Hi folks,

At this point I don't think many folks are still reading this story, but I'll keep going.

For those of you still reading... thanks. I do appreciate the reviews. I'm trying to roll in all the comments and use it to improve my writing style and the story line. I actually think I'm getting worse as I go. LOL!

Anyway...

Buckup Buttercup: The darkness grows.

Chapter 13: The Room of Refinement

Inky blackness, like the pit of Hel's soul, filled the immense room like a noxious, suffocating cloud. The overly pungent smell of exotic aromas hung thickly in the dank and musty air, savored like a delicious meal by the cloaked figure hunched in front of a large table, scribbling fiendishly on a long piece of tattered parchment. The once raging pit fire was now all but extinguished from the long hours of solitude in the damp, cold dungeon. Its slowly dying embers casting long, shadowy images on the cold stone walls.

The erratic quill motion, reflected ominously in cold, grey eyes, suddenly stopped. "Enter." A voice croaked from the darkness.

The messenger bowed his head and moved silently into the darkened room, heading straight toward a large chalk-drawn circle. Entering the ring, he knelt quickly, both knees hitting hard on the cracked stone floor.

After so many visits to the cursed place he had become familiar with every scent, every last one; some pleasant, others not. Some smelled like burning flesh, others like sweet honey. Some of the oddest aromas could only be defined by their physical effects on his body, causing either a dulling of the brain, or a tingling of the nerves where he felt he'd explode out of his skin.

This time, mixed with the usual smells in the room, there was something else wafting in the air... something very different.

Something unfamiliar...

Something he couldn't quite place...

Something he had smelled before when the experiments ended, but somehow it was different this time...

A sickly sweet smell that crept up through his nose and clung to his throat. The smell seemed to relax his mind, making it wander aimlessly. A sudden traveling sensation took grip of his thoughts, whisking them away to a dark place in the farthest corner of his mind. A lonely dark place where he was trapped and alone; fear and confusion his only companions.

Shaking away the feeling, the messenger refocused on the room.

The large quiet chamber, had changed since his last visit. The onyx pedestal now contained a stack of open books. The ornate silver dagger had been stabbed into the topmost book, it's once sharp, pristine blade now tarnished and dull. Next to it was the the old metal cup, filled with an odd bubbling mixture, emitting a strange hissing sound like a captured soul trying to escape bondage.

The many strange-looking herbs and potions had multiplied by ten fold. Scattered like leaves in autumn, corked vials of liquids and dried plants now occupied every available surface. The open vials each emitted strange, swirling wisp of colored smoke, all mixing to form a rainbow of colors as they drifted upward, eventually disappearing into the shadows of the ceiling. The other vials, not piled onto the warped shelves or stuffed into small crevices, were discarded into a large pile in the corner, their colorful contents slowly oozing and mixing, creating a small pool of greying metallic liquid.

The many books that had once neatly lined the warped wooden bookcases or were stacked orderly on the stone floor, had also multiplied. Many of the ancient looking volumes now lay open, dangling carelessly off the edges of the shelves, while others haphazardly littered the floor, some of which had their pages ripped from the binding. In the rooms far corner, segments of torn pages were laid in two strange runic patterns which he had seen before, but now couldn't place.

Several larger books, arranged in a perfect semi-circle on the the long, wooden table, were splayed before the hooded figure currently scribbling furiously, apparently oblivious to the messenger's presence. Occasionally the figure would freeze, chant a few unintelligible words, flip a page in a random book, and again begin scribbling. The rhythm of the behavior was strangely soothing, bordering on hypnotic.

Breaking from the trance-like scene, the messenger's eyes diverted to scan the plain, cold grey stone wall to his right. The smooth rock which had once contained thick wall chains, now had propped against it a large, high backed wooden chair with locking leather straps at the thighs, forearms, chest and across the forehead. The large dark cabinet which had rested against the wall was moved toward the rooms center, making space for a small, human length table, which had been modified to strap down a body. The dark stains on the table and chair made obvious their use.

The tales told by the guards had grown gruesome over the years. 'Worse than dying a thousand deaths...' he whispered, his mind filling with dark, pervasive thoughts.

Suddenly the scribbling noises stopped, as a pair of cold grey eyes lifted. The quill was gently placed onto the warped wooden table, perfectly perpendicular to the old parchment.

The quick snap of ink-stained fingers jolted the messenger into alertness.

"I-I beg forgiveness for the interruption...," his raspy voice sputtered nervously, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "But a messenger hawk has arrived... I-It brings the news you've awaited."

Fumbling for the small tube tucked in his pocket, he gingerly unrolled the small parchment square and began reading. "The fire was partially successful. Dissent grows, but slowly..."

Trying to soften the dismal news, he interjected panicked. "The child is still scheduled to attend the festival. We will double our efforts until the task is done... I beg your forgiveness for..." A gnarled hand suddenly shot up, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The hand remained motionless before bony fingers slowly closed into a tight fist. The hovering arm dropped onto the tabletop with a loud thud. The figures back straightened, and the head tilted slightly to the side before nodding once to continue.

"T-The... i-informant on Berk tells us we have an target of opportunity." He sputtered quickly, "My son sends news that the chiefling boy is headed toward Skarskind mountain. He's already left."

The seated figure raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on the hidden face.

"There's a problem... He's not alone... He has a companion."

A low snake-like hiss emerged through gritted teeth. The cloaked figure's eyes narrowed as the long piece of parchment was crumpled in an iron grip.

After a strong angry exhale, fingers began mindlessly drumming the hard tabletop in a rhythmic cadence. "I can compensate for this..." the figured whispered. "The companion is expendable, but that might bring unwanted attention... Yesssss... yesssss I have something that can take care of the situation nicely. Sssssssoon..."

The drumming suddenly stopped and the scraping of a chair over stone caused the messenger to stand to await his new orders. The soft padding of feet, and the quiet rustling of a cloak drew the messenger's eyes to a wall lined with many foul powders and potions. A odd vial was snatched off the lower shelf, and the tarnished silver dagger was hastily pulled out of the old book.

The items were tossed onto the table, scattering across the pitted top, clanking loudly as metal and glass collided. "Take it. Do as you've been told." The figure turned and headed back toward the table.

Hurrying, the messenger gathered the items and shoved them into his pockets. Bowing low, he slowly backed away toward the mahogany doors, watching the figure reseat.

A long exhale of muttered words, drifting in the air like a moan. "Now go..."

The quill was raised and a fresh piece of parchment was plucked from a pile and put into place. Dipping the finely decorated plume into a small inkwell, three lines were hastily scribbled onto the page; darkness falling on the paper as the mahogany doors swung shut.

'Take him...'

'Turn him...'

'Kill HIM!'