black ocean of starry spangle and winds of soft petals in nocturnal emanation, the princess comes across another of her kind in the lunar shadow. As she picks flowers under the full moon, a dark and foreboding vampire with cavalier stamina approaches her, sliding with supernatural phenomena inside eternal shadow.
Brunet: “Hello sweet wayfarer, I have come to take you to greater worlds...”
He speaks with soft serenade debonair, yet she is quick to interrupt him.
Blond: “I'm not human...”
Brunet: “...O...I'm Brunet, a pleasure to meet you...?”
Blond: “...I'm...Blond...how...the pleasure is all mine...”
In similar action, she levitates and drifts back, a wistfully precautious reaction. As the situation eludes, she remembers her past, the betrayal in the house of vampire and her decided future, as she looks him over, for all of his verve, his clothes are a paltry sham, and she places her basket in a night of curtained darkness with the moonlight from the sky.
Blond: “Should you rest with me?”
Brunet: “I would like that.”
On the ground bathed in lunacy light, he waits with arms behind him staring to the living dead girl. After dropping her cloak in the shadows, she approaches him in the finest shining silk. Kneeling she puts her palm to his chest, opens her mouth gasping days' worth of air with each breath in the warm breeze of the summer night within void and isolation, and metallic blood in the moonlight shines, begins to pour to him from her mouth to his. For only the briefest moment before his lips rush to meet hers, sitting in balance he moves to her as then that they charily begin to yaw with high sheen blood lining to break the silence, until they are both bathed in the blood of the antichrist, insistent pleasure covered in acrimony.
In turn to the sunder threat, the shadow watches from the utmost evil darkness, poring olden iniquity, shadows within shadows the night feeds upon itself resulting in only the life viable of the sunset moon. The ruin portend, the ghastly dark that feeds on the rust of fallen armor, a world unto the grave negated space where scion is at tragic fate in predator anger, a realm of obscurity and promised demise beholden to vantage skill and instinctual renewal of all ages of darkness.
The disturbed indestructible skies stare into the night, a sacred silence somewhere between the sacred signs, a thick occlude covered in moth holes drifting across the sky. Disorder falls to antiquity and not but soon after into a forgotten oblivion. Where time is but a loop, a loose stitch in the universal cloth, a dreamer might seize upon a chance, a fatal slip and plunge the fate of planets into chaos. Though her sorrowed heart is a rancid consuming spoil without allay, the vampire princess after witness account of betrayal in her coven, begins this afterlife anew.
A galliard night to remember by brief chance in the high sea of the moonlit forest, beneath a black ocean of starry spangle and winds of soft petals in nocturnal emanation, the princess comes across another of her kind in the lunar shadow. As she picks flowers under the full moon, a dark and foreboding vampire with cavalier stamina approaches her, sliding with supernatural phenomena inside eternal shadow.
Brunet: “Hello sweet wayfarer, I have come to take you to greater worlds...”
He speaks with soft serenade debonair, yet she is quick to interrupt him.
Blond: “I'm not human...”
Brunet: “...O...I'm Brunet, a pleasure to meet you...?”
Blond: “...I'm...Blond...how...the pleasure is all mine...”
In similar action, she levitates and drifts back, a wistfully precautious reaction. As the situation eludes, she remembers her past, the betrayal in the house of vampire and her decided future, as she looks him over, for all of his verve, his clothes are a paltry sham, and she places her basket in a night of curtained darkness with the moonlight from the sky.
Blond: “Should you rest with me?”
Brunet: “I would like that.”
On the ground bathed in lunacy light, he waits with arms behind him staring to the living dead girl. After dropping her cloak in the shadows, she approaches him in the finest shining silk. Kneeling she puts her palm to his chest, opens her mouth gasping days' worth of air with each breath in the warm breeze of the summer night within void and isolation, and metallic blood in the moonlight shines, begins to pour to him from her mouth to his. For only the briefest moment before his lips rush to meet hers, sitting in balance he moves to her as then that they charily begin to yaw with high sheen blood lining to break the silence, until they are both bathed in the blood of the antichrist, insistent pleasure covered in acrimony.
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