DARK FLIGHT
CHAPTER 3
Fraxis leaped over a boulder, planting his cloven feet squarely in the face of a human cattle-warrior, sending the armored scum sprawling with a crash. Reaching beneath the helm to the delicate flesh beneath, the fledgling tore out his victim's throat. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, and Fraxis lapped what he could up, already retreating. Like a dark cloud above him, the Adult vampires flew back to their mountainous sanctuary, and the other fledglings and he ran to keep up, stopping to knock the Sarafan out of their way. The whole plan was to spread chaos; the burning Taron was not his handiwork, but Fraxis felt he had helped all the same. Here and there, an unlucky young vampire fell to sword or pike, or even the new Glyph- casters who had shown up on the battlefield as reinforcements, though they were too late to do anything except take down any lingering young Clansmen. Fraxis' long black hair streamed out behind him as he ran, somewhat slower than usual: He had stopped here and there to grab armor off a fallen human, and a sword had found its way into his right hand, though how he got it he was still not quite sure. It was a little too wicked in design for any average soldier, and the blade was black. Whether the effect of soot form the fire or some new metal, it was too early to tell...
The beat of wings filled Thorin's nightmares. A hundred times, a thousand times, the sickening pop of his noble father's neck snapping like a twig echoed again and again, bringing his mind to fever pitch and activity, although the boy remained unconscious. Where was his mother? His brother? Why had this dark figure, his...uncle, come and torn him away from solid ground? Consciousness flickered in and out, but reality and the dream world were the same. Filled with large, powerful wings, flapping slowly in the cold night sky. When was this to end?
Raziel set down infront of his personal cavern, and turned to see his Clan landing outside their respective homes. Two thirds, with one or both arms full, headed for the Cathedral. Raziel smiled at the name; the huge cavern that their rock-smiths had made beautiful in an eerily dark way, the home for those who had not yet undergone their first Evolution after the conversion. He smiled, but there was not much else to smile about. In the first time in Razielhim's more...respectable history, the Clan was going to undertake the largest forced conversion since Vorador fell. It made him sick. Far from the monsters their Sarafan enemies made them out to be, most vampires were decent beings, with a sense of honor and a unique architectual style that made the very idea of wiping them out inconceivable. Raziel didn't know what he was in his past life; only the Grand Overlord, the All-Mighty Kain, held that secret...but Raziel didn't care. Let his past be a mystery: It was tradition for one to exchange one's human name for one vampiric in nature after the first Evolution, and life was considered to have been started over. He was afraid, however. Soon, he must leave his Clan and face Kain alone, face the punishment that was sure to come for having the nerve to evolve before his master. He had probably cursed his Clan, as well...but they were smart. They could fend for themselves. A sigh floated from his cavern; Iceabelle sleeping, most likely. Instead of disturbing her, he decided on another course and quietly glided from the ledge, down to the Cathedral. The human children and adolescents would need to be explained to, and who else but their soon-to- be leader to do so?
A mourning cry like none heard before rose from the base of the mountains. The charred and blackened ruins of Taron crumbled behind the villagers, aimlessly wandering the area. The surviving Sarafan, in dark moods and brooding, watched as each mother, each peasant father, cried over their losses. In one night, the entire child population of Taron and several other towns had simply vanished. Pyres burned here and there to honor fallen warriors, while other Sarafan worked at dispatching any wounded vampires and fixing others to poles or impaling them on javelins, as a morbid warning to the invaders not to return. They never expected another attack. One officer, sitting atop a horse, suddenly fell from the blow of a heavy stone with a shout. Others whirled around to find tear-streaked peasant faces, the villagers, armed with torches and pitchforks, pikes, and here and there the clumsily-held sword. Another warrior fell beneath a heavy stone, hurled by a nearby laborer. A captain in gold plated armor danced his horse about, shouting over the cries of his men.
"What, in all of Hell, is the meaning of this?!" He was answered by a pitchfork in the gut. While not damaging, he was knocked from his horse, and rolled to his feet.
"Leave us, Sarafan dogs!" One angry villager shouted, waving a torch menacingly.
"You were supposed to protect us, but now our children are gone and what do we have left? Bodies! Bodies and ashes!" A farmer screamed, red in the face with rage.
"You dare suggest this was -our- fault?" A hulking Sarafan shouted back, but was answered with a rock, knocking him over in a crash of metal. Several pike-wielding vilagers rushed forward and slipped their weapons through chinks in the armor and held the body, dripping blood, aloft.
"We outnumber you! Leave us in peace, and we will find our own way to deal with the vampires!" An older man roared, waving a thick quarter staff.
It was, to say the least, a retreat. Under a hale of stones, the Sarafan made their graceless and battered retreat, leaving the surviving villagers to fend for themselves. Taron wasn't the only place this occurred; the Sarafan's days of vampire purging as a whole had finally come to an end across Nosgoth, but of course, the vampires didn't realize this yet, nor did some patches of Sarafan here and there. The empire had crumbled, and soon, the days of darkness would rise, and the mighty race of the vampires, though noble at first, would eventually begin to twist.
Thorin's bloodshot eyes slowly cracked open. It was dark, and he was being carried. Odd, curving hallway flowed passed, and he looked up into the white face of his uncle, who stared down at him. They were at a brisk walking pace. Thorin knew better than to struggle; his end was coming soon. Eventually the hallway's cieling ascended into darkness as they entered a huge chamber. Vampires, holding prisoners or leading them by the hands, entered from other hallways. In the middle was a dias, atop which stood Lord Raziel. Thorin recognized him from description if not from ever seeing him before: The Sarafan talked about him, and often. In full court dress, with the Clan flag hanging from a shoulderplate on his right and metal straps criss-crossing his chest, he looked positively official, and the child felt a bit overwhelmed. They came to a stop, and Raziel, eyes filled with regret for some odd reason, looked them over. 'Picking which of us he will feed on, I suppose'...Thorin was already resigned to his fate. The fact that his brother, eyes wild and scared, stood a few yards away brought no comfort. Raziel spread his arms wide. The children, confused, watched silently, while some adolescents growled. Here and there, oddly, a teenage face was grinning, as if he or she knew something the others didn't and was happy for it.
"Young ones..." The Lord of the Razielhim's voice echoed throughout the chamber. "Welcome...to your new home."
The grinning teens only smiled wider, while here and there an astonished gasp rose. Thorin's was among them. Welcome? Was there not to be some sick, dark feast of their fresh blood? A hiss escaped from above him, and Thorin looked up to see Machel, wielding a wicked dagger stained black with his own blood, lower his forearm to his nephew's mouth. Vampiric fingers rubbed his throat, and at last he could give in no longer, swallowing the oddly cool black liquid. The taste was slightly stale and acidic instead of thick and metallic like human blood, as Thorin knew from all the times he had bitten his tongue on accident, or licked at a cut curiously, wondering what the vampires found so interesting in it. Distaste crinkled his features for a moment, until he must have drunk a cup or two of his uncle's own blood, when Machel raised his forearm and wrapped it in aged cloth. Thorin oddly found no desire to spit the residue out, and as he looked around the room, he realized the same process had happened to each child. Some of the teenagers even licked their lips.
Raziel shook his head at the confusion on the majority of the children's faces. Soon, he must tell them he had just sealed their fates. What was more sickening to him was those who looked as if they expected it; they might have come to the vampires on their own, had the times allowed it.
"You have tasted vampire blood, human children. Some of you know what will happen next: I take comfort in this, that you, at least, were maybe even hoping for it. What will follow, young cattle..." He paused, clearing his throat. "You adolescents will soon feel the need to be alone for a while...for how long, I cannot say. It varies from person to person. You children will remain here, but when you come of age, you will feel the same need. It is the need for change. You will become...vampires."
A/N: Like it so far? I always pictured Nosgothian rebellious teenagers running away from home to become vampires, and from what I could gather from here and there, the drinking of vampire blood is how the change from human to the scum of Nosgoth is triggered. R&R, and Chapter 4 will be up soon. I'm going to wait until I get at least 15 reviews before I start on 5, however, but after that I'll know for sure whether I should devote my time to this, and won't require reviews to keep writing. Look for Chapter 4, and tell your...darker friends about this fic. I'm sure they'll enjoy it.
CHAPTER 3
Fraxis leaped over a boulder, planting his cloven feet squarely in the face of a human cattle-warrior, sending the armored scum sprawling with a crash. Reaching beneath the helm to the delicate flesh beneath, the fledgling tore out his victim's throat. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, and Fraxis lapped what he could up, already retreating. Like a dark cloud above him, the Adult vampires flew back to their mountainous sanctuary, and the other fledglings and he ran to keep up, stopping to knock the Sarafan out of their way. The whole plan was to spread chaos; the burning Taron was not his handiwork, but Fraxis felt he had helped all the same. Here and there, an unlucky young vampire fell to sword or pike, or even the new Glyph- casters who had shown up on the battlefield as reinforcements, though they were too late to do anything except take down any lingering young Clansmen. Fraxis' long black hair streamed out behind him as he ran, somewhat slower than usual: He had stopped here and there to grab armor off a fallen human, and a sword had found its way into his right hand, though how he got it he was still not quite sure. It was a little too wicked in design for any average soldier, and the blade was black. Whether the effect of soot form the fire or some new metal, it was too early to tell...
The beat of wings filled Thorin's nightmares. A hundred times, a thousand times, the sickening pop of his noble father's neck snapping like a twig echoed again and again, bringing his mind to fever pitch and activity, although the boy remained unconscious. Where was his mother? His brother? Why had this dark figure, his...uncle, come and torn him away from solid ground? Consciousness flickered in and out, but reality and the dream world were the same. Filled with large, powerful wings, flapping slowly in the cold night sky. When was this to end?
Raziel set down infront of his personal cavern, and turned to see his Clan landing outside their respective homes. Two thirds, with one or both arms full, headed for the Cathedral. Raziel smiled at the name; the huge cavern that their rock-smiths had made beautiful in an eerily dark way, the home for those who had not yet undergone their first Evolution after the conversion. He smiled, but there was not much else to smile about. In the first time in Razielhim's more...respectable history, the Clan was going to undertake the largest forced conversion since Vorador fell. It made him sick. Far from the monsters their Sarafan enemies made them out to be, most vampires were decent beings, with a sense of honor and a unique architectual style that made the very idea of wiping them out inconceivable. Raziel didn't know what he was in his past life; only the Grand Overlord, the All-Mighty Kain, held that secret...but Raziel didn't care. Let his past be a mystery: It was tradition for one to exchange one's human name for one vampiric in nature after the first Evolution, and life was considered to have been started over. He was afraid, however. Soon, he must leave his Clan and face Kain alone, face the punishment that was sure to come for having the nerve to evolve before his master. He had probably cursed his Clan, as well...but they were smart. They could fend for themselves. A sigh floated from his cavern; Iceabelle sleeping, most likely. Instead of disturbing her, he decided on another course and quietly glided from the ledge, down to the Cathedral. The human children and adolescents would need to be explained to, and who else but their soon-to- be leader to do so?
A mourning cry like none heard before rose from the base of the mountains. The charred and blackened ruins of Taron crumbled behind the villagers, aimlessly wandering the area. The surviving Sarafan, in dark moods and brooding, watched as each mother, each peasant father, cried over their losses. In one night, the entire child population of Taron and several other towns had simply vanished. Pyres burned here and there to honor fallen warriors, while other Sarafan worked at dispatching any wounded vampires and fixing others to poles or impaling them on javelins, as a morbid warning to the invaders not to return. They never expected another attack. One officer, sitting atop a horse, suddenly fell from the blow of a heavy stone with a shout. Others whirled around to find tear-streaked peasant faces, the villagers, armed with torches and pitchforks, pikes, and here and there the clumsily-held sword. Another warrior fell beneath a heavy stone, hurled by a nearby laborer. A captain in gold plated armor danced his horse about, shouting over the cries of his men.
"What, in all of Hell, is the meaning of this?!" He was answered by a pitchfork in the gut. While not damaging, he was knocked from his horse, and rolled to his feet.
"Leave us, Sarafan dogs!" One angry villager shouted, waving a torch menacingly.
"You were supposed to protect us, but now our children are gone and what do we have left? Bodies! Bodies and ashes!" A farmer screamed, red in the face with rage.
"You dare suggest this was -our- fault?" A hulking Sarafan shouted back, but was answered with a rock, knocking him over in a crash of metal. Several pike-wielding vilagers rushed forward and slipped their weapons through chinks in the armor and held the body, dripping blood, aloft.
"We outnumber you! Leave us in peace, and we will find our own way to deal with the vampires!" An older man roared, waving a thick quarter staff.
It was, to say the least, a retreat. Under a hale of stones, the Sarafan made their graceless and battered retreat, leaving the surviving villagers to fend for themselves. Taron wasn't the only place this occurred; the Sarafan's days of vampire purging as a whole had finally come to an end across Nosgoth, but of course, the vampires didn't realize this yet, nor did some patches of Sarafan here and there. The empire had crumbled, and soon, the days of darkness would rise, and the mighty race of the vampires, though noble at first, would eventually begin to twist.
Thorin's bloodshot eyes slowly cracked open. It was dark, and he was being carried. Odd, curving hallway flowed passed, and he looked up into the white face of his uncle, who stared down at him. They were at a brisk walking pace. Thorin knew better than to struggle; his end was coming soon. Eventually the hallway's cieling ascended into darkness as they entered a huge chamber. Vampires, holding prisoners or leading them by the hands, entered from other hallways. In the middle was a dias, atop which stood Lord Raziel. Thorin recognized him from description if not from ever seeing him before: The Sarafan talked about him, and often. In full court dress, with the Clan flag hanging from a shoulderplate on his right and metal straps criss-crossing his chest, he looked positively official, and the child felt a bit overwhelmed. They came to a stop, and Raziel, eyes filled with regret for some odd reason, looked them over. 'Picking which of us he will feed on, I suppose'...Thorin was already resigned to his fate. The fact that his brother, eyes wild and scared, stood a few yards away brought no comfort. Raziel spread his arms wide. The children, confused, watched silently, while some adolescents growled. Here and there, oddly, a teenage face was grinning, as if he or she knew something the others didn't and was happy for it.
"Young ones..." The Lord of the Razielhim's voice echoed throughout the chamber. "Welcome...to your new home."
The grinning teens only smiled wider, while here and there an astonished gasp rose. Thorin's was among them. Welcome? Was there not to be some sick, dark feast of their fresh blood? A hiss escaped from above him, and Thorin looked up to see Machel, wielding a wicked dagger stained black with his own blood, lower his forearm to his nephew's mouth. Vampiric fingers rubbed his throat, and at last he could give in no longer, swallowing the oddly cool black liquid. The taste was slightly stale and acidic instead of thick and metallic like human blood, as Thorin knew from all the times he had bitten his tongue on accident, or licked at a cut curiously, wondering what the vampires found so interesting in it. Distaste crinkled his features for a moment, until he must have drunk a cup or two of his uncle's own blood, when Machel raised his forearm and wrapped it in aged cloth. Thorin oddly found no desire to spit the residue out, and as he looked around the room, he realized the same process had happened to each child. Some of the teenagers even licked their lips.
Raziel shook his head at the confusion on the majority of the children's faces. Soon, he must tell them he had just sealed their fates. What was more sickening to him was those who looked as if they expected it; they might have come to the vampires on their own, had the times allowed it.
"You have tasted vampire blood, human children. Some of you know what will happen next: I take comfort in this, that you, at least, were maybe even hoping for it. What will follow, young cattle..." He paused, clearing his throat. "You adolescents will soon feel the need to be alone for a while...for how long, I cannot say. It varies from person to person. You children will remain here, but when you come of age, you will feel the same need. It is the need for change. You will become...vampires."
A/N: Like it so far? I always pictured Nosgothian rebellious teenagers running away from home to become vampires, and from what I could gather from here and there, the drinking of vampire blood is how the change from human to the scum of Nosgoth is triggered. R&R, and Chapter 4 will be up soon. I'm going to wait until I get at least 15 reviews before I start on 5, however, but after that I'll know for sure whether I should devote my time to this, and won't require reviews to keep writing. Look for Chapter 4, and tell your...darker friends about this fic. I'm sure they'll enjoy it.