The fragile old man falls to the ground, his robes dirtied with the length of travel spent getting here. He stands up, dusting himself off, a knee which had been injured in childhood still aching at the ripe age of eight and seventy. His hair thinned and scalp bake from the lonely days of labor out in the deserts of Solivilla, he had hoped he may escape this fate, and yet here it was with little choice to run away from.
"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.
The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"
(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)
"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍
(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")
"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"
"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"
(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)
"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"
"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"
Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'
He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.
He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."
And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.
Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.
The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."
(@mrknightside and @ichorlikeher ment)
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