Prologue;

Survival

And, in a time of dire need, one shall come forth who shall fight alongside the Jin'Sai, and become not only his loyal ally, but his trusted friend. Yet this one unendowed being shall serve a greater purpose, and be the pivot on which all shall turn.

-Page 935, Chapter Two of the Prophecies of the Tome

Falke of the House of Soletzi threw himself at the winged creature, his shoulder slamming into its abdomen. His assault did nothing to what looked, to him, like a well built man with dark leathery wings.

He had heard some of them talking before his hiding place had been discovered, and they called themselves the Minions of Day and Night. And more than once, he had heard them mention the Second Mistress.

Falke didn't know who the Second Mistress was, or for that matter care. Right now he was too preoccupied with surviving the beasts that were pillaging Tammerland.

A gigantic hand grabbed his face, nails digging into his skin, twisted his head back until he was sure his neck would snap. Gritting his teeth, Falke tore himself free, the nails dragging fresh grooves through his face and causing him to cry out in pain. He quickly backed away, wiping away the blood that was running into his left eye.

Panting and bent double, Falke could feel every aching muscle, every sore limb, and the pain in his face was like fire. He watched the Minion carefully, unsure of what to do.

"Enough games." the Minion warrior hissed, drawing a serrated disk from his belt. Falke steeled himself, and then the Minion pulled back his arm and threw it. Falke barely twisted in time, the spinning blade missing his neck by a hairs breadth. But now he had his back to the warrior, and he spun on his heel to face him again.

It was too late. The warrior smashed into him, sending him sprawling down onto the cobblestones. Then he held his arm high, and the disc returned to his gloved hand with a metallic ring. He clipped it back onto his belt, and marched towards Falke.

"You're a nimble one, but that doesn't matter. Your death is guaranteed."

Falke tried to raise himself. Even on his hands and knees his head swam, and his left arm gave way entirely, causing him to stumble. His entire body screamed in protest at holding this position, but he forced himself to endure it.

"May the Afterlife damn you to whatever hell you spawned from." he gasped. The warrior laughed, and Falke felt anger stab his heart like never before.

Using reserves he didn't know he had, Falke forced himself to his feet. If he was to die today, he would die fighting.

"If you surrender I shall make your death painless and easy," snarled the Minion, regarding Falke confidently, "But if you make this difficult, I will see to it that you die slowly and painfully."

Falke said nothing, but stared hatefully into the monsters eyes. How many more of these creatures were ravaging the city? How many had died already? Even now, he could hear the screaming echoing throughout the streets.

And suddenly everything seemed clearer to him. The pain seemed far away, and he even let the blood run freely across his left eyelid. He suddenly had all the energy in the world, all the strength in the world, and the will to use it.

He darted forward. The warrior was prepared for that and swung his fist, but Falke had been ready for it and rolled underneath, grasping the serrated disc from the Minions belt loop and spinning with it in hand, not caring that the blade was cutting into his flesh. He brought the blade up against the warriors wings, cutting neatly through one of them and leaving a long gash in the other, and then he whipped around, his arm outstretched, and swung around the front of the monster and burying the circular blade into its throat.

And suddenly he was intensely aware of the pain in his hand, and he feel to the floor screaming with pain as the blade fell free of his hand, pulled back by the Minion as it fell to the floor.

Falke dropped to his knees, bright lights dancing across his vision. The world faded from view, and he fell sideways onto the cold, unforgiving stone.

Daylight made Falke open one of his eyes, and when he did he was hit by several sensations. First of all was the pain. It swept over him in a rush and caused him to cry out. His entire world was nothing but aches and pain for several long moments, but the abuse his body had suffered paled to the sudden fire that leapt across his face. His jaw wouldn't move, and blood had crusted over his closed eye. He couldn't open it.

Second of all was something that he would later call relief. He had survived, and killed the beast that had attacked him. But as he fought against the pain and looked to see the monster, he realised it wasn't nearby. Perhaps it had been picked up by it's comrades, and he'd been left for dead? Or perhaps some angry citizens had moved it, and who in the Afterlife knew what they had done with it? He realised he didn't care. He was alive. The sun was shining down on him.

Then he realised something was wrong. He couldn't feel his left hand.

Hardly daring to look, he twisted himself, ignoring the waves of pain that cascaded down his body, and brought his hand before his face. He had all of his fingers, but the cuts were deep. He wouldn't be able to use it again for some time, and here in the street the risk of infection was high. He'd have to find a doctor, if he could.

Thinking of his hand brought back memories of the weapon he had used to kill the Minion. It had been a circular saw sat on a hub, that, when thrown, returned to the sender like a boomerang. And that thick glove on the creatures left hand must have been padded when it had caught the weapon, or else he'd have severed the fingers from his own hand. But padded with what? What could be thick enough to stop that blade? Certainly not leather. His memory handed him something. A sound. A metallic ring. Perhaps the glove had been padded with lead? But that would make it incredibly heavy.

Thinking of the warriors physique, he doubted a lead glove would have proven to be a problem.

Forcing himself to his feet, and picking the crust from his eye with his uninjured hand, Falke looked out upon his home of twenty seasons of new life.

His heart fell.

Smoke curled thickly into the sky, and now that he was upright the stench of death grew thick in his nostrils, bringing him close to vomiting. He could hear from the streets nearby the sounds of wailing and, in the distance, screaming.

He limped forwards. It was the best he could do, and his body screamed in protest from even that. He gave in, leaning against one of the buildings, and sliding down so that he was sitting. Whatever willpower had forced him this far was ebbing. He laughed softly. This far, indeed. He'd moved about six paces.

Ignoring the sounds of suffering from every direction, he allowed the exhaustion to take over, and was asleep before he hit the ground.