04 February 2013

Merlin 3:10 “Au Contraire”

Merlin 3:10 “Au Contraire”

The clouds pall over green pastures and the day is long whence light breaks from clouds incontinent, yoked to mountains distant are the thunders and deluge of vigor and earthly vitality, thruout distance Sino walks with artifice diabolic, upon a small hamlet and waiting until nightfall merely to murder in shadows and enter the tavern to wassail and prurient pertain. Whispering hexes into the ales turning them to tainted libations, with sick tended a stranger whose welcome now remanded takes the lives of those who seen him have. In the mind of a world without end the sunlight a river over the world and fares the feign of distance to next of those who have not value and earn their viands, for as are not they slaves, having displeasure for the weak willed the hypocrisy endeavors and in smaller villages thus. Productivity is the mark of bearing true reward but tithe the possession to barter the stranger trades his impatience for their unrepentant worth, had their currency been jewelry he their lives might have spared, to his hand one of the many silent black birds he knifes to a door. Characterized by lascivious and lustful thoughts madness oft desires, starring at the roiling blood then turning in paranoia, and thinking loudly for the birds the bleak malaise.

Put to disparity the inexorable furor drives him into the forest where the sound of twigs breaking beneath his feet drive his ego to hate his conscience for its torpor in distraction, from salient sensationalism until stopped by abderian youths who have taken this day upon themselves to intimidate the smallest of their ranks. Stopping resolutely inferred of their assumptions, implicated as the perfect stranger to rob so very far from society, he emotes not while admiring their bestial postures, in this his fawning to their shadows invoking deeply ancient fears they begin algerining to him with smiles of wolves beginning first of one then of most. With wave of hand blinded are they by agelast shadow and soon each falls, tying one’s hands behind a tree he waits until the moment they wake to sacrifice their leader, cutting the throat he reaches into the chest to feel the heart’s final notes. Turning to the enthralled, he walks with blade and stares with eyes of bright darkness, slipping the knife into his sleeve all run except two who are ribald with awe and envy, closely facing one he grabs the boy by shirt and holds a sanguinely soaked fist, but with unfurling his fingers blood-coated diamonds fall to the ground. He gestures with his dry hand to the deceased, inviting them to scour their defeated comrade for wealth, for thence is whence art Sino dost of his past in the days by three.

As Sino drifts between reality and fantasy, he remembers his old labors of love, and ruminates upon the myths and realities of war. The sufferance of sorcerers exists in secrecy, a glamour cast on clearest day thereupon a morning mist and rays of light thru the budding forest, a smallish carriage of varnished pine with its driver standing afore the portside door, on an old road cut for wagons now decays beneath the overgrowing grass of a sparsely-worn horse trail. The driver and emissary to the patron resides by the door, his hair is grey and turning black with old agerasia, his trenchant cloak black each flapped pocket without button holds hexed artifacts, tinctures, decoctions, and powders, and the handles of many vexing blades aureate and argentine glimpse from be nether his lapels.

Sino walks toward them in the foggy forest of the sun thinking he is alone, the hand of a woman reaches from the open coach door and points to him, the driver walks to confront, emerging from the obfuscating vapor, surprising to see and greeted solemnly without vitriol entrained.

Jimson: “The mistress of the dark will see you now.”
Sino: “The succor to demons and first offender, do you not welcome darksome strangers? Mine troth I am loth to wreaking glamours.”
Belladonna: “Aright, brother mine, beyond nonpareil, is his prompture without reckon or grace.”
Sino: “Your redolent quips interminable, tearing shadows to convey what I ask.”
Belladonna: “Without regard is all you have not brought?”
Sino: “So much am I maleficent, I have only what is promised.”

As Sino reaches into his clothing, Jimson reaches grasps the handle of his sword, the sheath narrow and slightly curved, but deterring action comes of Belladonna as she reaches her hand forward to his shoulder and rises out of her car as Sino reveals a dark hallow embonpoint sphere. Her fingers bridge to the stygian glass with electricity, the web of tiny lines halts as he retracts the orb with his wrist. She halts and wisps herself and vista against the carriage pausing in this act to stare at Jimson. As he silently acknowledges her and watches for spies she hold her palms empty, closing and turning them into fists, and opening her right hand with an amulet necklace of thin chain and rough crystalline stone, she hesitates in sake for askance.

Belladonna: “You have the smell of death to you, Sino.”
Sino: “Anger are the dead, the weak do aspire.”

She admires the small and lucent hearthstone, giving to him the chain and grasping with the miniscule lightning seemingly a voltaic silk nest between her fingers and the hexed looking crystal ball as her eyes lose all color except darkness. As of now Jimson, staring with scanning eyes at the ball begins approach, she turns from Sino and he reaches his hand halting her new artifact, it becomes heavy and faintly begins crackling to her dismay.

Sino: “Import blithe or genuine article, that it makes my stages, run from the day.”
Belladonna: “Never common vain a peaceful yesterday, it is true.”
Jimson: “Rest you well.”
Belladonna: “Stow it plenty with ashes of wolf’s bane.”

Sino releases the round glass from his spell craft, it nearly escapes her fingers as it silently falls, and there is a thunder in the darkening forest whose floor over the world waxes and wanes like tidal waves in slowest motion. The sound is of hooves in the distance and in hearing them Sino poignantly distances himself into the morrow growth of the fading road a maledicent stranger to suspicion.

That rumbling is none other than a red bull, lone rampantly to flee from two riders, elves tall as any man whose skin is white boldly effaced, the pale hair and pointed ears, to sun effects reflection shall the radiance affectation commonly from tales of hiding and hunting in the highest caves. A skyline’s severance, the bull hefty and hearty to trod and sharply cut direction over natural obstacles, closing to Belladonna and Jimson it crosses the aged path, soon the cavalrymen in pursuit crossing after it. Relieved she and he retreat, taking the sphere into the coach and his hands on the reign they proceed with caution, the two elfish equestrians slowly steer their steeds to the road far into the distance and the weak afternoon shadows. With raucous they begin a charge, abandoning the red bestial quarry to confront strangers in the forest preserved.

Jimson recasts the glamour that falsely draws the fog and rays of light shining through celestial breeze and willow trees, the riders charge faster making post haste their certainty to confront in warren antipathetic. They halt before the wagon patently avoiding collision with some patient distance with their skin of strength irradiant of twilight magic has power to shine thru the conjuration.

Dain: “What severs the flexible minds and truths to visit on us unlawful magic?”
Gareth: “Clear this air and;”
Dain: “—you two begin to talk, make with movements slow;”
Gareth: “—for we to see.”

The witch looks for Sino but he has departed along the forest road disappearing more shadows of morrow sunset than of the disparate black smoke of his escape, though of spying eye. Jimson clears the vista-scene with a waving hand the smoke itself vanishes into the air as it consumes itself as quickly as cast.

Gareth: “A poor deceit unjustly bleak, to patents remit, what are your names, quickly.”
Dain: “Do not pore on this question or I will assume your deportment avaricious.”
Belladonna: “We are agents for Völund. I am Belladonna Nightshade, my brother Jimson, children of Simon.”

She begins to stand, the elves ready their weapons, quicker than soldiers from lesser realms doth, Gareth ready to throw a dagger, Dain standing in stirrups with short arrow drawn taught, and they take no chance in losing.

Dain: “Let us avoid resurrection, who you say to be bear runes of dark illusion.”
Gareth: “Post haste.”

Her hand raises and in her palm the death rune glows, soon other tattoos invisible emerge irradiant tho soon are all depleted. The effulgent sigil decays, unveiling the moonlight anew to commensurate day and night and with the dimness after longing darkness breaks the beyond eve into subtle nightfall the living moon, so bright and full and radiance amassed, calls to the werewolves of the land whom call to it in bale and blithe.