"Morning!" he croaked, waving at the early morning jogger who merely smiled in response. "All righty then," he grumbled.
He'd been walking this well-worn path for years now, only recently had the dirt track shifted into to tarmacked pavement. Instead of a place of solitude, it was now a busy road overlooking a lake that no one dared enter.
He'd often found the locals tales of the Devil and his demons resting place to be disrespectful and told the young to respect the past. He hated the receding of the old religion, replaced with what he soon discovered to be known as Christianity.
Luckily, back then, people were taught to respect their elders so he was left alone, as he is today. Yet the town's people have always been curious about the old man, who never changed. Every generation has seen him, in fact nowadays he's found wandering the streets every morning, a greeting on his lips for everyone he meets.
He has a reason of course, he needs to earn a living, how could he afford his house on the edge of the nameless lake? Today though he would be taking an extra stop, a couple had moved into the house overlooking the other side of the lake.
"Delivery to a Mister Calamum-Dracone?" he asked, knocking on the heavy wooden door, steeping back as it opened with an ominous creak.
"Thanks," a tall, blonde young man stepped forwarded, prying the long thin box from the shocked elderly man.
"Arthur?" he whispered.
"How did you know?" paling, he turned slightly and called out, "Guinevere, there's someone at the door I think you should meet."
Confused, the elderly man allowed himself to be led into the expensive house. Sitting back in his comfy armchair, he looked questionably to his host. His only answer being a stack of cartridge paper with a handwritten note one top.
Dear beloved brother,
I have been having strange dreams again, Gaius suggested I take up drawing and try to sketch the dreams out of head, that if I have a conduit then perhaps the dreams will leave me. It appears to be working. I will speak to you more soon, but I thought you might like some explanation for the following pictures; I thought you might in interested in what has been troubling me all these years.
Your ever-loving sister,
Morgana
Gulping audibly, he flicked through the pictures, resting upon the final image.
A man with long, greying hair standing upon a ridge, coiled wood staff in hand, commandeering lightening. A man that appeared to be a mirror image of himself. Oh dear…