|
lord dracoma -> RE: Desperation (8/5/2010 23:05:52)
|
Chapter Two:
"So this was his place," Seth commented as Cylia drove up to the small mansion that was the family estate. As Cylia’s car neared pearl white gates opened up in a near automatic likeness which opened the gravel roadway that lead to a red brick mansion that had vines racing up its side. As the car passed the pearl white gates that found the source of that gate opening, Michael Johnson, the late Jacob best friend and servant. Michael was a man of African descent so he was often the target of stereotypes and racial slurs but often made people think twice when they saw his nice, intelligent, well-mannered demeanor.
"Hello mister Finch and madame Cylia," Michael greeted to Seth and Cylia as they exited the car. Michael’s Louisianan jazz player like tone was still apparent even at his old age of fifty.
"Michael how have you been doing?" Seth replied before shaking hands with his friend. Michael was like Seth’s older brother when Seth was growing up since Seth didn’t have any brothers or sisters and he was the closest thing to one. Michael taugh Seth how to write, spell, act well-mannered, and more when his father and mother were away to trips into Chicago, which was often. To put it simply he was the mentor like brother to Seth. He and Seth kept in contact up until Seth’s father got sick and he had to stay twenty-four seven to take care of him.
Michael, instead of the usual suspected handshake, wraps his arms around Seth and give him a hug that made up all the time missed when they were separated. Seth simply just patted his back. After a couple of seconds of hugging Michael realized what he was doing and let go of Seth.
"Sorry, sir," apologized Michael with sheepish tone of voice. Couple of more seconds of the dead silence of awkwardness, not including a loud cough or two, Michael finally noticed Cylia who was watching all of this unfold with a look that inferred the word "awkward" was going through her mind. Michael, wasting in no time of putting on his act of properness and the like.
He walks up to her and holds his hand out. "Michael Johnson, the former servant of the late Jacob Finch." His smile showed teeth that were white as the pearls of sea.
"Cylia Armstrong, daughter of General Armstrong of the First Infantry Division." She lifted up her arm and shook the hand of Michael Johnson.
"Ah you’re the daugher of the man who is watching that horrendous place that is Chicago." Michael was originally from Chicago so he knew first-hand how bad it was. Seth cringed at the thought of Chicago. He despised that place as well. Cylia, a person who could tell what a person was thinking by just looking at them, retorted.
"Look even though it is not heaven there is some good people there. You just have to look."
"Although you have to look very hard and very long to find one." Seth despised Chicago, a bunch.
Cylia just merely sighed at her friend’s displeasure of Chicago then changed the subject skillfully with the phrase, "Can we go inside, please?"
"Oh yes miss Cylia and mister Seth. Right this way." Michael starts his way to the house.
When the three entered the old house it’s true inner beauty and class with red wood walls and matching flooring with walls lined with paintings along with oak bookshelves, carved and decorate in a medieval Gothic style, that had nearly broken by the sheer numbers of books on them. All of these works of art were made by bohemian artisans; with works of fiction and non-fiction ranging in subjects from a medieval demon hunter to the modern day occult, guilds, cultists, and everything taboo and paintings from a variety of people like Renaissance madmen all the way to revolutionary, although still mad, artisans.
Seth realized, that his friend, the bar none paragon of goodness and sweetness to many and an over-sheltered catholic as far as he knew, didn’t know his night job so to say. Seth was reckless member of the Society of Deism and a outspoken author of the occult and unknown religions who wrote under the pen name of Aldarich Otto.
"Oh mister Seth your father left you some items. They are upstairs so if you would follow me." The African-American climbs up stairs ad soon enters the second floor of the brick house.
"You want some coffee because there is more than likely not, a hot pot on the stove right now," Seth asked as he grabbed Cylia’s shoulders.
"Sure." After Cylia’s short answer she walks over to the kitchen which also matched the red wood interior of the house. Seth sighs and starts walking up the stairs to catch up to Michael.
"So what is it?" Seth queried as he passed a loaded twelve gauge shotgun placed on the a plaque on the wall in the hallway of the upper floor.
"Well sir I don’t know what the heck it is." Michael then opened the door to show the inheritance.
Seth stepped back as he looked upon something that he remembered all to well. The all black book with gold colored leather fiber binding. The a singular dark purple hexagram covered the front of the book. It all came back to him. The chant. The asylum. The whispers. Oh the whispers the drove him mad for two years straight. It was all coming back. All because of an old book that sat on a stand. The Demon-Terrath.
Down stairs Cylia, her curiosity about her friends "collection" piqued, look starts looking through the book "The Proving of Intelligent Designer is False, and the truth that is the Enlightenment," by Eric Mason.
"Seems as those my friend is an atheist.’
Cylia suddenly noticed five people jumping over the main gate of the estate. They were heavily armed and wore hooded robes with crimson as a base and a gold trim. Cylia instantly knew who they were. "Why would the Cultist of Shou’Dan come here?" she pondered as she placed the book on a table and removed her jacket. "Whatever they are here for, they should be prepared to die and see their pagan god," she finally noted to herself.
She then closed her eyes and reopened them, now glowing with an icy light blue tint then she tenses up her arms and an ice so cold the it burns the skin envelopes around the hands. She lifts them up. Her eyes and hands gave off a aura that moved like the smoke from a fire. Their auras fused and dance within one another. She could see a cultist running up to the house in-between her hands and she smiled with glee. The fun of battle was here and she was in her element.
Seth also notices the same highly armed cultist, however unknowing who they were. He then snaps his sights back to the book. It whispers out to him, and not in an alluring sense. It...no. Not it. They, they whisper out to him, driving him mad and breakable. He snatches up the book. They stopped whispering. He sighed then looked to Michael.
"Get the shotgun there," he points to the shotgun on the plaque on the wall, "and the rifle down stairs in the dining hall. Don’t forget the ammo. And give me the shotgun." Michael shakes his head up and down then runs to the shotgun and tosses it to Seth. Seth grabs it, the feeling of the barrel, grip, trigger, and everything else about the gun familiar, like a favorite toy. "Well seems like the paranoid old man did taught me one thing that was useful." Seth then thought about his father teaching him all those survival and how to do lessons, like making a fire and using a shotgun. He laughed a little. Sadistically would describe the tone.
|
|
|
|
