Fifth Form:
The Legends of Azriel
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters and materials are copyright J.K. Rowling with the following exceptions. Azriel Darigaaz and all related works are copyright John J Gillick. Permission to use the character is granted upon request accompanied by a synopsis of the part of a story in which he will play.
Author's Note: This is not the official fanfiction yet. This is merely some information that will explain parts of the fanfiction which will come up at one point or another.
Legend of Azriel, the Healer
Northern Ireland, circa 1790
"It does not look good," the village elder informed. "The poison is quickly taking effect. If we cannot cure him, he will be dead in half a day." The old cleric then took a deep breath and stared at the floor, disheartened that he could do nothing more for the boy. He then turned and left the house and into the increasingly gray world of the village, under lamentations of the family.
"Why must we always be the ones with the illnesses and curses?" the boy's father asked in an angry fervor. He then cast a sympathetic glare to his son, who was looking worse and worse. The snake's bite had been the latest in a string of mishaps that the family has suffered. The boy's breath slowly drawing short, he rolled onto his side, and let out a slight whimper, completely oblivious to his fate.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
A sharp knock at the door caused everyone to jump. The father, angered by the disturbance on this upsetting day, threw the door open, and was surprised to see a stranger to the village at his door. He stood six feet tall, in a long, flowing, white robe, and equally long hair flowed from his head. His piercing blue eyes never wavering from the man, but showed a tone of gentle power. The man was toting a staff of beaten mahogany wood. A large pearl was set in the top of the staff, and it exuded an aura of clerical power, known only to a healer.
"Good morrow, dear sir," he opened, bowing graciously. "I have traveled many a mile, and my journey has brought me here. I am search of my hometown, and I feel that I am not far. But it has grown to an ungodly hour, and I wish to impose upon you a place to stay." The father, astounded, just stared at the man.
"Uh, you have come at a most inopportune time. I am sorry, but I cannot put you up for the night."
"I have no money to offer you for the night," the man said in an effort to stay. "But, if there is any other way that I could be of assistance to you, I would be more than happy to help you." Before the father could answer, however, the man's eyes fell upon the dying boy. Without a word, he walked over to him, and placed his hands over the bite on the child's leg.
"What are you doing?!" the father shouted. But the man didn't answer. He just kept about the boy. And then, softly, he started to chant.
"Ch qbcp oje, aucf fcap
C chujya ze xjkan
Qj yaax bcz
Rnjz Psqsh'p aeap."
Once the man completed his incantation, the gangrenes look of the wounds faded, and life returned to the boy's cheeks. The family was astonished that this wanderer, this stranger, this outcast of society could simply walk into their home and heal their son.
"I...I guess we could let you stay here for the night. After that miracle you just performed, it is the least we could do." The man smiled.
"Thank you, kind people. I am most appreciative."
"But, sir, we never were told your name."
"My name is Azriel."
After the night had passed, the family woke up to further give the man his accolades, but the man had gone. He left no trace of his work, save for the memory of the family.
Legend of Azriel, the Destroyer
Origin unknown, circa 1820
Darkness swept across the barren land. A gale wind swept up the ash that was a township no more than a day before. The setting sun burned a deep amber color, similar to the fire that destroyed the humble lives, now forgotten, in a heartbeat. The ground, host to the destruction, was stained with a putrid mixture of blood, vomit, and ash.
"Sweet destruction." He gave a sinister smile, giving a sadistic mystique to his already demonic appearance. His pitch-black eyes, capable of paralyzing even Medusa, remained fixed on his handiwork. His long, silver mane whipped forward with the same wind that blew away the remnants of the village. His sinewy arms were folded across his bare chest. But what completed the dark look were his large wings. Big, black wings hung over his shoulders like a devil cloak, nearly wrapping around his frame.
Striding forward, he licked the blood of his victims from his muzzle, savoring the taste meant only for the black-hearted. He unfolded his arms, and wiped his face of the rest of the blood. The dark man stared at his hand, watching the thick, syrupy humor drip from the tip of his hand down off his palm. He then indulged in another taste.
His personal vendetta satisfied, he turned away from the stench of fire and death. Looking once more over his shoulder before taking off to his next target, he could only think of one thing to say.
"You deserved it."
Legend of Azriel, the Dark Priest
Southampton, England; circa 1834
My darkest hour, condemned to die for the love I once gave every waking thought to, and for the love that I now despise and loathe. I gave her everything, and she returns my affection by letting my own brother give her a rogering in the back of his shop. The bastard! But nay, I cannot hold much anger for him. It is she who brought this about, and it is she that darkens my thoughts. The utter hatred and humiliation, all leading to the worst of deeds conceivable; murdering my brother in cold blood. Whilst he slept, no less! And now, he is dead, and I to join him within three days. If only I could return the pain she caused, then I would be able to rest my soul...
"I can offer you that power," the dark man offered. He was clad in a pitch-black robe, covering his thin and twisted frame. The hood shrouded his face in mystery; the only thing one could see escaping from beneath was his icy breath. His bony hands clutched a staff of ebony, beaten through extended use. Atop the staff sat a jet black stone, exuding an aura of death and chaos.
"What do you desire in return, Azriel?"
"That is an issue to be discussed at a later date. Do you accept?"
"I," he paused. "I accept your offer."
"Then shake my hand," he extended his thin yet powerful hand outward, to which the condemned eagerly shook. He immediately felt a surge flow through his body, spreading from the tips of his toes to the top of his damned head. This was power to do the blackest of deeds. It was blissful oblivion.
Finally! I shall have my revenge. Azriel has granted me the power to take it. Her injustices towards me shall now plague her life just as they have plagued mine. Now I need only to implement the plan.
"Was it all you expected?" Azriel asked.
"It served its purpose. The prison guards stood no chance to the blackness of the magic you have granted unto me."
"And the girl?"
"Oh, sweet revenge," the man took a moment to savor the memory of torturing the woman he once loved in sadistic glee. He smiled wider with each scream he remembered to escape her lips. Wider still with the blood that flowed through her as it splashed onto the floor in a vile puddle. But the happiest moment he received was the final scream as his blackened, claw-like hands sank deep into her throat. "She is dead."
"Then I must collect my payment." Azriel raised his staff, and pointed the death jewel at the man. Azriel spoke his curse in a foreign tongue, but unmistakable from its equivalent English. "Susts Yatsuns."
A blood red light exploded out of the end of Azriel's staff. Once it hit the man, he shrieked in pain as all of the dark deeds in his blackened mind were being acted upon himself. The death of his brother, albeit painful, was the least painful out of what he was soon to feel.
Just before the last act of torture he had inflicted on the woman was to be inflicted on himself, he uttered out, "You...bastard..." He then felt the same black claws sinking into his own neck. The blood flowed profusely from the wounds, and he quickly slipped into eternal sleep.
Sweeping over the body, Azriel pointed his staff at the man again, and the same blood red light, now emitted from the corpse, returned to the stone. "Thank you, dear brother."
Legend of Azriel, Holy Avenger
Origin unknown
Lancers, longbows, knights on foot; none of them could save the battle now. We are doomed to die on the field, to the black army of the south. Damn heathens! Their blasphemous ways have tainted their blood, but has robbed them of the compassion for humanity, making them ruthless vandals. Because of this, they are capable of black deeds that would make Satan himself blush. And now, they turn those deeds towards my army. We have the will of God on our side, but that is not enough to save ourselves.
The worst part is that they will ransack our village, kill the meek and rape our wives and daughters. They will burn our houses to the ground, then spit on the smoldering ashes. They will continue this orgy of death and destruction after everyone in our village is dead, as if the town and all of its inhabitants had never existed.
Oh, God! They come again! I call to my army, "Prepare yourselves! We may not win, but we may take a few with us!"
Their charge comes closer, the barbarians brandishing their primitive but effective weapons high above their heads. This truly is the end. They will kill us and...what? What is this?
"Bjfe Awxfjpcjh!" A voice from above our heads shouted. The opposing army looked up as well, only to be smashed with a bright white light that parted the clouds. Its searing power tore every warrior in half, if they were lucky. Some had been blasted completely apart, others had caught fire, and the rest had lost numerous body parts, and still lived
Astounded, I turned my gaze to the source of the blasting light. And, to my surprise, an angelic being floated, his sword pointed in the direction of the now crater.
He came down to the ground, turning away from the work of his power. The being drew closer to us, revealing more of his appearance. He was tall, with long, silver hair flowing from the top of his head. He was dressed in a billowing white robe, which was kept together by a golden rope. From the rope dangled a sheath of gold just as magnificent. His hands clutched the sword from which the sheath was meant; its blade was three feet of gleaming silver, and the guard was fashioned to look like the angel wings which extended from his back, which lay folded behind him, for his work was complete.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"With your help, yes," I responded after a long pause. "Thank you."
"Do not bother to thank me. It was my pleasure to help you." He then smiled. It was not until then did I noticed that his eyes were different. Those eyes, hidden behind his silver hair, had no pupils. They were empty. "Well, if you are without injury, then I must go. Good day to you." He then stretched his wings out as far as they could, and flew off.
The Legends of Azriel
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters and materials are copyright J.K. Rowling with the following exceptions. Azriel Darigaaz and all related works are copyright John J Gillick. Permission to use the character is granted upon request accompanied by a synopsis of the part of a story in which he will play.
Author's Note: This is not the official fanfiction yet. This is merely some information that will explain parts of the fanfiction which will come up at one point or another.
Legend of Azriel, the Healer
Northern Ireland, circa 1790
"It does not look good," the village elder informed. "The poison is quickly taking effect. If we cannot cure him, he will be dead in half a day." The old cleric then took a deep breath and stared at the floor, disheartened that he could do nothing more for the boy. He then turned and left the house and into the increasingly gray world of the village, under lamentations of the family.
"Why must we always be the ones with the illnesses and curses?" the boy's father asked in an angry fervor. He then cast a sympathetic glare to his son, who was looking worse and worse. The snake's bite had been the latest in a string of mishaps that the family has suffered. The boy's breath slowly drawing short, he rolled onto his side, and let out a slight whimper, completely oblivious to his fate.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
A sharp knock at the door caused everyone to jump. The father, angered by the disturbance on this upsetting day, threw the door open, and was surprised to see a stranger to the village at his door. He stood six feet tall, in a long, flowing, white robe, and equally long hair flowed from his head. His piercing blue eyes never wavering from the man, but showed a tone of gentle power. The man was toting a staff of beaten mahogany wood. A large pearl was set in the top of the staff, and it exuded an aura of clerical power, known only to a healer.
"Good morrow, dear sir," he opened, bowing graciously. "I have traveled many a mile, and my journey has brought me here. I am search of my hometown, and I feel that I am not far. But it has grown to an ungodly hour, and I wish to impose upon you a place to stay." The father, astounded, just stared at the man.
"Uh, you have come at a most inopportune time. I am sorry, but I cannot put you up for the night."
"I have no money to offer you for the night," the man said in an effort to stay. "But, if there is any other way that I could be of assistance to you, I would be more than happy to help you." Before the father could answer, however, the man's eyes fell upon the dying boy. Without a word, he walked over to him, and placed his hands over the bite on the child's leg.
"What are you doing?!" the father shouted. But the man didn't answer. He just kept about the boy. And then, softly, he started to chant.
"Ch qbcp oje, aucf fcap
C chujya ze xjkan
Qj yaax bcz
Rnjz Psqsh'p aeap."
Once the man completed his incantation, the gangrenes look of the wounds faded, and life returned to the boy's cheeks. The family was astonished that this wanderer, this stranger, this outcast of society could simply walk into their home and heal their son.
"I...I guess we could let you stay here for the night. After that miracle you just performed, it is the least we could do." The man smiled.
"Thank you, kind people. I am most appreciative."
"But, sir, we never were told your name."
"My name is Azriel."
After the night had passed, the family woke up to further give the man his accolades, but the man had gone. He left no trace of his work, save for the memory of the family.
Legend of Azriel, the Destroyer
Origin unknown, circa 1820
Darkness swept across the barren land. A gale wind swept up the ash that was a township no more than a day before. The setting sun burned a deep amber color, similar to the fire that destroyed the humble lives, now forgotten, in a heartbeat. The ground, host to the destruction, was stained with a putrid mixture of blood, vomit, and ash.
"Sweet destruction." He gave a sinister smile, giving a sadistic mystique to his already demonic appearance. His pitch-black eyes, capable of paralyzing even Medusa, remained fixed on his handiwork. His long, silver mane whipped forward with the same wind that blew away the remnants of the village. His sinewy arms were folded across his bare chest. But what completed the dark look were his large wings. Big, black wings hung over his shoulders like a devil cloak, nearly wrapping around his frame.
Striding forward, he licked the blood of his victims from his muzzle, savoring the taste meant only for the black-hearted. He unfolded his arms, and wiped his face of the rest of the blood. The dark man stared at his hand, watching the thick, syrupy humor drip from the tip of his hand down off his palm. He then indulged in another taste.
His personal vendetta satisfied, he turned away from the stench of fire and death. Looking once more over his shoulder before taking off to his next target, he could only think of one thing to say.
"You deserved it."
Legend of Azriel, the Dark Priest
Southampton, England; circa 1834
My darkest hour, condemned to die for the love I once gave every waking thought to, and for the love that I now despise and loathe. I gave her everything, and she returns my affection by letting my own brother give her a rogering in the back of his shop. The bastard! But nay, I cannot hold much anger for him. It is she who brought this about, and it is she that darkens my thoughts. The utter hatred and humiliation, all leading to the worst of deeds conceivable; murdering my brother in cold blood. Whilst he slept, no less! And now, he is dead, and I to join him within three days. If only I could return the pain she caused, then I would be able to rest my soul...
"I can offer you that power," the dark man offered. He was clad in a pitch-black robe, covering his thin and twisted frame. The hood shrouded his face in mystery; the only thing one could see escaping from beneath was his icy breath. His bony hands clutched a staff of ebony, beaten through extended use. Atop the staff sat a jet black stone, exuding an aura of death and chaos.
"What do you desire in return, Azriel?"
"That is an issue to be discussed at a later date. Do you accept?"
"I," he paused. "I accept your offer."
"Then shake my hand," he extended his thin yet powerful hand outward, to which the condemned eagerly shook. He immediately felt a surge flow through his body, spreading from the tips of his toes to the top of his damned head. This was power to do the blackest of deeds. It was blissful oblivion.
Finally! I shall have my revenge. Azriel has granted me the power to take it. Her injustices towards me shall now plague her life just as they have plagued mine. Now I need only to implement the plan.
"Was it all you expected?" Azriel asked.
"It served its purpose. The prison guards stood no chance to the blackness of the magic you have granted unto me."
"And the girl?"
"Oh, sweet revenge," the man took a moment to savor the memory of torturing the woman he once loved in sadistic glee. He smiled wider with each scream he remembered to escape her lips. Wider still with the blood that flowed through her as it splashed onto the floor in a vile puddle. But the happiest moment he received was the final scream as his blackened, claw-like hands sank deep into her throat. "She is dead."
"Then I must collect my payment." Azriel raised his staff, and pointed the death jewel at the man. Azriel spoke his curse in a foreign tongue, but unmistakable from its equivalent English. "Susts Yatsuns."
A blood red light exploded out of the end of Azriel's staff. Once it hit the man, he shrieked in pain as all of the dark deeds in his blackened mind were being acted upon himself. The death of his brother, albeit painful, was the least painful out of what he was soon to feel.
Just before the last act of torture he had inflicted on the woman was to be inflicted on himself, he uttered out, "You...bastard..." He then felt the same black claws sinking into his own neck. The blood flowed profusely from the wounds, and he quickly slipped into eternal sleep.
Sweeping over the body, Azriel pointed his staff at the man again, and the same blood red light, now emitted from the corpse, returned to the stone. "Thank you, dear brother."
Legend of Azriel, Holy Avenger
Origin unknown
Lancers, longbows, knights on foot; none of them could save the battle now. We are doomed to die on the field, to the black army of the south. Damn heathens! Their blasphemous ways have tainted their blood, but has robbed them of the compassion for humanity, making them ruthless vandals. Because of this, they are capable of black deeds that would make Satan himself blush. And now, they turn those deeds towards my army. We have the will of God on our side, but that is not enough to save ourselves.
The worst part is that they will ransack our village, kill the meek and rape our wives and daughters. They will burn our houses to the ground, then spit on the smoldering ashes. They will continue this orgy of death and destruction after everyone in our village is dead, as if the town and all of its inhabitants had never existed.
Oh, God! They come again! I call to my army, "Prepare yourselves! We may not win, but we may take a few with us!"
Their charge comes closer, the barbarians brandishing their primitive but effective weapons high above their heads. This truly is the end. They will kill us and...what? What is this?
"Bjfe Awxfjpcjh!" A voice from above our heads shouted. The opposing army looked up as well, only to be smashed with a bright white light that parted the clouds. Its searing power tore every warrior in half, if they were lucky. Some had been blasted completely apart, others had caught fire, and the rest had lost numerous body parts, and still lived
Astounded, I turned my gaze to the source of the blasting light. And, to my surprise, an angelic being floated, his sword pointed in the direction of the now crater.
He came down to the ground, turning away from the work of his power. The being drew closer to us, revealing more of his appearance. He was tall, with long, silver hair flowing from the top of his head. He was dressed in a billowing white robe, which was kept together by a golden rope. From the rope dangled a sheath of gold just as magnificent. His hands clutched the sword from which the sheath was meant; its blade was three feet of gleaming silver, and the guard was fashioned to look like the angel wings which extended from his back, which lay folded behind him, for his work was complete.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"With your help, yes," I responded after a long pause. "Thank you."
"Do not bother to thank me. It was my pleasure to help you." He then smiled. It was not until then did I noticed that his eyes were different. Those eyes, hidden behind his silver hair, had no pupils. They were empty. "Well, if you are without injury, then I must go. Good day to you." He then stretched his wings out as far as they could, and flew off.