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.