Of course, I don't even remotely think that I could own something like LOK.
Absurd.
This is something I wrote a while ago, it's on Nosgoth net under a different name (if you click on the title and see the text there's my nick next to it all right - I want to clear all doubt.) It's just my old fic, short I am afraid, but I thought just enough. The narration switches between two incarnations of Raziel -demon and Sarafan. I hope it's not too confusing. Chapter 2 soon to come...
Slow, cautious footsteps echoed in the empty, dimly lit hall.
The man limped slightly. He allowed himself to, only when unobserved. Again, he was reminded of the burden of his age.
The uneven sound of his footsteps was punctuated by the steady accompaniment of his staff against the stone floor.
He inhaled slowly, smelling a scent that evoked a small smile on his pale lips. Death.
The hall was lit by shivering candlelight that sent a multitude of fretful shadows tremble on the dark walls.
The old man limped on, his face set in a pale mask of grim satisfaction, his eyes locked on something in the middle of the hall.
A dead body.
A flame-shaped sword.
A small bluish heap of dust.
The uneven sound of footsteps ceased, as the man approached the body, stooped and gazed curiously into the glazed eyes frozen wide in a revolting expression of terrible fear and agony. The old man's wrinkled hand slid across the pale, bloodless face of the young Sarafan.
Long, white fingers gently closed the dead eyes.
The old man straightened slowly, straining to pull up the great flame- shaped sword, trembling with effort.
A fervent whisper escaped the withered lips. "Every great movement requires a few martyrs...I warned you, Raziel."
That bloody night took many martyrs, their tortured screams still seemed to echo helplessly in the age-darkened walls of the stronghold.
As he fought with the blade, his hands greedily clutching at the hilt, the old man trampled the blue dust, sending its tiny particles airborne.
They whirled and glittered momentarily in the wavering candlelight, then fell gently onto the floor.
The old man, however, did not pay attention to anything but the blade. He fancied that he saw a flicker of blue light speed along the multicurved blade, and his feverish eyes locked on the hilt from where the light had appeared.
"You were foolish to challenge me, little Raziel." he whispered again, watching the blade intently for answer.
A faint, bluish haze slid along the blade and vanished.
A long, anguished wail of despair escaped the demon.
No merciful angel of oblivion descended...
His cries were audible only to himself and echoed painfully in his tortured mind.
Betrayed. Manipulated. Humiliated.
He was trapped beyond salvation in the physical confines of the blade. The spirit's trembling ceased.
His immaterial eyes opened to see nothing but his own spiritual essence; a blue, pulsing orb of light that strove to adapt itself automatically to its material bounds. With a mixture of fascination and horror, he observed his own spirit twist itself into maddened shapes, tearing itself from one form into another, wisps of ethereal energy twitching violently.
Mesmerized, Raziel watched himself turn into a winged transparent figure, whose features resembled his from the time he had been a vampire...but it was just an illusion. Suddenly, he distinguished an echo of the old man's whisper...
"......a few martyrs...."
In answer, he desperately fought to free himself of his prison. His mind plunged into despair- a bottomless pit of bitter pain, humiliation and impotent rage.
Damn you, Moebius! May your soul be devoured by the blackest pits of hell! May you have a taste of eternal torment...The pain of betrayal and humiliation... The spirit flinched as he felt Moebius' touch on the hilt...
".....little Raziel...." the words still echoed derisively in his mind.
This is something I wrote a while ago, it's on Nosgoth net under a different name (if you click on the title and see the text there's my nick next to it all right - I want to clear all doubt.) It's just my old fic, short I am afraid, but I thought just enough. The narration switches between two incarnations of Raziel -demon and Sarafan. I hope it's not too confusing. Chapter 2 soon to come...
Slow, cautious footsteps echoed in the empty, dimly lit hall.
The man limped slightly. He allowed himself to, only when unobserved. Again, he was reminded of the burden of his age.
The uneven sound of his footsteps was punctuated by the steady accompaniment of his staff against the stone floor.
He inhaled slowly, smelling a scent that evoked a small smile on his pale lips. Death.
The hall was lit by shivering candlelight that sent a multitude of fretful shadows tremble on the dark walls.
The old man limped on, his face set in a pale mask of grim satisfaction, his eyes locked on something in the middle of the hall.
A dead body.
A flame-shaped sword.
A small bluish heap of dust.
The uneven sound of footsteps ceased, as the man approached the body, stooped and gazed curiously into the glazed eyes frozen wide in a revolting expression of terrible fear and agony. The old man's wrinkled hand slid across the pale, bloodless face of the young Sarafan.
Long, white fingers gently closed the dead eyes.
The old man straightened slowly, straining to pull up the great flame- shaped sword, trembling with effort.
A fervent whisper escaped the withered lips. "Every great movement requires a few martyrs...I warned you, Raziel."
That bloody night took many martyrs, their tortured screams still seemed to echo helplessly in the age-darkened walls of the stronghold.
As he fought with the blade, his hands greedily clutching at the hilt, the old man trampled the blue dust, sending its tiny particles airborne.
They whirled and glittered momentarily in the wavering candlelight, then fell gently onto the floor.
The old man, however, did not pay attention to anything but the blade. He fancied that he saw a flicker of blue light speed along the multicurved blade, and his feverish eyes locked on the hilt from where the light had appeared.
"You were foolish to challenge me, little Raziel." he whispered again, watching the blade intently for answer.
A faint, bluish haze slid along the blade and vanished.
A long, anguished wail of despair escaped the demon.
No merciful angel of oblivion descended...
His cries were audible only to himself and echoed painfully in his tortured mind.
Betrayed. Manipulated. Humiliated.
He was trapped beyond salvation in the physical confines of the blade. The spirit's trembling ceased.
His immaterial eyes opened to see nothing but his own spiritual essence; a blue, pulsing orb of light that strove to adapt itself automatically to its material bounds. With a mixture of fascination and horror, he observed his own spirit twist itself into maddened shapes, tearing itself from one form into another, wisps of ethereal energy twitching violently.
Mesmerized, Raziel watched himself turn into a winged transparent figure, whose features resembled his from the time he had been a vampire...but it was just an illusion. Suddenly, he distinguished an echo of the old man's whisper...
"......a few martyrs...."
In answer, he desperately fought to free himself of his prison. His mind plunged into despair- a bottomless pit of bitter pain, humiliation and impotent rage.
Damn you, Moebius! May your soul be devoured by the blackest pits of hell! May you have a taste of eternal torment...The pain of betrayal and humiliation... The spirit flinched as he felt Moebius' touch on the hilt...
".....little Raziel...." the words still echoed derisively in his mind.