Vanilla on the other hand requested me to find her a suitable solution. It was rare for her as well as for me—the request she made.
That olden hoary headed slimy creature detested me just as much as I stored disgust for him. In order to prevent myself from being shown as a weakling I chose to get rid of him. The very thing that give me hesitency was that azure gem. I made my way to the chamber where Jared was resting...with that olden bone Peril. Several minutes passed by after I got comfortable near Jared's bed. Peril had his eyes glued to me, with no visible interest in my appearance but perhaps he detested my complexion... Some whimsical creatures find dark unnerving. Quite pathetic!
I sniffed the familiar mesmeric scent of my ever entrancing Vanilla. She was bearning a palm-length sized silver glass, saturated with a leaf-green thick liquor with the red notched leaf on top of it. Jared lifted his heavy sweaty head at his forbidden wife as she stepped closer. Her eyes glistened like a bright malachite stone and she possessed that very unbearably pleasant smile. That smile was more vicious in action than an empty laugh or a cruel glare. Just that very moment Peril warned, "Young Sir, that doesn't look like a proper medicine. Isn't it a bit early to take so?"
Vanilla's smirk widened but she did not utter a word. The azure sapphire turned the darkest hue of blue. Jared's eyes twitched a little then his fatigued vision coincided with the trivial exhausted gaze of his loyal olden servitor. "Peril, now that you have managed to discern my current state," he coughed again, "I demand you to leave soon... My intent is to not drag any fellow human in this situation."
"My Young Sir, can you not yet perceive where I'm aiming at? My very master, your father delegated you in my solicitude a very long time ago. Wherever he may remains now, will he ever be able to rest knowing I failed the very task he assigned me to?"
Jared gave a long stare at the wall—some remnants of timber dust were coming off. His manor stood aimlessly in exhaustion, representing him in every way. Then he raised the silver glass closer—his lips remained in the lack of warm red life—liquor.
"Young master! Pardon my audacity but I'm afraid I'm unable to let you drink the contents from that glass."
Jared blinked, a little fazed concern reflected in the blurred sooted lines on the small oval mirror that was stuck on the vintage temple-peak designed wooden four poster bed for a century now.***
Peril's reprimand instigated Jared to contemplating, more than he surmised. But he could never mistrust his ever enchanting charmed mistress. "Your gratuitous concern bewilders me, Peril. Why shall I not permit you to savour a sup of this specific?" Jared peregrinated his lustreless Hazel glassy orbs on his frame scarcely to perceive the vehement obstinacy in the feverish eyes of his archetypal keeper. His veiny exanimating hand approached Peril. The frailing contumacious soul did not seem tentative. It was a bit unpredictable—for I discerned Peril was an olden bone with unalloyed resolution.
There was a sly leer beaming with inauthentic indulgence on her masked expression. The earthly whimsical beings use the phrase these days—Eyes are the reflector of the soul; This never eventuated to Vanille.
Peril endorsed his frailing grasp to stiffen around the delicate arm of the lazuli teacup to upheave it closer to his ashy lips. If Vanilla had not her eyes confined to Jared, she would have received a glance at the boney knuckles of the olden servitor, which turned white. Perhaps by the dense aroma of rosewood and wild honey?
The first sup descended down the carmine abated claret deficient deceasing rope like veins in the gorge. The sick jouissance smile that disseminated the frosted bronze optics of the pensive bones impelled Jared to remain still against the Mahogany headboard. His whitish feet confuted the presence of the linens. The long case clock tolled, apprising the deceasing hours of the dark. There was a creak below somewhere in the chamber downstairs. The intense our pulvil that Vanilla smeared upon her etiolated wintry features, enhanced to a faint cerise tinge. Her lips parted and a drop of ashen violet humid choked with anguish and despair stumbled down. Could any petal of the ancient Lutetia be comprised of the crimson stain that could bemuse any elemental being if discerned by unveiled eyes? ...Vanille's lips—the deepest of the sovereign of blossoms.
The fragrance of wild poppies and damask roses pervaded Jared's chamber. His hollow hazel eyes fixated at the dimmed brass-base kerosene night lamp which was kept on the top of a medium sized oak cabinet. The pale pellucid outer glass of imprisoned beacon evinced the presence of a boreal ferity—amber flame circumambulating without a scant whisper of breeze, embellishing the azure frilled robe—a dance of macabre shrouded the entrapped affright scurvy soul of the senile creature, Peril. The desiccated irises which were firmed at the blood orange flame, flared only once before they chose to shut. The pallid thumb of his left hand twitched, the boney knuckles of that etiolated paltry whimsical being alongside the wheatish corroded square foot fingers were frozen at the spot where he stood. His countenance was pococurante but his eyes remained sealed. His paltry essence which was like the misty smoke of an incense burning—I could discern through it all.
Jared's discoloured pallid lips parted to invest the celestial bluish smoke. There, one couldn't descry a blink of a feeble being. His feet concreted to the floor seemed rusty. Inside his veins the thin warm crimson life force was getting dark, thickened. His heart resonated like an adrift sluggardly haunting corse of a lost piece of music that grasped an abrupt halt; his pulses contorted as if stung by a hundred needles. The unwrinkled flesh-lacked upper eyelids of Peril slumped fatiguely. The creases on Vanilla's temple already dissipated. She unclasped her dark hair, now spiralling in like dirt grains on the head of hurricane. The cylindrical wooden casket stumbled down the table. Jared's glassy orbs were eternally fixed on the damned feeble soul lying flat on the gray marble floor—resting or not, unheard and unquestioned, in a slumber evermore.
Jared's recognition faded abruptly like the perfume of a beautiful lady's corset in her eternal resting chamber. Like Marshall's estate, Washington's fortunes were ostensibly entitled to Vanille Scorpio. Later when three whimsical beings arrived regarding the matter of Jared's mansion and his dust like fortunes, no one found a trace of Vanille. Every tale that ever began with her, when ended, she'd return to that place from where she walked out to discover unknown roads.