A Scripta

Grimaulkin stepped back from the cauldron in the center of his protective circle, careful not to step on Dysio’s chains. “Morte, morte est. Lumina, lumina est. Caliga, caliga est. Hospita, hospita est. Me, me est. Valeum, Roburum, Imperium. Inqua Impera!” And he repeated the chant over and over as he walked around the cauldron, Death, death is. Light, light is. Dark, dark is. Welcome, welcome is. Me, me, is. Power, strength, authority. I speak a command!

He looked out at the area beyond his circle and saw Dysio standing there. His chant did not waver, his mind did not focus on anything other than the chant. He wound it down, and the fire in the cauldron grew hotter, melting the liquid within to a thick goo. He took up the chains.

Now, he could relax his mind and wander to the fact that the protective circle held. What Dysio would be seeing is a large, columned mirror, his own reflection. He could also relax, knowing that the man out there wasn’t Dysio.

He contemplated a couple of minutes of who it could be, then cleared his mind again. He slowly dropped the chains into the goo, concentrating on covering every inch of the chain with it. Once it cooled, he would go through the chain by hand and cover every single inch of it, rubbing it into the cold metal.

It was overkill, he knew. But the consequences if he didn’t actually follow this would be dire on his end; not only would his demoness torture him for eternity, but probably many, many worse things that he couldn’t even dream of. No, the longer he stayed here the better it would be.

He sat down and waited.