Abdicated Sanctity

[Zarsies 6795]

 

 

Rolling mist swept through the clearing, whitened in moonlight among the pale tombstones and graves. In the center lie the stone gazebo, standing upon a raised dais of circular rock. Rellenia hung in the sky, providing the illumination. And it was under her eye would unlife pass through the dead. An anemic figure, robes in embroidered aurum and deep magenta hues among cloth blacker than the night the being weaved slid past the burials. Its grossly thin body moved forth under the shade of its cloak, but the woman of the moon’s shine reached the entities flesh as it went past a radiant beam; the short figure’s forearms bore ebony flesh dug with countless coverage of runes and jagged sigils. The carvings upon its skin glistened with an equal value to the luster reflected by the graves, that of a dull vibrancy but in a mauve tone. Beyond its distracting forearms lingered more sinister features. A rack of horrid, spined horns sprouted from its teal veil of hair, shimmering in glow of the night like black bones. More engraved insignias lie over the being’s soft features. But with a constant step the light faded off from the being, only leaving a silhouette but it too soon disappeared in the black. The gaunt demon’s scrawny body dipped into the gazebo under the pitch hailing of shadow and stood for a time, watching for any eyes of the living with such stillness to be mistaken as another effigy of a divine being in the cemetery. Once finding itself clear, it lowered into a passage.

 

Rose red dripped from its talons as it slunk through the tunnel. Diving and sewing through a labyrinth of dark, unlit halls the fiend went before it came upon a larger chamber. A low glow of blue light dwindled and growed from  the back wall from past a crystallized window of arranged glass, shining over a throne. A series of haunting, twisted animals stood in crouched positions over the seat, but their figures are too blacked in jet night for even an omnipotent narration to provide descriptions of. Pearly eyes raised at the threshold to the chamber, that of the hellion. Black tears ran from its tear ducts, bleeding out over his runic flesh and emaciated face. Its gaze was locked onto that of another. A faint, crimson glow lifted from the somber chair, a being of towering proportions coming to a stand. A milky arm of petrified muscle extended itself, reaching out towards the small robed one. A deathly voice crackles from the entity, like ferrum against ceramic:

 

“M̸͈͇̰̠̣͍͋ͥy̸͔̯̝̬̗͈̩̞̋̂̂͑̐͊̃̾ ̙̺̳͙̙̟̰͙̖̆̒͘͠͝ḇ̛͈ͭ͞͞o̟̳̾̓̌͐ͧ̀ͯ̒ͯ͜y̖͎̯̫̘̯͍͚ͮͩͨ͆̄.͉͇̄͆ͤͨ͐̍.̷̬̬͎̹̼̏ͩ̓̀̈ͨͪͅ.̩̞̬̥͍̌ͧ̈̀”

 

Spoke the white in black. The now dubbed child stepped forth with a bloodied flow of trickling pattered against the stone as it neared, tears ever racing and bloodied nails dripping. The boy dipped his head towards the watcher while he drew his hand into the middle fold of his robe, pinching a seam of his attire. He pulled his arm aside in a sudden whip and his garment’s top shredded to pieces, dropping to his waist where a cord fastened his clothing. The child’s nigh skeletal upper body showed before the being, displaying his narrow manifestation, albeit his carcass wore a somewhat thick layering of paper. Silent ages passed as the demon unwound the parchment laid over his body; a thick, golden rod was his handle. Time wore on until the boy finished, now bearing a very large scroll in his petite arms. His anorexia-implying framework leaned closer as he rolled the scroll along the floor, over towards the spire of monochromatic gray. The same saturation of red fluid ran from the papers as what stained and dried upon the child’s talons. The creature once more spoke while the demonic little boy stood in stoic silence:

 

“Y̪̦̯͊̐̉̈́ͬ̎͟͠o̵̲̻̭̳̖̭͔͈̩͐ͦͭ̑ͫ̔ͨ̃̍͟͟u̧̙̻͎̜͓ͩͦ͛͐̿̃ͬ͋̑r̶̵̹̝̈ͬ̈́ ̞̝͙͕̯̲́̓̑̍̈́ͦf͙͉ͦͮ̾̄ͪͤ̔͞i̡̗͎̽ͬͩ̉̈́͒̔ͫͧn͔̫͓͙̯͕͇̐͋ͮa̢̙̦͇̝̪ͣ̏̈́̐ͪ̇l̴̥̘̥͚͚̿̕ ̵̰̟̰ͭͦͧ̈͋ͅs͇͎̰͕̮͉͕̞͑͋̎͐̐̐̇̍ͥa̼͍͐̏́̈́̓̿ͬ̚͠c̝̯̞̣̙̱͔̣͑̐͝r͛ͮͩ̍ͦ̈́̂̋͏̥̩̕î̥͔̼̝͞f̣̜̘ͫͥ͑̌̔ͨ̂͜͡i͈̘̟͉̦̮̅̋͊̊c̨̢̫̳͉̪̩̹̲̟͔̋ͨ̉̅̇ͮ͌e̟̙̋̊͗̇ͣͩ̍͆͝,̐̇͝͏̪̦̭̣̭̳ͅ ̡͇͓̙͔͙̱̫̻̇͋̋̑̑̈̒̉̊W̾͛̅̈͢҉̩̥͞ȍ̶̶͕̦̗̬͚̲̦̻͂ͮ̌̾̆e̢̳͍̯̥̲͙̊͟͡.̩̝̬͕ͤ̽͆̔̀̏́ͅ”

 

As its words echoed throughout the stone chamber, the child turned. His crying continued as the demon walked on, moving into the recesses of the shadows for a moment. With his claws flared up in a curled motion he directed a massive, engraved urn whose sides were cut agape with numerous holes with a mental hand into the center of the chamber, a small way’s away from the throne and its erected owner. The child silently gripped onto the spiked rim of the vessel, throwing himself atop it in a hunch with puzzling grace. In an elegant drop, the boy slithers down into the vase. His thin frame just barely fits through its maw. Once squeezed in, the child stood in the vase, staring over towards the black mass shrouding the cerulean light of the glass beyond. The bleached being roused its voice, speaking:

 

“T̹̄̓̔͋̅͋ͨh̵̸͙̪̝̣̰̺͔͕͌ͩ̃ẽ͇̖̠̟͑ͯͦ͋̓ ͉̉̈ͫ̾͆L͉̥̦̭̭͙͐ͫͫ͡͝iͪͭͩ̇͏̵̝͈̣t͐̎̒͏̖̳̱̰̪ͅǎ̛̝͍͎̤̮͍̺́̿́̒ͪ̃n͎̦̠̐ͪ̍͡͠͠ỳ̸̸̙͓̝̬̥ͭ͊ͥ͂ͫ́̾ ̱̫͕̝̙̞̀̾̕ȏ͍͉͚̭͊ͅf̢͈͇̮͎̭͕ͥ͆̋̒̐͑̔͗ ̣͕̰̰̭̄̒P̣̪̲̼̭ͫ̅̋̿̃͐̋͟͢ͅą̵̥͈̻͖̦̯̆͛̈ͯͫͭ̂i̟͇͎ͪͦ̔̉͐ͭ̽͛͘͢n͓͔̪͌̓̌ͭ͐͛ͥ̆͋.̸̢͚̤ͫ̓̐ͦ̓.͇̙̅̔̈́ͣ̃͞.̝̝̥̱̯̠̭͕ͥ͠”

 

R̵̺̼̪̞̠̺͌̃̒ͪ̿̆͌ͫe̴̡̳̩̯̾͒ͮ͡s̝̣̔͐t̨̬̺͆͂̓͒͒͋̏̑̀,̧͇̜͚͚̲̫͔ͥ̅́̓͡ ̢̙͍͖̝̺̘̆̚W̶̮̳͖͓̫̙̻̮̝ͨ͗͒ͭͯͥo͈̬͈̤͐̄̈̏ͬ̉̀͘͞ȩ̹͓̥͈̬̜̎ͯ̊ͅ.̶̢̼̪̤͎̗̪̰̝̽̚

 

In a sudden flurry of motion, the crimson light of the white one’s eyes flowed through it, setting its robes within ablaze. Its robes writhed like a hateful swarm of wasps; portions of its robe tore and ripped, flying upward to wave about in an artificial gleam of red. The Litany elevated, unrolling swiftly to reveal its bloodied sigils and runes that riddled its hide, running down over the dais in a splatter. The pearly being arced its arms from side to side, bending them up towards the pitted ceiling above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A cryptic speech ensued as the terror of the dark announced the Litany’s script.

 

V̶̷̧̀̎ͩ̐ͣ̍ͥ̏̍̊̎҉̝̰̘͈̯͇̱̟͚̘̼̭͔̻̺̫̞̦͇͟a̸̶̛͚̫̩̝̥̘͙͍̙̱̳̹͉͆͌̾ͭ͂̚̕͝ͅl̷̛͉͔̯̼͎̠̤͖̾̄̓̍ͥ̄̂͢͜͡'̵̛̰̦̙͈̖̪͇̰̫͓͔̝̰̫̗̰̺̃͒͋̓͂͢ģ̺̞̳̬͙̞̝̥̗̹̭͍̫͕̤ͯͫ̇̅̕͞o̸̗͇̣̩̫̳̩͉͚̟̩͚̽ͥ́ͣ̌r̶͇̹̲̗̰͚̺̅̑̇̊͊ͦ͐͆͋̒͢͟͞ḛ̷̮̹̞̞͙̙̗ͤͦ̈ͣ͌͆ͪ̍̈̉ͯ̅̊̄̓ͧ̓́̚͘͟͝ ̛̣̤̹̤̔̑͒̔̾ͩ̄ͩͯ͛̎́̉̿̀d̶̦̯̬͓̘̠̒̐ͫ̎̒ͪ̀ͅa̵̛̬̠̥̣̹̹̣̹̼̰͉̫̰̾͛ͫ̇̒ͦͩ͂͝n̴̵̜̘̝͕̤̘̙̳̹̲̹̖̳͇͔͍̍̓̆ͣͭͫ̂͒ͫ̔ͬ̈́͂͗͗̆̉ͣ͜ ̵̢̲̰͚͇̬̱̣͖̝̺̰̊͌̑ͩ̔̿̂͠aͫ͛̄ͪ̒́̇̅ͨ͋̉ͦ̐̽͏̸̧͔̥̻͉̩͍̯͎̟̠̳̦̟̦̺́͝e̷̷̢̙̝̬̜̙̾ͥͮ͑̈̓̏̂͑̒͋ͯ̊͗ͪ̈ͧͅǹ̴̷̨̲̩̟͈̯̬̟̺̬̩̖̈́̍ͫ͑̓͝ͅ ̋ͨͦ̀͋̓͌ͨ̚҉̮͕̤̘͔̗̣͍̖̻͇̥̦͎͟͝͝s̶̤̠͕͕̫̫̣̪̼͈͓͕̼̖̫͖͚̞ͧ͐́̔̐͒ͥͣ̍̈ͪ̀̀͟͝ǎ̸̢̛̻̻̘̱̜͓͚̰͍̪͔̪͙̹̫͖̻̱ͧ̾̋̂̌͑ͤ͘l̄̋̒̐̅̇̎ͪͧͦ͗̈́̃̅͆͛̚͏҉͖̪̯̘̘̹̜̳͈͚͉̘̗̥̘̣̟̤̣a̡͍̺̞͈̪̟̖͚͎͚̠̤̠̓͒͋̆̉̆ͩ̽ͯ͊̄͜͝e̛̎́ͮ͊ͣ͆͐́҉͔̮͈̞̺ͅn͙̫̝͔̖͔̏͂͋̄̿̂ͦ̌ͫ̾ͨ̊̐̐ͮ̄͢͟ ͨͥ̆ͧ͒͋̊̂́͜҉̺͇͈̘͈͕̻̺̗͍̳̖̣͉̺̬̜̭f̡͕̠̩͎̠̠͓͈͈̏͂͒̑͑̇̑͗ͮͫ̉̅̒̍ͥͩͯ́h̸̗͎̝͍͚̩̭̤̣̳͈̣̣̠̭͈̘ͭͣ͐ͮ̀ͧͭͧ̇ͦ̓ͅͅ'̷̢̖̲͚̤̹̠̲̬͕̣̟͎̝̮̯̫͕̳̰̑̏̿̓͛ͫ̓ͭ̔̈́̿ͭ̋͊̈̓͝͠ų͉̹̹̲̜͍͍͚̪̣̲̹̮͉̪̮̬̗͒̒̊͗͘͟q̧͍̺̭̯̝͓̟̥͚̖̓̃̿̽ͯ̊̔̈ͦͪͦ͂̌ͬ̊̅̓̑̐u̵̙̜͇͇͔̥̝͉͕̟̣̗̗͐̋̐͆́͂̾͂͜e̛̬̝͙̟͔͕̹̠̩̠̬̹̮͉̗̲̗͖ͪ̒͐ͨ͂̀ͤ̃ͭ̈̊͘͠ͅ;̸̳̻͉̲̞͉̱̮͕̺͈͑̅͛̏̎̋̐̂ͬ̆̐͛ͫͬͧ̚͡

̵̻̳̝̩͙̞̦̰̳͙̝̳̬̳̼̎ͭͣ̑͗̀̍͑̚͟ͅ

̸̧̪̖̫͉͚͈̝͖͛̌ͨͨͥͮ̍ͣ̂̽ͪ͊̃̓̂ͮ̒̽͟Ś̨̛̎̈͛̿̉̅ͬ͢͏͖̯̪̫̦̤̠̼̲͎̩̬͖͙͖̫̼̀h͑ͦ̇͒̾̽̔̓̇҉͘҉̮̦̭̦̬͓̳̫͓̣̦̬͖̰͟ą̴͔̬̦͔̲̯̩͉̞͈̘̬̝̓̎͐ͦ͢l͙̲͔̘̮͕̖̺̘̭̼͖̜̆̿̔͂̔̚͢͝ͅḽ̷̫͙̱͙̖̺̭͙̻̘̖̺̱̥̳̝͉̥͑̊̒̾̃͂̏ͤ͑ͫ͘ȩ̡̘̘͙̤̱̘̈́̄ͨͨͩ̏̈́̚ţ̡̢̢̖͔͙̟͕̗͓̳͕͙͎̻̺̩̼̺̿̆̾ͩͣ̅̾̔̀ͯ̿͐ͦ͊̅ͭͤͭ͢ͅͅ ̸̣̪̰͈̩̻̪̭̞͖̓̈́̾͋͆̐́ͧͫ͗̋͟͠r̽́ͭ͆ͨ́ͤ̚҉̡̼͙̣̞̻̥̙̝̖͎̗͕͈̣ȩ͍͓̦̤̺̥̝͚͕͎̬͖ͭͦ̿ͮ͑̕͝l̛̋ͮͯͪ͆͂̒҉̺͇̤͕ͅȧ̾̉̽ͭ̍ͫ̅̏͒͒͋͏͍͇̩̠̟͖̪̞̦͓̲̘̯̥͚͓͈̜ņ̴̛̞̗̼͚͈̲͉͇̦͍̬̞̣̥̩̫͉ͩ̔͛̃'ͭ̇̇̊͘͠҉̛̺̼̱͞e̷̶͋̒̅ͥ̈͋̆͛͏̙̘̜̭̲͜ķ̶̷̷̗̩̦̖͇̭͍̠̰̤̖͈̳̖̗̲̋ͨ̍̈́͐͗͑̎ͩ̈́̇͆̈́̓̚ ̘͚̘͔̝͔͈̤̮̣̠̖̼̗̝̓̑ͨ̌ͦ͊ͯ̏ͣ̅̓̕ͅa̤̮̦̖̪̰̪̱̦̠̻̪ͫ̊ͫ̂̈̅͟͢m͖̖̩̼̪̳̗̟̮̭ͦ̓̓ͩͦ̄̓͑ͮ̃̈́ͦ̚͘̕͞͠é̡̛͎̞̩̫̩̟̺̺̪̯̯̳͔̲̯̗͗̋̿͢͜͡ͅp̟͙̘̱͓̄̓͑̋̂̅͆̈́̌̀͝î̸ͭ̓͑҉͖̠͕̖͕̟̻͠i̶̧̤̺̱̖̬̓̎̓̊ͣͦ̒̈́̿̄̎̒̊̄͑̔̓̀̚͠ ̡̪͉͔̞̪̩̙̹̝̗͕͔̩̜͖͉̪̫̑̋ͯ͛ͣ͌̿̃ͬ̀̚ͅv̵̢̄̿̂͛̈́̽̾̌͂̄͒̑͌̂͏̪̪̼̹̹͚̼͎̟͔͍̥̺̦̀a̬̞̲̘͉͍̳̦̍̾̉͐͐̉ͫ͂̽̑̋̑ͪͫ̏̃̉͛̚͘̕͞l̸̨̤͚̜̣͙͍̗͚͙̼ͥ́ͨ̓ͮͭ̃͊̾̆͂͒ş̴̴̝̘̭̱̯͚͖͚̘̩̻̹͓̪͇̗͊͊ͬ͑̊͐ͥͩo̧̟̭̥̺̩̮͔̞̪͒͒ͨ̿̕;̩͍̥̫̟͇̜̳̖̌̌ͤ̒ͣ̾̾̀

ͩ̔̍ͥ̓ͭͪͦ̾̓͏̨͎̹̫̺̙̲̜̺͎͔̠̜̱͇̙̰͖̀͝

̧̣̖̬̥͖͍̹̯͚̲̦̭̇̇ͥ̌ͬ̀ͨͪͤ̍̚̕͞ͅA͂͒ͯ͛̎̓ͨͮ͆͋́̑̓̈́̀͢͝҉̠̞̟̯̘̣͇͎͚̣͙̯̖͔̩̰̹͈͇͡n̨͍̲͉̭̰̠̻͉̤͈͈̩̜̘̈̑ͯ͒̌̔ͮ͐ͤ͊̏͒̏ͤ͌͒͢ͅǘ̡̖̲̩̝̬ͮ̇͊̆͑͐̑̍ͦ͊͢͝͡͞ͅl̵̷̞̦͍͐̈́ͭͭ̽̏͋͆ͦͣͥ̽̈́̊ͤ͑̚͢l̵̨̙͉̟̟̗̭͇̭̪̞͎̩̲̳͎̳̟͂̈́ͯ͐̒ͯ̿ͧͥ̋̀͘ͅͅs̸̨̱̭̹̩ͦ̄̍̂̐ͩ̂̚͘͡͞ ̢̧̢̛̖̰̩̖ͧ̂͌̂ͯ̂́͊̎ͭ̋̉ͨ́ͅe̶̡̧̡̜̥̺̪̰̼͑̆̅̌͆̕m̻̼̺̫̬̩̖̬̣̝̹̟̫̟̩̭̘̀͒ͯͧ́̀ ̨̥̗̩̺͖̣̙͙̩̬͍̙̹̤ͣ͆̌̄̃̏ͯ̐̒͋̎͐̊̿ͦ͛́͠W̢̢̗̰̬͖ͤͧ̃͊͛͗̓̔̿ͬ͌̇̓̒̚͘͜͡ơ͒͒́̽̽̂ͥ̅͑͌͏̺̩̰̠͙̼̜̫̪͓̞̬̹e̴̢̗̗̖̠̤̩͔̯̠̐͂̄͐ͨ̈ͬ̎͛ͫ͌̓̀ͣ̒͂ͫ̆ͣ͘͘͠!̧̨̛̗͇̤̰̘̯͇̹̯͓̖͕̖̫̹̰̮̆ͦ̇̃́͌̏̍ͭͪ͂̌ͭ̎̋̚ ̧͔̫̣̗̗̪̤͍̝̮ͩ̎̐͊͆̾̎̃͌̎̓ͦ̏ͬ̋̌́̚̚d̨̫̬͕̟̤͉̠͎̲̘̳̤̗̬̳͒̆̀̅̓̊͟͢ͅͅͅa̵̭̫̪̟̞͈͈̩̹̮̬̮̱̗̪͆̉̎̍̍͛̒͋̔͑ͥ̊͋̇ͯ͋ͫ̀̚n̝̮̠̖̤̮̦̼̖̗̮͚̲̪̟͋̋́ͦ̔̽̌̂̌̀̏̊͘͘͜͝͞ͅ ̴̡̛̰̹̟̝͍͖̪̤͇̝̤̗̬̖ͥ̇̅̆ͬ́͘ą͈̦̭͗ͣ̿͐̀͐ͫ̀̔̿ͪ͌͊̚̕͠͝e̛ͪ͆͊͂̑̂ͭ̋̍̆̿ͩ҉͈̹̜͍̥͞n̴̩̦̹̹͙͔͉ͭ͐ͨͤͬ̚̚͡ ̴̴̞̹͎̮̹̳̦̈ͥ̽ͣ̍̂̈̍̈́̏ͅa̸ͨ̅̀ͦͮ̉͛ͩ̒ͪ̈͗͐́̽̾͏͚̺͙̟̲̣̟͚̮̻͍̦̖̰̞̬̥̻m̧̢̰̦̤̣͉͖̜̼̟̻ͣ̒͛ͨ̇͒̈́͊ͥ̍̀͢e̡̧͔̜̻̱̜̹̓̿ͪ͆p̽̊́̃͆̀̿ͨͬ̽̈ͩ̉̋̐͡͠҉̴͕̗͚̺͙̞̬̙̠̖̰̙͇i͆͗̒̈̑̂̌ͨͤ̀͏̙͖̩͕̦̲́̕ǐ̷̛̠͓͖̰̥͇͕̣̻̖̻̮͍̰͎͌̉̀̇̀̑ͫ̅̄̋ͧͧͫ͐̑̅ͥ͟͝ͅ;̵̪͔͇̜͎̈́ͨͬͪͫ̇͛̿ͨ̂ͣ̀̚̚

̣̹̖̥͔̩̭̭̗̯̰̰͚̦̥̈́͊̈́͗͋̈́̉ͨ̾̔ͤͮ͛́̃͑̐͞ͅ

̶̛͍̪̩̠͓̯̣̱͇̩̭ͪ̽ͥͩ͋̓͌ͬ̋ͭ̓ͧ͋ͥ̈̽̽̐͠ͅWͬ̔̉҉̢̲͎̣̭̗̥͇͔̫̝̘̰͕̜̖̮̭ơ͖̺͕̜̺̹̠̰̫̣̂̔̌̄̓͛͜ͅĕ̷̡͉̥̩̮̬̮̭̹̭̤͖͍͌ͫͥ̈̈́ͣ͑̾̒̑̏̀̀ͅ!̀̏͗̏ͥ̽͂̿ͥ̅͂ͯ̾́͏̴͚̞̻̥̱͉̩͘͡ ̵̪̙̫̍́̈ͥ̂̆͒͑̋ͪ͐ͩ̔̿̂̅̐͑ͥ͟͞͡Ś̶̶̨͉̫͚͍̳̳̣͉̖͍͂ͣͭ̍̒ͤ̆ͯͪ̃ẖ̵̸̢̨͔͍̺̞̦̖̳̼̱̠̱̺̱̖̘̈́̇̏̅̒̓̎ͅa͒̉̿͆͆̿ͭͧ̋ͧͤ̈ͥ̉̓͂̓̒̽҉҉͍͈͙̣̠̜̱̟̘̗͜ͅl̛̮̼̲̤̖̦̪̖̹͔̙̯̎̀̓̽ͣ̑͛̉͊̉ͧͤ̾͟͞l͑ͮͧ̽̿ͦ̚͡҉̞̫̬̻̱̲̙̖̙̫̩͇̹̜̣̺̺́͜e̶̶̗̪̻̝̹͌͗̋͂ͤͨͣ̿̎̍͆ͪ̊̚t̸̶̛̛͕͔̦̼̘̤̹̞ͤ̑͑̓͆ͮ͑̑̿́̈ͦ̒̈ͬͨ ̴̈͂̿͑̂ͫ̽̃ͫ̃̆̊ͫ̅͐ͤ̋̃́͏̺͕̞̥̱̬͍̙̬̮͔͍͘d̢͈͓̺̳͎̱̰̮̦̥̯͚̲͚͐͛̃̄ͪͤ̎̉̌ͧ͜͞a̸̡̮̬̳̖̯̤͎̜̟̲̬̼̲͕̟ͫͫ̐͗̽̊͗ͥ̀̇̓̾́͠ṋ̶̥̺̻̗͇̭̻͛̃̅̄ͩ̊̕͜ ͕̘̼̫̯̾̇̾̃̇̉̉ͮ̂̇͌ͮ͒ͧ̕͞a̫͙̦̻̦̖̖̯̼̺̘͉̹̙̼̹͌̍̇͐̋̈́ͥͯ̓̓ͮ͌̈̈́ͦ̆͢͞͝ȩͫͬ͛͛ͩͭ͂͟҉͖̦͖̯͎̱͍̫͉̤̫͓ͅn͉̱̖ͪ͑̆̓͐̀ͯͥ̏̆̓̂͒̒̐̾̇͂̑̀,̴̶̥̤͔͚͉͚̭͚̠̹̰͔͙̻̃ͤ̊̑͒ͬ̿͘͘ ̣̫̺͈̩̤͓͍̺̳̦̭̜̟͚̜ͫͫ̎ͫ͌̆ͫ͗ͫ̇̾ͭ͊̒͐̊̉̈́͝͝v̵̰̥̩̭̳̗̫̉ͤͫ̚̕͠a̶̛͎͍̣̤̝̮̠̳͔̳̯̻͔ͮ́ͬ͐ͤͩ̌ͯ̓̌̈͟l̡̜̱̹̲̭̪͙͓̭͕̝̻̳̲͓̎ͨ̐̍͒ͫͣ̓̽̀͗̓̚͘̕͝'̷̧̤̗̭̣̳͎̻̪̣̞̞̪̙̘́́̀̇̔ͫ̑̾͑ͬ͆ͭ̚͘ḡ̵̒ͧ̍̊̉ͪ̔̈̓͒̅̚҉̘̬̻̗̱̟̣̳̠͓͎̯͚͖͞ó̶̻̭̤͉̤̖͖̼͙̲̫͉͓͊͂̍̋͒̽ͯ͆̋̽̽̆̆́r̢̧̳̪̤͇̳͚̠̻̹̰̊̒̃̇ͨ̃̓̆͋͐͞͠ͅe̵͐͌̆̏̃̏͂͐̉̆̌̓̐̊ͮ̾͞҉̗͔̭̦̣͚̺͔̬̲̪̞̥ ̸̸̢̹̩͎̩̫̣̳̰̈́ͩ̐̓͑͑ͣͭ͆̌ͧ̏̃ͮ̀̀ę̨̛̠̥̱̟̰̦̥̺͓̟̭͖̲̜͇̳̞̲̇ͪ̀̃͑ͨ̒̈́̽̑̒̓̌ͨͭͭ̾̚m̶̨̟̭̪͙̻̾̓̆ͯ͗ͫͭ͐̐͌̚!̸̶̴̗̞̺͎̰͔̮͎̑̎ͨ̈̚͜ͅ

̨̙͓̯̭͇͇̦͍͕̙͔̯̱̪͔̪ͥ́ͩͣ́͋̒ͩ̌̿́̏̍ͩ̀̚͡ͅ

̴̴̻̟̯̤̤̥̰̥̘̾̂́̋͑̎͜͜W̶̟͍̣̖̳̯͉̜̬͖͔̟̣̒ͬͧͮ̍ͫ͆̈͊ͦ̀ͤͤ͘ͅo̧̖̹̠̩͇͈̥̤̗̱̜ͣ͛̎̽̐̈́̈́̀́̀͠͠͡ê̹̝̟̩̙̲̪͉̠̗͕̻̦̬͊ͨ̀́̊͑ͥ͛̌͐̈́͐́͢!̹̰͔͔̞͖͍͎̠̼̘͙̪̟̯ͪ͒ͩͮ͝͞͠͝ ͖͇̲̺̼͎̮̰̯̞̙̻̩̃ͬ̈́̏ͥ͜͠W̧͇̟̤̦ͨ̾͌́͋̈̽̀͊̐̏͆̄̽ͥͣ̓̀́̕͜͞ȍ̷̡ͩ̉̉͐̂̈́̿͆ͣ͊̐̿ͫͭ̉̓ͪ̕͏̤̹̥̗̰eͨͨ̈̃͂ͩ́ͦ͗ͨͧͥ͋̓ͬ̐͏͇͈̤͖͍̯̻͔ͅ!ͧͥ͋̽ͩͨ̓̀̄̽͛ͤ͛͜͏̳̤͎̭͓̫̕͜͡ ̢̼̟͚̝̝̞̻̝̩͚̩̱̟͔̩ͫ̐̄̃ͨ͂ͤ̊̄̋̎͐ͬͣͫ̚͟W̃̇ͤ̐̈ͪ̉̚͏̷̡̛̟̝͉̭̮̥̣̠͚̳͞ͅo̵̸̝̦̟̣̺͈̰̞̗̝̱͎̳̪ͣ͒ͥ̃̏ͯ͊̍ͫ͞é̢̢̾ͫͨ̈̆ͭͯ̓͗̈́̊̃̚҉̛͈̗͙̜͖̤̤̙͙̣̗̗̝̖͇!̡̨̼̱̟̪̯̫͈̭̪̝̘̻͚̍͋ͭ̇͐̊ͤͧ̿͘͢͟ͅ ̡̤͕̲̟̩̩̺͎͓͖͈̣̫̜̤̺͔̭̐ͯ͊̒ͮͬ̏̾ͣͪͧͯͪ̅͛͡W̶̛̬͍̤̬̜͓̞̝̯̲̘̘͓̮͋ͪ̃ͮ̏ͫ͌̇͒̅ͪ̎̍͑ͭ̈́o̶̬̞̮̗̭̼̖̗̫̗̗̝͇̫̪̳̮͉̭͊̎ͥ̿ͬ̑̌̔ͥͦ̚͢ě̴̘͍͉͔ͪ̀̆̄̂̓̏ͥ̏̊̀ͣͦ̽ͧ͟!̗̹̝̪͚̙̠͎̭̮̺̰͈̘̰͍̪ͭ̓̿̎͆̋̇͛̍̆̂́ͪ̃́̚͘͘͡ ̶͓̦̪͖̾͐̓̋ͨ̍̃͒̎̅ͦ̉ͭ̓ͅWͪ͌̋̎̑̓͂̒̒́̔̊ͫͦ̄́ͮ̉҉͏̨͔̞̜͠oͤͭͪͬͧͬ̉ͬ̏ͧ͋ͫͣ͗͞҉̡̫̥͙̮̫̫͎̦͔ḙ̠̝̼̮ͫͤ̊ͯ̀ͨ̔̿́̚͜͜͝!̽̇̾̑͐̅̏҉҉̖̥͈͖̮̰̮̻͖̣͉͚͎̤͇̼̕͢͞ͅ

 

As the final verse was repeated, the room itself shifted and altered. A series of large spines floated down from the ceiling, tearing out from the stone carvings. A twisted and harsh cap too fell, all levitating around the urn. The child’s tears continues to ebb from him as the being went on its rant, repeating the chant over and over. The spikes lowered, arranging around the vase with their sharpened points directed towards its interior. The cap fell, encasing the horned head of the boy perfectly. Closed stone eyes and a disturbingly calm face sat etched into the stone with sculpted tears permanently laid upon its face. The demon’s sobbing fell into muffled silence once an array of latches all hooked together, binding the metal hood to the jar’s top. Once upon the final line, the reddened being lowered its voice, echoing quietly to itself.

 

̂͑̽ͭ͋҉̟̖͇̮͍̥̫W̪̻̭͓̲̯̤̒ͤ̋̉̆̏̕͜o̱̫̮̜͙͍ͨ̐̽̑̈ͫ͠e̵̵̯͎̲̯̼ͧ̆̀̓̿̿͟.̸͈̜̝͚̗͉̆͆̌̅̍͜͠ͅ ̵̨͍̖̹͆ͬ̆͐̒̅ͤW̬͈͎̱̒ͪ͘ͅò̴̶̫̳̠͔̝͎̳̭ͤ͋̾̓́̚e̻̘̮̦̱̦̼͂̊̄ͨͫ͑̐̓ͣ̀.̓̄́ͬ͏͖̩̖̮ ̷͖͓͔̣̳ͮ̈W̡͓̹̞̞͙̯͙̠̏ȍ̬͚͈̈́̃̐̀͢e̝͌̈́̾͟͜.̡̥̣̻͍͙̱̣̦ͮ̅͗ͬͫ̏ͭͮ ̶̅ͯ͏͖̳͓̦̹̱͎W̞̙̼̗͎͐̀̑̔̈̃̒o̶̢̪̺̪̭͎̿̄̔̄ĕ̘̮̓̊ͧͨ̿̄ͣ̒.̴͉̙̭̯̗͕̰͕ͤ̇ͬ̓ͥ̇͢ ̼͌ͯ͐ͨ̌̓̀Ẅ̛͓͇̰́͆̓̅͢ȏͣ͑͒̍̕҉̯͔̗̺e̩ͧ̌̏͆͘.ͭ͊̓̕͟͏̲̞̻͍̳̜̞

 

The large spikes all shoved inward, penetrating the open holes the jar had. The stale air rung with a chorus of grinding rock. The stone around the vessel opened in a rearrangement of bricks, slotting the urn into its indent. The stone and rock continues to pull away and shift as the container for the demon lowered, being placed down into the floor itself. Moments later, the demon and its casket were gone, socketed into the floor. Light bled from the room as the crimson glow of the blanched being’s action faded off, leaving only the low teal of the glass behind its throne. With a wordless motion the scroll folded itself together once more while the being lowered, sitting itself into the rocky seat.

Away from the chamber, down the hall to the throne’s right, was a crash of splitting rock that screamed through the air in a sound of clattering rubble as the lid to a sarcophagus was split and a man were awoken.

 

[[Goodnight, Sprat, my sweet Prince of Pain.]]

[Stormclank 232]

Ulfrík sighs a little at the lack of his old friend. He sits upon a small rock and thinks, 'Where is that Daemon Child...?'

 

 

((RIP Sprat!

[Jonificus 2741]

Mithius sits at home, thinking "I wonder how Sprat is doing.. Hope he's okay."

 

((RIP Sprat, you creepy lovable demon.))

[TeaLulu 1783]

((NOOOOooooooooooooooooo mama Faeyin never found hiiiiiiiiiiiiim))

[susitsu 871]

Enemies? Odd allies? Strangely neutral? What the two were would never have met an explanation, but truly, one thing that was lacking with the death of Sprat was a proper fight between he and Lucas Black.

 

"A shame indeed..."

[Glyc 234]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.