Disclaimer: I do not own Eidos interactive, Soul Reaver, Blood Omen or any of their respective characters (more's the pity).

Author's Note: Here begins "Return to Nosgoth", the sequel to my equally inspiringly titled "Lost on Nosgoth." Hopefully this story will be a bit more reader- friendly, and convince a couple more people to wade through the first chapter of the prequel. Anway, enjoy! And no, before anyone asks, I haven't forgotten about Antaris. Rest assured, his uppance will come. : )

*

The bitter smell of sulphur lingered fleetingly in the air as flame was set to paper, its flickering, languorous dance reflected in irises the colour of the sea on a stormy summer afternoon. The voracious yellow spirit ate steadily downwards, engulfing the black type-set with insatiable appetite, swallowing words as diverse as "bailiff" and "credit card" indiscriminately. The last six months had amounted to a purgatory of dissociated events: if she didn't know better she'd say she was homesick.

Unlikely. With the amount of moving she'd done over the last 22 years, there simply was no particular town she'd call 'home', no place to which she could return in order to 'go back to her roots'. To make matters worse, she had turned down a post in her father's oil company, an act which, quite apart from surprising the old man, had left him embittered and estranged from his only offspring. Her consequent failure to get herself any other job had been compounded by her father's policy that he wasn't willing to invest in something that didn't pay back.

Daddy had cut her off.

She allowed the omnivorous flame to burn down almost to her fingertips before she dropped the charred remains of the letter into the metal bin. A knock on the door disturbed her reverie and reluctantly she rose to answer. Two men of vastly differing builds stood on her doorstep, where she greeted them resignedly, her gaze distant and capitulating.

"Repo men," said one. The other said nothing, but ogled the sight before him with a salacious snigger.

She motioned them inside and watched without interest as they carted object after object from her living room. Widescreen television followed 5- speaker stereo system followed Playstation followed PC and screen, and through it all, the woman remained silent and unmoved. She'd get more money from somewhere.

With a sly glance at his mate, the salacious one indicated with a tilt of his sparsely-covered head the display of weaponry that stood beneath a spotlight in one corner. He slunk towards it with an avaricious leer on his ratlike features.

"Oi, look at this!" His companion waddled his cumbersome bulk in his direction. "Hey, darling, what's a girl like you want with a pile of swords like this? You might hurt yerself. Better let us take these off yer 'ands."

His slightly slow-witted mate peered at his clipboard in puzzlement. "There's no mention about no swords on 'ere, 'Arry."

"Shut up," whined Harry, seeing that the woman had shown signs of suspicion. "Tell ya what. You let us take this top one and I bet I can get you a bit o' cash to get you back on yer feet, like."

As Harry's hand reached in greedy glee for the topmost weapon, the woman's eyes were drawn with it, and the notion that this ratlike little wretch might for one second lay a finger on her Dark Angel katana woke her from her fugue-like state. Freya crossed the room in a single bound, lifted the sword from its holder and unsheathed it, holding the point directly against the Repo man's chest.

"This stays."

Harry winked at his rotund companion and gave a short laugh. "Come on, darling, I were only joking. You put that down now, there's a good girl."

The woman was not listening, but was instead staring in apparent perplexity at the sword. The blade had been sharpened. There was no mistaking the whetstone tideline that flowed down the length of gleaming steel, but one thing was certain: she'd never - ever - taken a sharpener to the blade. So who had? An unexpected image blossomed with rare clarity in her inner eye; it showed a jet-haired, statuesque vampire clad in black, red and gold handing her the object she now appraised.

Raziel.

Suppressed memories resurfaced like dead bodies trawled from a lake. Even as the events in which she had participated on Nosgoth permeated her consciousness, she observed that all-too-familiar shimmering effect that had preceded both her entry to and exit from the vampire planet scarcely six months ago. She managed a shrug and a grin at the ratlike one and his portly companion before her apartment vanished from sight.

Harry scuffed a well-worn boot at the spot where, moments ago, Freya had been menacing him at sword-point. "Ain't one of 'em back at the depot gonna believe this one, Bill."

*

Graim was about to make his big debut. He stood, puff-chested and ready at the side of the open-air stage, his wooden sword in a rough leather holder at his side, wicker shield daubed red and white in a fair approximation of Sarafan heraldry. A sly glance at the waiting crowd showed that Leina, the wainwright's daughter was seated front and centre. He ran a hand through his curly golden locks in anticipation.

"Who will save me?" cried a shrill voice with a sense for the melodramatic. His cue. Drawing his wooden sword with a flourish, he bared his teeth in an approximation of a heroic grin and bounded onto the stage. Graim's opening line died on his lips as a figure appeared before him, clad head to toe in black satin, naked blade in one outstretched hand. A frown of annoyance crossed his face. He'd been upstaged.

Freya quickly assessed her new surroundings, the memory of her previous arrival on Nosgoth making her understandably wary. Judging from people's clothing and what she could see of the surrounding architecture, this was Nosgoth at a much earlier time than her last visit. A glance to either side showed she'd arrived in the middle of some amateur dramatic effort: to her left, four or five villagers with floured faces and berry juice around their mouths were half-way through menacing a busty young lady with pigtails; to her right stood a sallow-complexioned youth in tights with curly blonde hair and a toy sword - the hero of the piece. Utter silence reigned. A hundred pairs of eyes centred on her in hostile anticipation. Freya swallowed nervously, nightmare images of turning up to school in her pyjamas flashing through her brain. Given the choice, she'd rather have faced the blood demon again.

A clanking shuffle from the back of the crowd heralded the arrival of the Brute Squad. She had to think fast.

"And if you thought that was good, why not come along and see my Magic Show, right after the play?" She cringed inwardly. You could have heard a pin drop. One of the Sarafan at the back was beckoning grimly. Glad of any excuse to leave the stage, Freya hurried down the side steps where she was met by four warriors in that unmistakeable armour. As they escorted her from the purpose-built arena, Freya was aware that the curly-haired youth had delivered his line, but thanks to her, he'd lost his audience.

Out of earshot of the crowd, the man who had beckoned to her drew her into the shadowed archway beneath a bell-tower. Evidently an officer of some kind, he took charge of the proceedings and said, "You've got some nerve, Undead. Tell me your name quickly so I may add it to the list of those I've vanquished."
Holding his gaze deliberately, Freya reached out and touched his hand. The Sarafan recoiled in loathing, drawing his weapon, only then realising the purpose of the gesture. The skin was warm.

"You're human?" She gave him a sarcastic smile. "Why are you dressed like that - is that not a mark of the Undead?" He indicated the Chinese horoscope symbol embroidered on her shirt. Freya's mind raced. Everything she'd seen so far pointed to the town being Uschtenheim, which - she hoped - meant that the Soul Reaver was probably running around somewhere nearby trying to get to Janos Audron's retreat.

"I'm a demon hunter." The words were out of her mouth before she'd properly considered them. The officer's suspicious glare convinced her to add, "I'm looking for a blue-skinned apparition with torn wings - have you seen it?"

The guards exchanged worried glances, their disbelief subsiding somewhat. "Yes. It ran through town several times yesterday - scared the townsfolk half to death." The officer appraised her once more. "You're tracking it? Alone?"

Freya nodded thoughtfully. "Which way did it go?"

One of the guards stepped forward and indicated a metal gate with a walkway on top. "It disappeared there, then reappeared up there - the two guards at the top were killed."

If memory served, this was the way to the Aerie. "Thanks. I'll be on my way."

"Now?" the officer blurted out. "But it's after dark."

Freya graced him with a wicked smile. "Don't worry about me - I'm in disguise."

Shaking his head in bemusement, the officer ordered the gate opened. "Once this gate closes, it will not be reopened for you tonight."

With a final glance at Uschtenheim, Freya slipped from the lighted street of the town into the unknown darkness beyond. Once outside the gate and away from the glare of the streetlights, the darkness was not complete. Freya could easily make out the walls and floor of the winding rocky passageway she now planned to follow. A sudden thought caused her to wonder what gadgets she might have inadvertently brought with her from Earth. A quick rummage through her trouser pockets revealed a handful of loose change and a lip-balm. Her shirt was a tad more helpful and eventually gave up a small book of matches. At least she had the means to make a fire. Keeping the katana in her hand, she advanced cautiously along the passageway, hoping the Sarafan she might encounter would be as easily convinced as the guards in Uschtenheim.

Before long, the canyon narrowed, its walls steepening to end in high ledges. The perfect place for an ambush. However, since there was no point turning back (unless she wanted to camp outside the town gates until morning), Freya continued, each step punctuated by searching glances in all directions. A passing luminous green firefly caught her attention for a fraction of a second, and when she returned her gaze to the path ahead, she found it blocked by several armed men. Their speed and silence suggested that she had encountered the first of this era's vampirekind, and a glance to her rear assured her that they'd also covered that contingency.

At that moment, Freya made a decision. On her next trip to Nosgoth, she was bringing a tank.

"Evening." She called, with a little more bravado than she was feeling.

"That it is." Responded the nearest of the group in front. He advanced slowly, biding his time. The prey was not going anywhere. "It's a little late to be out for a walk, human."

The 'disguise', while dark enough to fool the Sarafan, was evidently not going to cut any ice with the Vampires. They could smell a warm body a mile away.
Freya inched around so her back was against the left wall of the canyon. At least this way she'd be able to see the first attack. "I'm looking for someone."
"What a coincidence," said the lead vampire with a malicious and decidedly thirsty grin.

Freya kept her eyes on him, nonetheless aware that the group to her rear had begun to advance. If she let them catch up she'd have twice as many to deal with, so, relying heavily on the element of surprise, she launched a blinding flurry of blows at the one who had spoken, his stunned look accompanying his lifeless body to its knees. A series of vengeful cries arose from the remainder, one of whom was shouting for their commanding officer, and Freya turned to face the next adversary, determined to give them the fight of their lives before the night was over. It wasn't long before the woman was desperately wishing she'd brought Sai, or a Tanto, or any other weapon that might have aided her in combating more than one opponent. They were coming at her from both sides now, and despite a strenuous effort on her part, the outcome was inevitable.

One of the rearguard contingent lunged into an opening left by a less successful companion, and took a firm grasp on Freya's neck, lifting her off the ground and pinning her effectively to the wall of the canyon. Sometime in the course of the next minute's frenzied struggle, during which she was relieved of her katana, Freya spotted something that made her cease all resistance and stare in complete confusion at the grim-faced creature holding her aloft. He was wearing a Clan symbol. That just wasn't possible. If she'd got her time-scales right (and she was pretty sure she had), the Clans didn't even exist yet. And yet there it was, bright red on black and right before her eyes.

With a concerted effort to loosen the creature's grip, she managed to voice a hoarse whisper: "Razielim."

A massive figure detached itself from the shadows at the edge of the path, clad in slab-like jet-black armour, head adorned with a huge, horned helmet. It approached with slow, steady strides, the rest of the men drawing respectfully aside to let it pass. The vampire that held Freya had loosened its grip somewhat at her astonishing words, though it still held her against the rough rock surface.

"What are you doing here - I mean - now?" she whispered in confusion.

The dark figure paused beneath Freya's still-wriggling form, narrowed eyes appraising her from within the confines of the demonic helm. After a moment's consideration it doffed the item, allowing the woman's eyes to make out his features in the dim twilight.

"I brought them."

Recognition slowly dawned.

"Isca?"