CHAPTER 4
One by one, the teens entered their long sleep, forming a sort of cocoon about them by a process mysterious and unknown even to the oldest vampires themselves. As for the children, they felt slow changes taking hold, altering them here and there, until they had almost dreaded the thought of returning to the human world. The years passed, and one by one they entered into their own sleep, leaving the Clan for the time being. Machel sat in front of his two nephews' cocoons like some sort of watch-dog, only moving to feed, only speaking when spoken to.
Fraxis had once more Evolved, gaining adult sized wings and cloven hands, but still had the ugly, mottled skin and brown eyes, two traits he could do without. The sword he had claimed turned out to be an ancient vampire artifact, spanning back to when the vampires first felt the Hunger. The chief of Taron, a high-ranking Sarafan officer, had wielded it against his vampire foes, but it turned around and killed him, instead of being used against its makers. The artifact was held on a special pedestal in the middle of the Cathedral, always drawing a certain sense of awe from the vampires who passed by it. It was pure black, slightly resembling the infamous Soul Reaver in that the blade curved, but with each curve a jutting spike protruded, making the weapon heavy and awkward to wield. Its origins a mystery, it seemed to emit a dark aura, and Raziel himself proclaimed that it must be some sort of ceremonial weapon.
Time dragged on, and Machel watched his only surviving kin, twisting and turning in their shells, growing and changing. Occasionally, Raziel stopped by for talk of new Razielhim court positions opened, and how the outside world was developing, but Machel couldn't care. Eventually, the once- adolescents emerged from their shells, greeting their new lives as vampires with cries of Hunger, pathetic mewlings that were quickly appeased. The younger children were still changing, however, when Raziel decided it was time for him to leave.
"Why? Kain will kill you, Raziel ..." Icebelle, Raziel's mate, demanded. "In the end, he will simply strike you down with that accursed Soul Reaver." Her wings drooping, she brushed her waist-length white hair aside.
Raziel sat in his personal cavern with his wife, shaking his head. He wore full court dress. "I will stay in Kain's palace for a while... hide my wings until I can be sure Lord Kain can accept them, me, and our Clan."
Icebelle shook her head, a sad sigh escaping her black lips. "He won't, Raziel. Our only hope is to move the Clan once more, far from Kain's eyes and ears. Then, we can live in peace, and our children and our children's children can be happy. Can't you see?"
Raziel shook his head again. "No, love... I cannot run from him. Eventually, he would find me, and the confrontation would be worse. I must face him now, or never."
Icebelle's posture grew rigid, and she turned from him, wings stiff and unmoving.
Raziel blinked, standing and approaching her, hands slightly outstretched. "Icebelle ..."
She did not turn. "Leave, Raziel. Do not return. I suggest you give leadership of the Clan over to Machel; he is more level-headed than you."
Raziel's arms fell, and he turned away. There would be no good-bye, no last embrace... he must leave now before the pain grew too intense. Silently, he walked outside, extended his wings, and flew away. In the cavern, Icebelle began to cry.
Without Raziel to guide them, and Machel refusing the position of leader, the Razielhim spiraled into disunity. The other commanders led factions away from the main clans, and then others followed their example, until literally hundreds of smaller branches spread across the mountain range. Humanity changed its ways from fighting to fearing the vampires, worshiping them, sending a low priest or child out as an offering. But the race grew fierce; Flights of Razielhim vampires swooped down at night to carry women and children away, and slowly but surely, they began to change. Their once beautiful white skin grew dark and ridged, like a reptile's; Only the commanders and the unhatched fledglings seemed to retain their original look. Different dialects formed and evolved until finally, one Clan branch couldn't communicate with the other. Dissension was wide spread, with outcasts from one branch, now called Tribes, went from their original homes to settle in the new ones. Wings grew larger and more powerful, and limbs long and spider-like. Soon, the Razielhim became almost completely avian in nature, homes moving from carved caverns to jagged cliff-ledge aeries. Only the Cathedral remained unchanged.
Machel, eyes sunken and muscles a great deal smaller, suddenly awoke to the sounds of cracking and chipping. The two cocoons before him were beginning to split. At first, Machel thought it was another fledgling cracking them open to cannibalize the contents, a trait that was becoming disturbingly more and more common. Indeed, the cocoons had remained dormant at least a century longer than they were supposed to, and Machel had almost been ready to give up on them. Hefting the heavy ax he had gotten into the habit of holding, he peered into the crack. Mewling rose to greet him, and suddenly Machel was alive with joy. Dipping a chalice into a vat of blood he had kept handy, he fed first his nephew Thorin and then Mikael, the one who had been named after Machel's human form. They arose, licking their lips, and Machel gasped in astonishment. They were twins, with the build of a human 15 years of age, with china-white skin, silver shoulder-length hair, and amber eyes. They were fully formed, the perfect version of the Old Razielhim vampires, and yet still fledgling size. They looked down at their cloven hands and feet, at their wings still damp from the preserving fluids inside their now-empty cocoons, and blinked, silently looking at their uncle in unison. Quickly, he handed them fledgling robes; coarse brown cloth that was made to shield them from the sun's harsh rays, though recently that was hardly necessary.
"Uncle..." Thorin hissed, and blinked at hearing his deeper voice. "How long have we... slept?"
Machel sighed. "See for yourself." Drawing the hoods of the robes over their heads for them, in case they were sensitive to the slightest amount of sunlight, he led them out of the main cavern of the Cathedral, and out onto a ledge. All three silently stared at the lands below. Where once had been blue skies, green fields, and sprawling villages, there was only--
"Desolation..." Thorin whispered.
A/N: Chapter 4 is over with. Once I get 15 reviews, I'll know for sure whether I should spend any more time on this. For those of you who read this, I hope you like it so far. Much more is planned. Tell your friends to R&R, and Chapter 5 is baking in the oven of my mind.
One by one, the teens entered their long sleep, forming a sort of cocoon about them by a process mysterious and unknown even to the oldest vampires themselves. As for the children, they felt slow changes taking hold, altering them here and there, until they had almost dreaded the thought of returning to the human world. The years passed, and one by one they entered into their own sleep, leaving the Clan for the time being. Machel sat in front of his two nephews' cocoons like some sort of watch-dog, only moving to feed, only speaking when spoken to.
Fraxis had once more Evolved, gaining adult sized wings and cloven hands, but still had the ugly, mottled skin and brown eyes, two traits he could do without. The sword he had claimed turned out to be an ancient vampire artifact, spanning back to when the vampires first felt the Hunger. The chief of Taron, a high-ranking Sarafan officer, had wielded it against his vampire foes, but it turned around and killed him, instead of being used against its makers. The artifact was held on a special pedestal in the middle of the Cathedral, always drawing a certain sense of awe from the vampires who passed by it. It was pure black, slightly resembling the infamous Soul Reaver in that the blade curved, but with each curve a jutting spike protruded, making the weapon heavy and awkward to wield. Its origins a mystery, it seemed to emit a dark aura, and Raziel himself proclaimed that it must be some sort of ceremonial weapon.
Time dragged on, and Machel watched his only surviving kin, twisting and turning in their shells, growing and changing. Occasionally, Raziel stopped by for talk of new Razielhim court positions opened, and how the outside world was developing, but Machel couldn't care. Eventually, the once- adolescents emerged from their shells, greeting their new lives as vampires with cries of Hunger, pathetic mewlings that were quickly appeased. The younger children were still changing, however, when Raziel decided it was time for him to leave.
"Why? Kain will kill you, Raziel ..." Icebelle, Raziel's mate, demanded. "In the end, he will simply strike you down with that accursed Soul Reaver." Her wings drooping, she brushed her waist-length white hair aside.
Raziel sat in his personal cavern with his wife, shaking his head. He wore full court dress. "I will stay in Kain's palace for a while... hide my wings until I can be sure Lord Kain can accept them, me, and our Clan."
Icebelle shook her head, a sad sigh escaping her black lips. "He won't, Raziel. Our only hope is to move the Clan once more, far from Kain's eyes and ears. Then, we can live in peace, and our children and our children's children can be happy. Can't you see?"
Raziel shook his head again. "No, love... I cannot run from him. Eventually, he would find me, and the confrontation would be worse. I must face him now, or never."
Icebelle's posture grew rigid, and she turned from him, wings stiff and unmoving.
Raziel blinked, standing and approaching her, hands slightly outstretched. "Icebelle ..."
She did not turn. "Leave, Raziel. Do not return. I suggest you give leadership of the Clan over to Machel; he is more level-headed than you."
Raziel's arms fell, and he turned away. There would be no good-bye, no last embrace... he must leave now before the pain grew too intense. Silently, he walked outside, extended his wings, and flew away. In the cavern, Icebelle began to cry.
Without Raziel to guide them, and Machel refusing the position of leader, the Razielhim spiraled into disunity. The other commanders led factions away from the main clans, and then others followed their example, until literally hundreds of smaller branches spread across the mountain range. Humanity changed its ways from fighting to fearing the vampires, worshiping them, sending a low priest or child out as an offering. But the race grew fierce; Flights of Razielhim vampires swooped down at night to carry women and children away, and slowly but surely, they began to change. Their once beautiful white skin grew dark and ridged, like a reptile's; Only the commanders and the unhatched fledglings seemed to retain their original look. Different dialects formed and evolved until finally, one Clan branch couldn't communicate with the other. Dissension was wide spread, with outcasts from one branch, now called Tribes, went from their original homes to settle in the new ones. Wings grew larger and more powerful, and limbs long and spider-like. Soon, the Razielhim became almost completely avian in nature, homes moving from carved caverns to jagged cliff-ledge aeries. Only the Cathedral remained unchanged.
Machel, eyes sunken and muscles a great deal smaller, suddenly awoke to the sounds of cracking and chipping. The two cocoons before him were beginning to split. At first, Machel thought it was another fledgling cracking them open to cannibalize the contents, a trait that was becoming disturbingly more and more common. Indeed, the cocoons had remained dormant at least a century longer than they were supposed to, and Machel had almost been ready to give up on them. Hefting the heavy ax he had gotten into the habit of holding, he peered into the crack. Mewling rose to greet him, and suddenly Machel was alive with joy. Dipping a chalice into a vat of blood he had kept handy, he fed first his nephew Thorin and then Mikael, the one who had been named after Machel's human form. They arose, licking their lips, and Machel gasped in astonishment. They were twins, with the build of a human 15 years of age, with china-white skin, silver shoulder-length hair, and amber eyes. They were fully formed, the perfect version of the Old Razielhim vampires, and yet still fledgling size. They looked down at their cloven hands and feet, at their wings still damp from the preserving fluids inside their now-empty cocoons, and blinked, silently looking at their uncle in unison. Quickly, he handed them fledgling robes; coarse brown cloth that was made to shield them from the sun's harsh rays, though recently that was hardly necessary.
"Uncle..." Thorin hissed, and blinked at hearing his deeper voice. "How long have we... slept?"
Machel sighed. "See for yourself." Drawing the hoods of the robes over their heads for them, in case they were sensitive to the slightest amount of sunlight, he led them out of the main cavern of the Cathedral, and out onto a ledge. All three silently stared at the lands below. Where once had been blue skies, green fields, and sprawling villages, there was only--
"Desolation..." Thorin whispered.
A/N: Chapter 4 is over with. Once I get 15 reviews, I'll know for sure whether I should spend any more time on this. For those of you who read this, I hope you like it so far. Much more is planned. Tell your friends to R&R, and Chapter 5 is baking in the oven of my mind.