Merlin: Albion's Greatest Time of Need

Chapter 1 | Merlin | A humble home

Upon the meagre hill lies a humble cottage. Made of worn down bricks, seemingly on the verge of crumbling yet strong as new, with a straw roof that's seen its fair share of stormy days. And as the snow gently fell outside the window and across the well-kept lawn, and the extensive assortment of shrubbery rustled from the wind, an abrupt sound of movement could be heard from within.

The stairs creaked from the weight of the old man leisurely making his way down. With every step, an irritated groan echoed throughout the lower level of the house. Along with the sound of his tired out pair of slippers, hitting every step with vigor. As the man reached the bottom of the stairs he let out a heavy sigh, reaching forward and tightly grabbing onto the bannister, holding firmly onto his back as he moved from the last step onto the cold stone tiled floor. Suddenly the man's shoulder shot up and a sound of discomfort filled the otherwise quiet room. The cold from the floor had sent a shiver down his spine, the slippers providing no barrier from this. As the bottom of it is so thin, that he might as well haven't worn anything on his feet at all.

With the slippers scraping the floor as he walked, he made his way over to the kitchen. Though it was small in size it stores a lot, also storing some things that didn't seem normal to have in such a place. There are jars filled with herbs not usually used for cooking, across the top of the wall cabinets are jars filled with strange liquids. And under the sink is a medium-size tank filled with... IS THAT LEECHES?! OH GOD WHY WOULD SOMEONE HAVE LEECHES IN THEIR KITCHEN!! Moving on.

The old man headed for the uppermost left cabinet grabbing a bowl and starting to make his breakfast, resulting in a bowl of plain oatmeal. Following the old man heads to his living room to eat in the comfort of what many would like to call 'an old biddy chair', although it being a simple armchair that's seen better days. As he made his way over to the chair he walks by the brick fireplace, and as he passes alongside a spark forms from nowhere. Then at rapid speed, it forms larger and larger until it engulfs the coals in bright, warm flames.

While eating his breakfast, out of nowhere there was a clatter at the front door. A pile of letters came shooting through the letterbox, landing at the edge of the doormat in a heap. For a brief second the old man halted the rhythm of the spoon to food to mouth, seemingly muttering something unintelligible as apart of the English language, and without missing a beat his eyes flashed gold and the mail started to float towards him. They floated through the air with ease, and even though they are inanimate objects they somehow know their location. After less than a minute, the mail had made themselves into a neat pile on the coffee table in front of the man.

As he placed down the empty bowl onto the table, he reached forward with a grunt to pick up the pile of letters. Looking through one by one, thinking bills or junk mail, until he came upon one with familiar handwriting he recognised. Opening the letter the paper inside had a stark difference to that of the envelope. While the envelope was pristine and white with the postage stamp placed carefully in the corner, the letter is made of a thick wooden stained paper. It's a handmade piece of paper, with uneven edges and definitely not something you could buy at any store. Even the item used to write wasn't something you see nowadays. It was made from charcoal, the same as any normal pencil, but the impression it left was jagged and inconsistent as if it was made by a piece of unrefined charcoal attached to stick. This doesn't help as the handwriting isn't the easiest to read alone. But from what the man could read, it went as:

" Dear Merlin,

How are you doing? Everything is going well here. Keep going, and would be great to hear from you soon.

- Alex Listen "

A reminiscent smile appeared across his face, as not only was it nice to hear from them, but that was a name he isn't called by often.