Dark Flight
Disclaimer: As you know, LoK belongs to Eidos Interactive and Crystal Dynamics. The village of Taron and its inhabitants, and the original characters in the Razielhim clan belong to me. Ask politely if you'd like to borrow them. If you steal this, however, I eat you.
Chapter 2
The Fledgling crouched eagerly atop a boulder, hands still holding their human shape splayed across the surface of the stone. The moon's pale light shadowed the young vampire, hiding him from his prey, who he watched, delicate bat-wings twitching in anticipation. He was only freshly converted, and had only gone through the Evolution once, which had given him his slightly awkward cloven feet, but left his hands untouched, and his eyes the rich brown of humanity. Here and there his skin was still the color and flush of a human's, which embarrassed him deeply, but the soft white color of his chosen race was starting to catch hold. A few more Evolutions, and he's almost be an Adult, he told himself. But his mind was quickly brought to the here and now as the clank of heavy armor and the mutter of voices reached his slightly pointed ears. A Sarafan swordsman rose over the hill, torch in one hand and a sword in the other. The fledgling instinctively hissed, bringing the armored head of the warrior quickly around.
"Scum!" He shouted, rushing forward.
"Cattle!" The vampire returned in a hiss, springing from his hiding place.
The flash of a blade was the fledgling's only warning, and suddenly a sharp, fiery pain exploded from his midsection. Four feet of hard steel had slid like a knife through hot butter, impaling the writhing creature. Black blood, steaming and boiling, dripped from the wound, and the Sarafan warrior threw down his sword, sending the wounded creature sprawling. With a malicious grin hidden by his helmet's visor, he drew out a stake from his pouch and crept stealthily forward, still grinning. It would be the second- to-last expression he ever wore. His eyes shot wide open, jaw dropping in a soundless scream, as a cloven hand suddenly exploded through his breastplate, sending hot blood splattering across the ground.
Machel grimaced, muttering a word or two in ancient magic words, and a stream of blood rose from the gaping wound and flowed into his mouth. He only took a portion of it, however, before redirecting it to the wounded fledgling's open mouth. As soon as the restoring liquid went down the young one's gullet, the wound in his abdomen began to close and seal, leaving only a scar darker than the white skin there.
"What is your name, fledgling?" Machel asked, folding arms corded tightly with muscle across his chest.
"F-Fraxis, s-sir..." The younger vampire stuttered, holding a hand to his stomach in remembrance of the frightening hole that had once been there.
"Why did you leave your group, Fraxis? We told you younger ones to stick together." Machel twitched his wings irritably, looking at the smaller wings adorning the fledgling's back, taking note of how they twitched seemingly without Fraxis being aware of it, a habit of most new Razielhim vampires.
"I was... so hungry sir..."
"At the risk of your life, you attacked an experienced Sarafan warrior just so that--"
Screams echoed from the base of the mountains, loud enough to be heard on the wind even without a vampire's amplified hearing. Machel spun around, peering down. Several small villages swarmed with pinpricks of light, but one village, Taron, was alight with fire. A dark, piercing Vampiric scream shattered the air, and Machel quickly made up his mind, spreading his wings wide and leaping from the plateau he and Fraxis had rested on. The latter vampire stared after his master, and after a moment's hesitation, grabbed his wingtips and hang-glided after Machel, employing the tactic taught to fledglings to give their wings at least some use until they were strong enough to fly with.
Thorin screamed again as the fledgling approached, hands half-human and half-vampiric stretching out to grab him. The mottled colors of this one was more dominated by the characteristic pale white, but the effect was still disturbing. Suddenly, a Sarafan warrior, dripping blood, leaped up from where he had apparently pretended to be dead and drove a pike right through the vampire, who in turn, screaming and frothing, slashed out his attacker's throat. Both combatants fell to the ground, the human already dead, the vampire dying. Thorin, eyes wide with terror, ran as fast as his legs could carry him, rushing past vampires locked in combat with Sarafan warriors, vampires standing over fallen bodies and draining them of blood, and buildings burning like torches. Here and there, vampire fought vampire over a kill, not noticing the child plunging past them, tears streaming from his eyes. Finally, he reached his home, and stared, eyes wide, as Machel landed in front of him. The vampire glared at him for a moment, and then spun around to confront Thorin's father, a thickly muscled Sarafan warrior wielding two swords, who had tried to sneak up behind him. However, both stopped and stared, locked in place, as recognition dawned in their eyes. Thorin, confused and dazed, wondered why his father was so frozen in place.
"Paeter ..." Machel gasped.
"Michael...?" Paeter returned, eyes wide. "Michael, you... I thought you slaughtered by the vampires!" His gaze hardened. "But I see now... you are one of them. And doubtlessly no longer Michael."
Machel's eyes filled with regret. "No... brother. I am Michael no longer."
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Paeter rushed forward, screaming hoarsely and wildly slashing at his former kin. Machel simply side-stepped, and grabbed him by the neck from behind, cloven hands wrapping easily about his opponent's neck. Thorin, silently crying, watched as Machel, suddenly crying just as hard, quickly squeezed, snapping his brother's neck. Letting the body fall, he turned to his nephew, eyes filled with remorse.
"Machel!" A bark echoed from above, and the vampire looked up to see another of his kind, flying overhand with an unconscious boy in his left hand. "Take a prisoner for the Conversion! We are leaving."
Thorin gasped in horror as his uncle strode forward, raised a fist, and then... all was black.
A/N: Well, chapter 2 is over with. Chapter 3 is brewing in my mind, but I need at least 5 constructive reviews, just to see if enough people are interested enough for me to bring the story out. I'm planning this to be a long, one, but we'll see...
Disclaimer: As you know, LoK belongs to Eidos Interactive and Crystal Dynamics. The village of Taron and its inhabitants, and the original characters in the Razielhim clan belong to me. Ask politely if you'd like to borrow them. If you steal this, however, I eat you.
Chapter 2
The Fledgling crouched eagerly atop a boulder, hands still holding their human shape splayed across the surface of the stone. The moon's pale light shadowed the young vampire, hiding him from his prey, who he watched, delicate bat-wings twitching in anticipation. He was only freshly converted, and had only gone through the Evolution once, which had given him his slightly awkward cloven feet, but left his hands untouched, and his eyes the rich brown of humanity. Here and there his skin was still the color and flush of a human's, which embarrassed him deeply, but the soft white color of his chosen race was starting to catch hold. A few more Evolutions, and he's almost be an Adult, he told himself. But his mind was quickly brought to the here and now as the clank of heavy armor and the mutter of voices reached his slightly pointed ears. A Sarafan swordsman rose over the hill, torch in one hand and a sword in the other. The fledgling instinctively hissed, bringing the armored head of the warrior quickly around.
"Scum!" He shouted, rushing forward.
"Cattle!" The vampire returned in a hiss, springing from his hiding place.
The flash of a blade was the fledgling's only warning, and suddenly a sharp, fiery pain exploded from his midsection. Four feet of hard steel had slid like a knife through hot butter, impaling the writhing creature. Black blood, steaming and boiling, dripped from the wound, and the Sarafan warrior threw down his sword, sending the wounded creature sprawling. With a malicious grin hidden by his helmet's visor, he drew out a stake from his pouch and crept stealthily forward, still grinning. It would be the second- to-last expression he ever wore. His eyes shot wide open, jaw dropping in a soundless scream, as a cloven hand suddenly exploded through his breastplate, sending hot blood splattering across the ground.
Machel grimaced, muttering a word or two in ancient magic words, and a stream of blood rose from the gaping wound and flowed into his mouth. He only took a portion of it, however, before redirecting it to the wounded fledgling's open mouth. As soon as the restoring liquid went down the young one's gullet, the wound in his abdomen began to close and seal, leaving only a scar darker than the white skin there.
"What is your name, fledgling?" Machel asked, folding arms corded tightly with muscle across his chest.
"F-Fraxis, s-sir..." The younger vampire stuttered, holding a hand to his stomach in remembrance of the frightening hole that had once been there.
"Why did you leave your group, Fraxis? We told you younger ones to stick together." Machel twitched his wings irritably, looking at the smaller wings adorning the fledgling's back, taking note of how they twitched seemingly without Fraxis being aware of it, a habit of most new Razielhim vampires.
"I was... so hungry sir..."
"At the risk of your life, you attacked an experienced Sarafan warrior just so that--"
Screams echoed from the base of the mountains, loud enough to be heard on the wind even without a vampire's amplified hearing. Machel spun around, peering down. Several small villages swarmed with pinpricks of light, but one village, Taron, was alight with fire. A dark, piercing Vampiric scream shattered the air, and Machel quickly made up his mind, spreading his wings wide and leaping from the plateau he and Fraxis had rested on. The latter vampire stared after his master, and after a moment's hesitation, grabbed his wingtips and hang-glided after Machel, employing the tactic taught to fledglings to give their wings at least some use until they were strong enough to fly with.
Thorin screamed again as the fledgling approached, hands half-human and half-vampiric stretching out to grab him. The mottled colors of this one was more dominated by the characteristic pale white, but the effect was still disturbing. Suddenly, a Sarafan warrior, dripping blood, leaped up from where he had apparently pretended to be dead and drove a pike right through the vampire, who in turn, screaming and frothing, slashed out his attacker's throat. Both combatants fell to the ground, the human already dead, the vampire dying. Thorin, eyes wide with terror, ran as fast as his legs could carry him, rushing past vampires locked in combat with Sarafan warriors, vampires standing over fallen bodies and draining them of blood, and buildings burning like torches. Here and there, vampire fought vampire over a kill, not noticing the child plunging past them, tears streaming from his eyes. Finally, he reached his home, and stared, eyes wide, as Machel landed in front of him. The vampire glared at him for a moment, and then spun around to confront Thorin's father, a thickly muscled Sarafan warrior wielding two swords, who had tried to sneak up behind him. However, both stopped and stared, locked in place, as recognition dawned in their eyes. Thorin, confused and dazed, wondered why his father was so frozen in place.
"Paeter ..." Machel gasped.
"Michael...?" Paeter returned, eyes wide. "Michael, you... I thought you slaughtered by the vampires!" His gaze hardened. "But I see now... you are one of them. And doubtlessly no longer Michael."
Machel's eyes filled with regret. "No... brother. I am Michael no longer."
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Paeter rushed forward, screaming hoarsely and wildly slashing at his former kin. Machel simply side-stepped, and grabbed him by the neck from behind, cloven hands wrapping easily about his opponent's neck. Thorin, silently crying, watched as Machel, suddenly crying just as hard, quickly squeezed, snapping his brother's neck. Letting the body fall, he turned to his nephew, eyes filled with remorse.
"Machel!" A bark echoed from above, and the vampire looked up to see another of his kind, flying overhand with an unconscious boy in his left hand. "Take a prisoner for the Conversion! We are leaving."
Thorin gasped in horror as his uncle strode forward, raised a fist, and then... all was black.
A/N: Well, chapter 2 is over with. Chapter 3 is brewing in my mind, but I need at least 5 constructive reviews, just to see if enough people are interested enough for me to bring the story out. I'm planning this to be a long, one, but we'll see...