(Closed and all Bunnying has been approved)
The sound of heavy hail grating against the roof caused a man sitting in a lotus position to lose focus again," Fuck," the man muttered as he toyed with forsaking the idea of meditation. Cold azure eyes probed the wide room once used as a meeting hall. A sea of candles surrounded the pale stranger, the jolt in sweltering heat steady until a swift breeze slipping through the cracks of the doorway behind him cascading the illumination into flickering chaos. Stifling a breath, the man felt his mind slowly drift away as the herbs he had taken slowly begin to take affect. It'd been this way for over four days, and frankly, Saxon was growing tired of the alleged tradition.
Learned from some pang of realization, the eldritch had rushed across the face of the world into the frigid reaches of Salvar and smack dab in the middle of the Salvarian civil war. In due time, the weird had come more then prepared and was waiting promptly for the ritual to begin. But it wasn't the circumstances that bothered him; not the lack of food that had not touched his stomach since he walked into the room almost a week ago, to the creaking migraine that drummed his patience. It was the city. Never before had Saxon gotten the feeling he had had since he first stepped into a place like this that was over halfway across the globe. But little of it matter, life goes on.
Fathulsaar was a rather bustling town compared to the other city-states that dotted the surrounding area, and it seemed as if word from the conflict between Church and State had not yet reached this quiet community. When the weird had first arrived, he had brought with him enough stolen gold to fill a duke's ransom, and it wasn't until Saxon had paid off most of the town to rent this forsaken hall that it's residents began to grow suspicious. Word spread faster than fanned flames across the city and the eldritch had to pull drapes across the windows in order to keep the secret of his fasting meditation to and only to himself.
Feeling his stomach growl menacingly, the weird gripped his pale flesh and groaned as he pulled a skin of water from nearby and plucked the cork, the cool, nourishing water meeting his hungry lips. Can't go on for much longer, the weird mused, but he already knew the answer. Strange words from thoughts not his own slipped into Saxon's mind from memory for the thousandth time, its' mantra slowly soothing the weird's grief:
O, Strange One, animal flesh must not pass your lips, nor shall
You drift into Sleep's idle hands until it is upon the witching hour.
Only shall the Speaker arise once more when the Stranger is upon
The threshold of Death's door and the way to hallowed Tsep shall
Call out and then and only then shall it be mended.
" Whatever the Hell that means," the eldritch growled sardonically. Almost had his patience ran out several times before this, and if it hadn't been for the fear that if he got up that a candle would tip over, Saxon would've quit this place long ago. What did it matter to him if something knew of Tsep? What did it matter that this city was one of the few places in the world that hinted of the realm of darkness? Slowly letting out a hissing sigh between clenched teeth, the weird already knew the answer.
It meant everything.
Being an eldritch didn't come with a guide book, and rarely did Saxon ever get thrown a bone such as this without having to finagle some mythical being into enlightening him. Surely anybody could see the signs were there. A war was being waged outside these very doors; the eldritch hadn't rid himself of a recurring nightmare ever since the months slowly drifted into annual decay. No matter how long it took, the eldritch had to wait for this thing to show up, and as a show of good faith he had bought himself a genuine sword for such an occasion.
Slowly bobbing his head downward to glance at the bastardized sword, the weird's long, ashen beard scraped gingerly across his hungry chest and the blade seemed to respond in kind. Made from common steel, the sword didn't look like much, but after some necessary enchantments had been placed upon the weapon did Saxon feel slightly safe. Feeling his eyes begin to grow heavy, the eldritch began to feel his mind slowly drift as some dark, erotic desire taunted him with sleep. Feeling the sound of the pelting hail grow faint, the only sound that escaped the eldritch's lips was a methodical hum as his mind wavered on the brink of slumber.
It wasn't time yet.
~*~
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