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'''Revivial, Pt. 2.''' '''by Treadeau Du'rome''' The spell took him to a small non-descript house on the most Northern Isle of Jhelom. Quaint by most standards but by his own it was totally unfitting for his occupancy. “Perfect for my little humming bird” he mumbled attempting to make straight his torn rags of clothing. He must appear somewhat proper. He walked up to the stairs and rapped with his threadbare gloves loudly and superciliously upon the imported oaken door. Sounds of a dinner in progress were heard inside; the idle chatter of children and their doting mother. That world came to a stop with the haughty knock. The world, the chatter of voices, and utensils all stopped, nothing would be the same. Sheryl Soldas, once maligned tailor to Treadeau Du’rome got up from the table to answer her door. Opening the door, he barged right in placing his paint set on an empty reading table and throwing the frayed cloak and hat towards the fireplace. She let out a panicked scream yet the three small children all seemed unaffected by their hysterical mother. He was beaming his captivating smiling and his eyes soften looking upon the small children. They soon fell under his spell as he took the chair near the reading table. The oldest boy climbed into his lap as his brother and sister took an animal like placing at his feet. Sheryl stood in horror. The boy started tugging on his long beard in a way that only a grandchild would do to their grandfather. Treadeau spoke, “My dear little hummingbird. My Sheryl. You leave Caina taking your beautiful little hands to ply your trade elsewhere. Not only this you are married in my absence having these wonderful little children.” He rubbed the young girl on the head as kitten and she purred with a slight giggle. He stared Sheryl directly in her eyes smiling; her scared demeanor was soon twisted into one of compliancy. “This is what is going to happen my beautiful and unique butterfly. I will assume you still have your loom and tools in the back.” She nodded her head dreamily. “Good. Very good. Now, you will take yourself back there to create for me as you did in the old days. A cloak of Nujel’m silk, a doublet of Cainan velvet, and a shirt of Britain wool. Please do not forget the hat, gloves, or riding boots.” He shook his finger as if he were warning a child. “Only the highest quality material. If I don’t approve of the work the rewards will be the same as in the old days.” “Lashings.” He punctuated the threat with a kiss to the oldest boy’s forehead and a maniacal chuckle. Several hours later, Treadeau Du’rome was bathed and trimmed- most importantly he was dressed in the newest finery. Clothes that were resplendent enough for a King. He was impressed with himself, as his latest bout of despondency had lengthened his hair and grew his once trimmed beard to epic proportions. If only he had a robe, he could appear as a courtly wizard he mused to himself. The youngest children were safe in bed it was the mother’s only protests despite the spell. Treadeau sit the oldest child in the chair with which he once resided during the arduous tailoring work of his mother. Treadeau’s pigments and paints were strewn all about the living area; he was prepared to make art. Sheryl stood languorously at the front door staring into Oblivion. Treadeau walked over to her and placing his mouth to her ear whispering, “La gholad dakta diktox darhad. La dahalad dakt denka'anka qur mourn'raletin.” ‘In death we find release. In life I love you forever.’- He wondered where the strange words resonated from. He placed his lips to her mouth tenderly as took his gloved right hand and ran it through her long auburn locks. She was still as beautiful as he remembered. “Mourn’raletin ikyulak.” Forever frozen. He took his dagger from among his painting provisions and patted the bewitched boy on the head. “Tonight I shall teach you how to make art unlike anything the world has ever seen.” He drew the dagger along Sheryl’s neck opening it up the veins. With each pump of her heart, her death drew closer. Her breathing soon turned into gurgles as the last of her humanity poured forth onto the wooden floor. Treadeau watched with melancholy enjoyment moving the child out of the chair and taking his place, “Now my little one we must render her flesh for canvas and her bones for support. Then her blood and eyes for pigment. Afterwards clipping her luscious hair for the bristles. Tonight we begin my masterpiece a testament to my love for her...” He trailed off relating explicit instructions, “Now wake your siblings it will go much quicker with the help of more little hands.” The three children began their ghastly work as Treadeau sit in the chair oblivious. He occasionally provided helpful reminders and gentle proddings but the spell worked well enough. They were apart of his consciousness. He sighed heavily, loosing all his previous élan now looking at the serene face of what was once Sheryl, “Why do they insist on calling me a philosopher? Can they not see that I am merely a tortured artist? The entire world is my canvas and pain is my medium.” Perhaps tears formed underneath his eyes as he continued, “Tonight Sheryl is my medium and I will do her spirit justice for her betrayal. I will preserve her forever as she should be, loyal to me and my servant with her essence forever trapped within my paint.” He leaped from the chair regaining the manic energy, “Then onto my beautiful, frozen and corrupted Caina” he began dancing about the exerting children and humming joyously. He began to laugh and the little ones joined the cacophony as they peeled the last of their mother’s flesh from her body. [[Category:Dark Lore]]

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