02-25-2020, 01:25 AM
A hiss warned of danger ahead, but the Holy Father was not slowed by foreboding atmosphere. An empty room opened before them, occupying a solitary figure. He was drenched in shadows as the vault itself was void of all light except that which trickled from the doorway. He was restrained but did not seem uncomfortable. Philip’s curiosity carried him alongside his host, but where the Regus paused, Philip carried quietly forward.
He was dressed in black clothing cut stylishly across the chest. Above patent leather shoes the ankles were secured to the chair. His wrists were similarly tied, but the hands were relaxed, and the knuckles were free of tension. Oddly, the tap-tap-tap of his fingernails suggested boredom. The nails, though, were wrong in the same way the eye sockets of the skeleton were wrong. Claws. He was tapping his claws in boredom. How bizarre.
Patricus held his place standing about two meters away from the chair, looming like Christ shedding light upon the abyss. As though the radiance was arousing, the man finally looked up, studying those that penetrated his slumber. He winced ever so quietly in the way of the hiss Patricus heard previously and pinched his eyes as though the light passing from behind the intruders’ shoulders extracted pain. Despite the tilt of shadowy planes and angles upon his face, the eyes were black discs. The skin so pale Patricus perceived the scrawl of veins beneath the surface. The same command with which the Holy Father banished the darkness resounded in his chest as Philip held the gaze of what he knew on instinct to be evil embodied.
Its voice was a whisper, “Santo Padre Papa,” it said in heavy Italian. Then the prisoner curled its lip into a hungry smile, and Philip’s heartbeat betrayed him. He heard his own gasp as the thing exploded from its restraints, claws slashing at princely robes. Teeth gnashed, and the chain of the pectoral cross was yanked like the leash of a rabid dog. The marble floor hit him hard and he cried out in shock as much as pain.
He was dressed in black clothing cut stylishly across the chest. Above patent leather shoes the ankles were secured to the chair. His wrists were similarly tied, but the hands were relaxed, and the knuckles were free of tension. Oddly, the tap-tap-tap of his fingernails suggested boredom. The nails, though, were wrong in the same way the eye sockets of the skeleton were wrong. Claws. He was tapping his claws in boredom. How bizarre.
Patricus held his place standing about two meters away from the chair, looming like Christ shedding light upon the abyss. As though the radiance was arousing, the man finally looked up, studying those that penetrated his slumber. He winced ever so quietly in the way of the hiss Patricus heard previously and pinched his eyes as though the light passing from behind the intruders’ shoulders extracted pain. Despite the tilt of shadowy planes and angles upon his face, the eyes were black discs. The skin so pale Patricus perceived the scrawl of veins beneath the surface. The same command with which the Holy Father banished the darkness resounded in his chest as Philip held the gaze of what he knew on instinct to be evil embodied.
Its voice was a whisper, “Santo Padre Papa,” it said in heavy Italian. Then the prisoner curled its lip into a hungry smile, and Philip’s heartbeat betrayed him. He heard his own gasp as the thing exploded from its restraints, claws slashing at princely robes. Teeth gnashed, and the chain of the pectoral cross was yanked like the leash of a rabid dog. The marble floor hit him hard and he cried out in shock as much as pain.
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