18 December 2010

Merlin 2 - 10 Symmetry

Merlin 2 - 10 Symmetry

Fallen by glass torn at the seams blood made of ash a river of dreams, sleeping in sickness hanging in cells the dementia patients that have not escaped seeking wrath anew all prey for a witness of the hell exhumed, candles of flowers wait in the wings while heavenly powers an opera sing, listeners to reason speak of its pain. Burning is the season without any rain, the cult of the rising dreams sleep in golden exhaustion extremes, sin demonizing life with an axe for atrophy tastes of the blood and drinks of the sign by a chalice with the emblem of an immortal black rose, run from the bloody flood seeping of a serrated blade and chaos intensities. Fire from ashes and tears from the sky, chasing the wind of the summer day, death to the quarry killed for the lie of empires carried through the light. Blood on the wounds, with the weak descending on high sorrowing for a dream in turn missing from life, the echoes of misery seize the rapture and cherish the bliss, the minds of selfish judges of mind, body, and spirit as civilization collapses.

Ana dares not seek the demon right now but well distanced, rather at least to help Nickolas in his skirmish finding dichotomy and perilous fires for her to surpass, now knowing the capability and seeing the power direct of his regeneration. The blast area has burnt all to slag except for the coals of the larger building blocks of their arena, to wipe his brow of sweat and soot is infinitesimal in thought but only as a procured moment, the other, the city dweller perhaps unknown in name or origin, leaps in abound vaulting toward Nickolas and tears into him. Literally, with one arm and hand across the chest and holding the shoulder the other arm across the first and hand on face attempts to spin his head and snap his neck in two, twisting him to put him in knots apt with straggler skills. In success fell of Nickolas to the alluvium and cinder, as if with severed strings cut strung from the firmament a lifeless disorder, of sorts a smaller wound the spinal column and soon does heal the rapport of the inexplicable perseverance that is the fate of immortality. At Nickolas’ rise, Ana slackens and at slowest quickens her wit in slight distance, unlikely to spy in evident control save her oblivious position letting them fight for the sake of avoiding her own mortal involvement. The doppelganger stands and a step from the felled foe, Nickolas springs to his feet like a springboard or warped plank come unfastened without putting his hands to the ground and retaliates against his counterpart with fervent return. Unfortunately, for Nickolas the nameless avenger is a skilled combatant whom strikes him from a strong footing, in a spot of fate he stands again and grabs a scolding iron blade but at first swing the metal’s heat forces him to drop the weapon from bare hand and he stares reflectively with a dark insanity, standing furtively alone.

Malek: “You think that will help you?”
Nickolas: “Why are you doing this?”
Malek: “You must suffer for your wrath on these people.”
Nickolas: “A shadow of our world looms in the darkness.”

Ana stands atop a ruined shanti structure from a safe distance, thereunto imputation the fight resumes curriculum vitae, and once again Nickolas founders unto the dirt this time caused by a board to the side of his head, the damaged city wall nearby crumbles and falls inciting them both to flee its collapse and soon they fight anew. Thrice now, Nickolas stumbles to the ground pinned beneath timber of fallen scaffolding at the site of an earlier chaos in chasing the doppelganger to a cleverly convenient trap.

Whencesoever the foe finds a suitable blade, he approaches Nickolas to decapitate him painfully, but Ana only two steps behind him for the past few minutes of combat. Without saying a word she puts the palm of her hand to the temple of the vigilante, as he turns and notices her lurking a fire erupts of magical misgivings, a fiery sphere as if a mortar explodes within her grasp and sends their newfound adversary through the sparse wall of planks and makeshift scaffold.

Ana: “That’s going to leave a nasty little mark.”
Nick: “Thanks love.”
Ana: “Don’t go losing your head…he returns.”

The silent avenger fixatedly approaches with an iron reed bore once of the framework, Nickolas in rising to the occasion takes a sword from a dead soldier in the street. The attacker a more stoutly fellow, strong in the legs and thick width across the shoulders of the back whilst Nickolas is more strong in his arms and chest, standing straighter and taller ready to fight with more agility and steadfastness, as his opponent helves to injure him Nickolas quickly disconfirms any notion of superseding victory. The stout young man strikes downward twofold of anger and striking the air in haste, the first block by harnessed hilt and blade guided hand, twice a sharpened edge quite nearly hammered into Nickolas’ palm. On second triumphal incursion, he falls onto ground and with a tumbling momentum kicks the other man toppling over him, foot to opponent chest vaulting him into a broken ligneous structure, a crawl through knives skewering him many a time with struggling reckoning, and soon approaches him for interrogation in the waking dawns of east and west.

Troy, an ever increasingly pale rider on the shoulders of his red phoenix, patrols the sky of the city. The fiery light is useless in the deep shadows of night, a dim glow below him washing over and never betwixt the darkest of shadows obfuscated beyond the blast. He has been looking with cause to find any aggressor, with the phoenix flying lowly every intrigue toward darkness twilight without avail, much changes in the stern morning. From the filaments and fluffy thistledown covered in mystical powder his hands have in due time come covered in talc slowly turning the skin to white leather flexible porcelain.

To what he believes is the termagant destroyer Troy and the massive phoenix plummets to the ground with feline posture of similar sorts, four sets talon grasping in the soil of the street made of blood, ash and detriment. The darksome termagant throws a heavy spear at the phoenix once it lands cautiously so, an act scarcely unnoticed. In revolt, the phoenix waves its wings with defensive anger, a squall as the force of the furnace air pushes the metal spear to the ground causing it to lose form from the intense heat, slightly melting over the concourse of the uneven ground. For Merlin to see a tenebrous flash, alas a villain in reprisal over what feat shall countermand a fervent cloud of fire bright with fuming fulminate heat and traces of black smoke rising. Immolation has turned the tear in Troy’s arm to a flexible ivory to match the light and low profile saddle he now rides. Perched into predatory haunches the phoenix stares with certain eyes and folded wings and an afflicted rider angered to revelation with a glowing heat that vents a mist of ash into the furors of a maniac marauder.

The villain retreats, down the street in advance of escape only to find Merlin standing in the lane starkly staring to the soul serf brigand. Merlin with a crystal mace of majestic creation, a glass orb at the end of a scepter, in the dawn of a dark storm and the gales of nightmare lightning crashing the font of precipice in the eyes of the wizard. The darkling termagant in halt is sliding an axe of a solid red diamond without perfection from its sleeve, the handle descending into his hand in discretion as the energy of the distant hills seeks to seethe from the soil randomly, dawn unsettling the tide of morning timidly waits amongst the eyes of the countless darkling stars overhead. The axe is translucent and with dried blood, one single sharp edge periphery from handle to blade. The sharp edges draw the phoenix into inhibition from staging a second approach, as a great roar in multitude of thunder of resounding chaos in the streets from the obscure sorcerer, the skies become torrential, a storm of winds and thunderbolt.

Termagant: “The storm is for the gods, not these men.”
Merlin: “And yet you have no shelter.”
Termagant: “Join the fold, and shall no other tempt thee again.”
Merlin: “It has avenged on you the blood of a slave.”

Appeased a loudly sigh in laughter of condemnation and amusement twixt a personal taunt. The termagant holds out an empty hand and turns it over, looking at the veins of greyness that course through the ashen black, the used blood from capillaries courses the venom inside darker than the skin.

Termagant: “The strength of our cause is endlessly immortal.”

Though others have fled, many dozens stare in respect of the soon danger to ensue. Just around the corner, Nickolas holds his sword’s point certain against the throat of his dark double.

Nickolas: “I am not the demolisher.”
Malek: “The hell you aren’t.”

Devlin approaches leaning and somber, intense and determined, much more than in his shadowy past, covered in damaged armor through pitch black insight he intends to console a nameless familiar face, although the descended shades of night have hidden him from full vantage now twice the dawn, an identity through shows. 

Malek: “I’m sure the king would like to know you’re a traitor, Devlin!”
Devlin: “Keep your thoughts without words, they are with me, we seek the agent within the city walls.”
Malek: “If I were not exhausting I would tear you limb from limb!”

Ana approaches singing a subtle requiem as she puts her hand to his dying face.

Ana: “I risk my life as you cannot to tell you, we are not enemies.”
Malek: “Malediction lies bittersweet.”

Death and dawn Malek coughs blood and expounds an inconsolable final breath, were it not ere fire bound wind it might steam with anger and alas sprays in slight blood upon her hand. A shrouded haze bright into the stars the blue morn and fires of creation Ana burns the blood from her skin, quickly into a disguise of solace.

Nickolas: “Help me pull him clear or he’ll just anguish again.”

Thence steadfastly, he and Devlin pull him off the spikes and impromptu spears laying him, bloodied and ragged, to the ground. His wounds heal in death’s forfeit and he frantically shakes their hold standing fast and grabbing a new weapon rearing to go it once more.

Devlin: “Merely a flesh wound.” A smile aids his quip to further ridicule in jest.
Malek: “Try and take me this time.”

Nickolas drops his defense and walks to Malek, hearts ablaze and emotions trembling with caustic temper.

Nickolas: “Help us find the one who smites the land. Look, if they were enemies they would run from an immortal such as you.”

A manic subversion of fear and confusion he takes the sharp and short stick and drives it into Nickolas through the ribs, under the breastplate and into his heart.

Malek: “That’s for rolling through the glass.”

A defiant derision whispered into the shadows as much as Nickolas, dropping to his knees, he laughs beneath agony.

Ana: “You can’t run forever…”

Malek stops down the street and looks aback only swift paces from them, only to turn into the shallow shadows once more and through the corner into the coming storm. The fireswan phoenix landing in the street and the surreal white light of electricity has caused the people to run, fleeing in great numbers from the scene. Nickolas staggers to his feet laughing, in empathy and contagious relief as so does Devlin laugh, Ana watches but moves toward the commotion of a frantic escaping throng moving in the direction everyone is fleeing, they quiet themselves and follow her advance. They approach the street of the magical duel, Ana holding Nickolas from moving into sight, assured that Merlin as a sorcerer will handle this for now and she would assist if need be, as Devlin has left to aid the wounded doing best he to keep distance from the quarrel. Ceremoniously Malek washes his hands in the blood of martyrs and heroes in a pool on the street, he knows not who will be victor or as of yet which is the villain he seeks, but he will let them battle and slay the latter in the feigning zenith light of day.

Merlin’s many thoughts rush his head of the assumable talent that would soon become conflict as he summons his tenure of aggression.

Merlin: “And now it is your move."

A whisper and fixation on the darkness, lineages stone passed in solemnity an earnest reason of forsaken sorrow unto a new penitent bearer. Merlin standing with a cerulean glass orb welded to a silver stave, within it tumble the oceans and din haven storms in sphere. A black venomous termagant with a penchant for the torrent of death spell, at a halted acuminate blade’s aim, black spiraling deciduous smoke wellspring waves of it as if cutting the shadows from the day wave in the air during harsh swipes that come close with each keen fray. The creature rushes to attack with the red diamond blade, lighting brims the spherical prism the shock consumed by the dark void.

Termagant: “You will now die!”

Merlin holds the glass mace forward and tiny little branches at reaching the edge of consciousness he stands and stares across in the abyss through eyes of revelation, with pupils wide his lungs expand as an eon of storms inside his hand become lightning striking from the storm crystal. The demon a reverie of specious blistering eyes slices the lightning and it halts shocking further not, as if a vine severed the lighting falls to the ground and burns the sand leaving spines of glass melting hot and glowing red.

Termagant: “Like theirs your time has come.”

Merlin commands a graceful flight ability to slip from proximity to conjure more magic and the demon throws the ruby axe to Merlin's leg, the axe falls as were it thrown against a wall, but Merlin moves and drips blood from a slicing wound that begins to seep and stain the light fabric of his garb. The pain is toxic, a venomous vex that aggravates wound bringing Merlin to the ground aside rubble. His good knee upon earth he examines his other, kneeling cleverly so, as the demon rushes through the burning street. The toxin dazes, confuses, and makes the demon look as if not only gliding to him but also swaying like a crawling viper, a single view of him weaving in an undulating line. Blessed are those invited to the break of the storm, in harrowed time, fortuitous the discovery of a cruel demon, Malek who sees the viper demon approaching Merlin as if prey tell. He knows now whom he had seen in the flammable alchemy house, “That’s him,” he says and runs swiftly and jumps, kicking with both feet the demon from deathblow.

Perhaps in glory or gainsay, Nickolas joins him as they both begin to fend the demon for Merlin. The way that the caliginous demon fights is the same as the darkness, everywhere oblivious he crawls, stabs, and swings and grabs open limb to twist and break by intricate convolution the vengeance between them. Rugged battlers entangled within the arms of the putrid terror envoy. Within two screaming battles the demon attempting to cut and hew them both, the phoenix draws near slowly stalking near the ground, using proper and adequate defense, yet without notice once noticing the phoenix the termagant takes Malek, without an inkling of evasion, and throws him effortlessly to the phoenix and moves toward Merlin. The polluted demon throws Nickolas so hardly that the force though landing on his feet slides him across the soil without proper grip. Malek rises from verified certain death as the demon deacon looks impatiently for Merlin over scoured ground.

With a fall of his hand to a hilt on a ledge, a dropped sword spun over the hand Nickolas now fights the demon with two blades and drives the black hearted henchman toward an outward direction, in step for better footing toward where Ana stands. Using a proper fire defense the combinatorial of the flame’s deluge and the viral tenacity of dark magic, she sends flames toward the demon now surrounded, but it dodges ever so quickly and she bathes the phoenix in fire, which only usurps her eternally enamored flaming anger drawing in Ana’s power and her stamina with it. She faints upon the very ground she stands, Nickolas sees and rushes to her, holding her in his arms he looks for the signs of danger that he must offend. This is of simple requite, Malek stares into the battle noticing both sorcerers battle their negated powers and staring into each other’s eyes, one in disadvantaged position at the moment, surmising the situation as if looking through a twisted mirror.

The battle ensues of fervid anarchy, poised himself high the carnage of the city Troy tarries at the lane, firing arrows upon the dark wizard into the swelter of black magic and blood chaos wile. This does not appease the hellion demon cleric, the anger rising causes him to approach Troy, the sundered phoenix lands between them with open wings a blasting kiln heat as it catches the air and flaps it's wings once again to land stirring hot sand that melts into glass as it is thrown to the dark wizard. The citizens of braveness begin to assault the viperous termagant of darkness from their hidden positions as Troy mounts his flying phoenix friend and launches skyward. The bleak magician throws his arm from fingers reached in front of himself around to behind himself in a feudal resenting wave of virulent storm against and across any who stand there to assault him continued from the cape of darkness used to defend the storm of glass. Merlin gains his ground with new composure as the evil creation throws another vile burning star, but it burns against a spherical wall of cold air projected by the mace with an orb at its end. He is lucky enough to have time to absolve himself both that of his assailant and his own agitation, disillusioned he avoids engagement mired by poison.

Termagant: “In silence your waking breath shall be your death.”

The termagant seeks Merlin the wounded wizard, Merlin's mace has no longer stormy matters, only avid power and a lightning bolt pierces the heart of the demon in derision, short of time long on consequence the starry bolt comes crashing downward. Violent iridescence, veins of fire in his dark eyes, the soil vaporized and excavated, launched into the air slowly drifting through to the ground spread out as dead ash in a thin layer of dust and debris, shifting unpredictable serpentine actions before Merlin.

Malek stands over the demon, draws back a weapon and clubs the black wizard's face with the sharpened edge, alas, it simply cuts the flesh as if only a simple lancing, and stays the bone unadulterated like leather bound on stone. Rising with ambition of object permanence intent to intersect he rises with poison beneath his vestment, an interest to surmise and focus his power, a face clear of emotion while seeing in echoing shadows. The lightning scorn Merlin unleashes in his retribution is rash and wide, poorly cauterized blood of white silk seeps from the wounds and smites the venomous wretch for vengeance. Lightning from the sky strikes and when the smoke clears the demon is dying, a tear on its chest from top to bottom of complete darkness.

Merlin: “Who sends you errand?”

Merlin points the sphere at the demon and shocks him with crawling electricity through the wound that causes it great anguish. Alas, there is no reply. Merlin drops to his own knee and grabs him by the fabric of his linen.

Merlin: “From whence bode this evil?”

Merlin relinquishes his grasp, a remorseless precaution in noticing the demon is heartily cold and heavy in an eerie sort.

Termagant: “There is a storm you cannot vanquish, druid...a torrent of death, enjoy this minor success…and tremble human.”
Merlin: “Are these your last words?”

The serpentine demon tries at laughter deridingly with a hole in its lungs, Merlin watches waiting but in patience aborted, he takes the luminary crystal ball slowly from its mounted point at silver mace and abruptly forces it into the open wound filled with muck and mire. The purity of white light alone, pains and sprawls the walls of the severe laceration. It reaches its hand forward from the ground of which it lays. Troy puts his boot heel to the motioning arm and spears the wrist to the ground, the termagant cries with many evil voices of trapped souls, a decaying lament of fallen evil, the onlookers moan in shock with awe, fearfully timid of another blast.

A nearby cart of willow, ash, and elm tree seeds, used for Pegasus feed among other things, gives a renewed assistance to Merlin who takes a handful, his steps beginning to stagger a beleaguered frustrated stammer. He holds out his hand and it begins to glow a white light, he steps back as while the seeds he placed develop luscious green vines beginning to take root from within the creature, as soon do many others. Three roots begin to grow tearing from the body, magic as by a spell of Yggdrasil, culminating crippling last moments for the creature. Roots tear into the ground to both ways of the street and one beneath the wall, also growing upward foliage into the air a tree. As pallid blood runs slowly does grow the poisonous vines of the nightshade, the roots and vines consume, when there is sight without slight, becoming over growth of white birch and weeping willow tearing the street and a vein to a fracturing wall as the sky begins to rain on a rough drought. The slain nether dweller of putrid poison covered with the tree of life, from primitive to as be of lo the sight of death defeated.

The phoenix begins feeding on the leaves with young rider Troy loath to let it snack the budding leaves as the tree swallows the darkness devil. Merlin still paces away from the growing tree never looking over his shoulder even once to the noisome demon deacon. However, now Merlin equipoise and legend, the time uncertain becomes a font of adamant anxiety for Nickolas who awaits a waking bride to be.

Ana: “You’ve come to save me.” A smile and smitten relief.
Nickolas: “I could not breathe until you did.”

Merlin’s face is old and rugose, the spells and magic have worn him so, a grey beard now longer than it was at last morning fall, portend the stellar light in a mourning rain and poison brewing in his veins.

Devlin: “Wizard, are you dying?”
Merlin: “Cut that tree and burn it in a furnace, I’ll fare well…soon enough.”

Soon the king’s healers help in time to hurry a mending of the wounded and offer a chance to drink green libations and golden meads brewed by fairies the elixirs of late.

Malek: “An apology is in order?”
Nickolas: “No, just remember mine as a friendly face.”
Malek: “Is she healing?”
Ana: “I’ll be fine.”

Ana and Nick relieve in peace and look to Merlin leaning on a broken wooden wheel drinking the bottom of a bottle first with Troy standby.

Malek: “What you have done today…”
Merlin: “There is more to come.”

Post haste does the Runelord arrive, running faster than his feet can tarry forth, his servants and guards trailing behind him as he slides halt with Merlin sliding to the ground.

Runelord: “I came as soon as I dare. That was awesome.”
Merlin: “It’s no fun ‘till someone dies, save thanks for this quick fellow, but if you really want to help me you could get me to my feet.”
Runelord: “Tonight he’ll dine with kings, but perhaps first you could help with the recovery boy.”
Malek: “Yes your highness.”

Run to the aid of others Malek does, as the Runelord stretches forth his hands and helps carry Merlin to his feet.

Runelord: “Another mess you have ended.”
Merlin: “He survived the battle.”
Runelord: “Who is he?”
Merlin: “I know not…”
Runelord: “Can he be trusted?”
Merlin: “He cannot follow the morn in which we leave.”
Runelord: “I will hold him then for you.”
Merlin: “Hold him, so then naught a league caravan trails behind me.”

A lovers amendment Nickolas and Ana steaming in the dawn rains, Merlin watching and waiting for the interests and intrigues of the innocent to question him he stares at a phoenix squalling in resentment and opposition to the people hewing the great weeping birch in two, but soon watching in confusion young Troy, rider of the phoenix, in shared consternation. A perilous witless worry wont to overcome this and become one with the weather, his limbs and wounds are white as roses inexplicably and no longer of any doubt or discretion, desire in their hearts undamaged by the thunder of an impending rainstorm.

06 December 2010

Merlin 2 - 9 Duplicity

Merlin 2 - 9 Duplicity

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merlin: “Who sent you?”

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

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

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

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

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