Gilded dust motes whirled softly in a somnolent dance through the solitary
beam of light that illuminated a small portion of the darkened room, its
sole occupant aware of little else apart from the heat of a fire somewhere
near her feet. Freya sat up groggily, faintly annoyed at the room for
continuing its vertiginous whirling despite her repeated requests for it to
stop, and attempted to set her randomly chattering brain into some sort of
order. Ten minutes and a great deal of head-scratching later, she believed
she'd hit on the correct order of events. She'd been brought to Nosgoth by
some as-yet-unknown means, joined the Sarafan, discovered they were rotten
to the core and moved on. Well, that was simple enough. Now what?
Freya surveyed her surroundings. She sat on a low palette near to a fireplace. There was little else in the room apart from a chair, some food and a pile of material that stirred a hazy recollection of the arrival of some matronly woman sometime during her fevered sleep. She glanced at her shoulder: the wound had been cleaned and dressed, and the vision sparked off another memory of the bustling lady, who from the warmth of her touch Freya assumed had been human, muttering about Sarafan healers not knowing the first thing about dealing with poisons. Her eyes then slid down to appraise her outfit, an act that left her reeling in self-conscious dismay. It was probably useful as camouflage, but all things considered, had she been in her right mind, she wouldn't have been caught dead in it.
Stuffing a large slice of bread into her eagerly waiting mouth, Freya moved gingerly across the room to examine the clothes that had presumably been left for her. Black leather. Much better. Pausing only to fill her mouth with a few slices of meat from the rapidly emptying plate, Freya disrobed, only then taking stock of the change in her own physique. If she ever got back to Earth, she'd be recommending a couple of months fighting vampires on Nosgoth over any Boot Camp in the world. Grinning to herself as she munched, she pulled on the trousers and slipped on the leather jerkin, a little adjustment with her belt knife leaving it more to her liking, if a little immodest.
A last glance around the room revealed that the Gaminged had been left for her on a stool near the fireplace, and long-sustained curiosity welled within her as she lifted the massive tome. She sat back down on the palette, grabbing the plate as she did so, and traced her fingers around the silver icon on the cover of the book. It was unmistakeably the symbol of the Spectral Realm. Puzzled beyond measure, Freya began to read. A scant hour later, she put the book back down, most of it unread. The majority of the text was nonsense: unsubstantiated religious propaganda and spurious scaremongering; still more of it was ambiguous, very much in the vein of the prophecies of Nostradamus. However, Freya had read enough translator-ese in her time to recognise an interpretation that had been written without comprehension of the source material. In her opinion, there were enough hinted-at and intriguing conundrums in the writing to assure her that there was something to be gained by tracing the book back to its source. Which assessment led her back full circle to her original quest: she needed to see the original Sarafan documents on which the book was based.
The woman was a little more hopeful about the success of the quest this time around. After all, she was now in the right place, in full possession of her mental and physical faculties, and better yet, she had a serious point of leverage over the keeper of the texts. With a feline smile, Freya vacated the simple bed with a luxurious stretch, attached her katana to her sword-belt and set off in search of the Vampire Lord.
Her subsequent exploration of Raziel's domain was a pure and unadulterated joy. Even during the second and third playing, she'd spent more time wandering these particular halls than any of the larger locations in the game - it held a poignant lure, a singular charm that had as much to do with the vivid reconstruction of the terrain as the power of the music that accompanied the return of the realm's Lord to his Clanlands. It took a good half hour to reach her destination, despite the fact that she knew with unerring clarity what lay around each corner, through each door. Each step was hesitant, not for fear, but through the desire to take in every minute detail of the architecture, which in itself was staggering. She noted with interest that a sloping passage, always seen underwater, here led to a dry, well-lit underground chamber, and was later surprised not to see a goblin-faced degenerate before a certain wooden door. Her taste for exploration sated for the moment, Freya turned her steps toward the central hall, almost immediately encountering small groups of Razielim of both the Fledgeling and Elite caste. Her confident, self-assured stride went some way towards ensuring that she remained unchallenged as she walked up between the two massive statues that flanked the hall's entrance, noting with wry amusement that the identity of the model could now be discerned.
Ascending another flight of steps, Freya found herself back on the dais where she had regained her sword the previous night. Raziel stood near the back wall, one claw raised in a gesture of admonishment while the fledge, Isca, nodded in acceptance of some mistake. To the right of the two figures, Freya sought - and found - a door emblazoned with a sun-symbol. Uplifted by the fact that she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that a warp gate lay below, she leaned against one of the columns, arms folded, and waited until the vampire Lord should spare her a glance. Raziel, his conversation with Isca finally concluded, looked across to ascertain the identity of the figure that awaited his attention. His double-take bordered on comical and Freya consequently had trouble keeping a straight face.
"I was hoping you might be able to spare me a minute." She hazarded when she trusted herself to speak once again, her eyes alighting momentarily on Isca, whose jaw was hanging open. He was not so long dead.
Raziel indicated the other, wooden door to the left of the dais and followed her through. On entering a side room whose use was apparent from the multitude of tomes and papers strewn about shelf and tabletop, he seated himself in a high-backed ebony chair padded with a deep red cushion, set his steepled claws against his chin, and waited for her to begin.
She leaned against the marble lintel, one hand on hip, a confident, intuitive smile on her revitalised features, and asked the question.
"So, what's it going to take to get a look at those texts?"
Raziel tilted his head, disobliging. "I was under the impression that your incentive for obtaining the documents was to restore your memories. Surely you no longer have need of them."
Evidently, that particular approach was not going to work. Freya had never been sure from what she'd read whether these Nosgoth Vampires were capable of being tempted in such a manner. No matter, she had other methods of persuasion up her sleeve. She took a seat opposite him, leaning back with her elbows on the armrests, to all appearances very much at ease. Much as she resented telling him of the potential use of the writings, it seemed this constituted her best chance at getting his cooperation.
"I have reason to believe that those documents may hold the information I need to get back home."
"Are you lost?" he asked facetiously, "If so I have maps . . ."
His lack of understanding riled her and sparked an uncalled-for outburst. "Do you think I chose to come here? When I arrived in the cave with the blood demon, where do you think I came from - thin air?" the vampire was clearly taken aback at the ferociousness of her reply. "I was torn out of my own world without so much as a by-your-leave and dumped on this barbaric rock where everyone and their dog has been out to get me." Freya relented somewhat as she realised the person she was berating was, as far as she knew, blameless. She stood again, her anxiety breeding a nervous energy that made her pace, restless about the chamber.
The vampire regarded her in patient, expectant silence. He held the cards.
Decisive, she looked him straight in the eye, unflinching before the piercing, gold-tinged gaze. "I have information about your future."
That secured his interest. "Speak."
Freya maintained the eye contact deliberately. "Show me the texts."
The Vampire laughed. "You are in no position to make demands, Sarafan . . ."
"Don't call me that!" She snapped, making plain her desire to be disassociated from the fanatic, misguided knights. "My name's Freya."
"Freya . . ." he tried the name on his tongue for size. "What makes you think you know anything of my future?"
The woman considered her reply. Telling a centuries-old Vampire Lord that the reason she knew about his future was because she'd played it out in a game would probably be misconstrued and earn her an unpleasant trip to an early grave. Her searching mind soon settled on the fragile atmosphere of trust they had established.
"You have had evidence of my trust in you several times over." Raziel could not refute that truth. "Now I ask that you trust me in return. Certain things have been given me to know, and some of those events . . ." a flashing vision of the man before her being battered to a fleshless living corpse by the tumultuous waters of the maelstrom caused a momentary shiver, "You would be wise to take measures to avoid."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, apparently giving the matter some serious consideration. Having reached a decision, he nodded thoughtfully. "Very well . . ."
The door to the chamber burst open, startling both its occupants. Raziel's heated reprimand was cut short as the identity of the intruder became known. "Turel . . ."
Turel regarded his brother in mock surprise. "We were to meet at sundown, Raziel." His eyes wandered to Freya and appraised her changed appearance appreciatively. He greeted her with a contagious smile. "I'll be awaiting you next door, brother - don't keep me too long, will you?"
Raziel scowled at him. "I am done here."
As he stood to leave, he observed that Freya seemed not at all perturbed by his mid-conversation departure. He smiled inwardly, guessing her intentions.
"Please feel free to explore at your leisure." He paused and fixed her with a knowing grin. "Although I wouldn't bother snooping around for those texts in my absence; they are concealed in a vault that will open only for me."
Freya feigned offence that he would think her capable of such a deed, only to make a petulant face at the door a moment later as it closed behind him.
Freya surveyed her surroundings. She sat on a low palette near to a fireplace. There was little else in the room apart from a chair, some food and a pile of material that stirred a hazy recollection of the arrival of some matronly woman sometime during her fevered sleep. She glanced at her shoulder: the wound had been cleaned and dressed, and the vision sparked off another memory of the bustling lady, who from the warmth of her touch Freya assumed had been human, muttering about Sarafan healers not knowing the first thing about dealing with poisons. Her eyes then slid down to appraise her outfit, an act that left her reeling in self-conscious dismay. It was probably useful as camouflage, but all things considered, had she been in her right mind, she wouldn't have been caught dead in it.
Stuffing a large slice of bread into her eagerly waiting mouth, Freya moved gingerly across the room to examine the clothes that had presumably been left for her. Black leather. Much better. Pausing only to fill her mouth with a few slices of meat from the rapidly emptying plate, Freya disrobed, only then taking stock of the change in her own physique. If she ever got back to Earth, she'd be recommending a couple of months fighting vampires on Nosgoth over any Boot Camp in the world. Grinning to herself as she munched, she pulled on the trousers and slipped on the leather jerkin, a little adjustment with her belt knife leaving it more to her liking, if a little immodest.
A last glance around the room revealed that the Gaminged had been left for her on a stool near the fireplace, and long-sustained curiosity welled within her as she lifted the massive tome. She sat back down on the palette, grabbing the plate as she did so, and traced her fingers around the silver icon on the cover of the book. It was unmistakeably the symbol of the Spectral Realm. Puzzled beyond measure, Freya began to read. A scant hour later, she put the book back down, most of it unread. The majority of the text was nonsense: unsubstantiated religious propaganda and spurious scaremongering; still more of it was ambiguous, very much in the vein of the prophecies of Nostradamus. However, Freya had read enough translator-ese in her time to recognise an interpretation that had been written without comprehension of the source material. In her opinion, there were enough hinted-at and intriguing conundrums in the writing to assure her that there was something to be gained by tracing the book back to its source. Which assessment led her back full circle to her original quest: she needed to see the original Sarafan documents on which the book was based.
The woman was a little more hopeful about the success of the quest this time around. After all, she was now in the right place, in full possession of her mental and physical faculties, and better yet, she had a serious point of leverage over the keeper of the texts. With a feline smile, Freya vacated the simple bed with a luxurious stretch, attached her katana to her sword-belt and set off in search of the Vampire Lord.
Her subsequent exploration of Raziel's domain was a pure and unadulterated joy. Even during the second and third playing, she'd spent more time wandering these particular halls than any of the larger locations in the game - it held a poignant lure, a singular charm that had as much to do with the vivid reconstruction of the terrain as the power of the music that accompanied the return of the realm's Lord to his Clanlands. It took a good half hour to reach her destination, despite the fact that she knew with unerring clarity what lay around each corner, through each door. Each step was hesitant, not for fear, but through the desire to take in every minute detail of the architecture, which in itself was staggering. She noted with interest that a sloping passage, always seen underwater, here led to a dry, well-lit underground chamber, and was later surprised not to see a goblin-faced degenerate before a certain wooden door. Her taste for exploration sated for the moment, Freya turned her steps toward the central hall, almost immediately encountering small groups of Razielim of both the Fledgeling and Elite caste. Her confident, self-assured stride went some way towards ensuring that she remained unchallenged as she walked up between the two massive statues that flanked the hall's entrance, noting with wry amusement that the identity of the model could now be discerned.
Ascending another flight of steps, Freya found herself back on the dais where she had regained her sword the previous night. Raziel stood near the back wall, one claw raised in a gesture of admonishment while the fledge, Isca, nodded in acceptance of some mistake. To the right of the two figures, Freya sought - and found - a door emblazoned with a sun-symbol. Uplifted by the fact that she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that a warp gate lay below, she leaned against one of the columns, arms folded, and waited until the vampire Lord should spare her a glance. Raziel, his conversation with Isca finally concluded, looked across to ascertain the identity of the figure that awaited his attention. His double-take bordered on comical and Freya consequently had trouble keeping a straight face.
"I was hoping you might be able to spare me a minute." She hazarded when she trusted herself to speak once again, her eyes alighting momentarily on Isca, whose jaw was hanging open. He was not so long dead.
Raziel indicated the other, wooden door to the left of the dais and followed her through. On entering a side room whose use was apparent from the multitude of tomes and papers strewn about shelf and tabletop, he seated himself in a high-backed ebony chair padded with a deep red cushion, set his steepled claws against his chin, and waited for her to begin.
She leaned against the marble lintel, one hand on hip, a confident, intuitive smile on her revitalised features, and asked the question.
"So, what's it going to take to get a look at those texts?"
Raziel tilted his head, disobliging. "I was under the impression that your incentive for obtaining the documents was to restore your memories. Surely you no longer have need of them."
Evidently, that particular approach was not going to work. Freya had never been sure from what she'd read whether these Nosgoth Vampires were capable of being tempted in such a manner. No matter, she had other methods of persuasion up her sleeve. She took a seat opposite him, leaning back with her elbows on the armrests, to all appearances very much at ease. Much as she resented telling him of the potential use of the writings, it seemed this constituted her best chance at getting his cooperation.
"I have reason to believe that those documents may hold the information I need to get back home."
"Are you lost?" he asked facetiously, "If so I have maps . . ."
His lack of understanding riled her and sparked an uncalled-for outburst. "Do you think I chose to come here? When I arrived in the cave with the blood demon, where do you think I came from - thin air?" the vampire was clearly taken aback at the ferociousness of her reply. "I was torn out of my own world without so much as a by-your-leave and dumped on this barbaric rock where everyone and their dog has been out to get me." Freya relented somewhat as she realised the person she was berating was, as far as she knew, blameless. She stood again, her anxiety breeding a nervous energy that made her pace, restless about the chamber.
The vampire regarded her in patient, expectant silence. He held the cards.
Decisive, she looked him straight in the eye, unflinching before the piercing, gold-tinged gaze. "I have information about your future."
That secured his interest. "Speak."
Freya maintained the eye contact deliberately. "Show me the texts."
The Vampire laughed. "You are in no position to make demands, Sarafan . . ."
"Don't call me that!" She snapped, making plain her desire to be disassociated from the fanatic, misguided knights. "My name's Freya."
"Freya . . ." he tried the name on his tongue for size. "What makes you think you know anything of my future?"
The woman considered her reply. Telling a centuries-old Vampire Lord that the reason she knew about his future was because she'd played it out in a game would probably be misconstrued and earn her an unpleasant trip to an early grave. Her searching mind soon settled on the fragile atmosphere of trust they had established.
"You have had evidence of my trust in you several times over." Raziel could not refute that truth. "Now I ask that you trust me in return. Certain things have been given me to know, and some of those events . . ." a flashing vision of the man before her being battered to a fleshless living corpse by the tumultuous waters of the maelstrom caused a momentary shiver, "You would be wise to take measures to avoid."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, apparently giving the matter some serious consideration. Having reached a decision, he nodded thoughtfully. "Very well . . ."
The door to the chamber burst open, startling both its occupants. Raziel's heated reprimand was cut short as the identity of the intruder became known. "Turel . . ."
Turel regarded his brother in mock surprise. "We were to meet at sundown, Raziel." His eyes wandered to Freya and appraised her changed appearance appreciatively. He greeted her with a contagious smile. "I'll be awaiting you next door, brother - don't keep me too long, will you?"
Raziel scowled at him. "I am done here."
As he stood to leave, he observed that Freya seemed not at all perturbed by his mid-conversation departure. He smiled inwardly, guessing her intentions.
"Please feel free to explore at your leisure." He paused and fixed her with a knowing grin. "Although I wouldn't bother snooping around for those texts in my absence; they are concealed in a vault that will open only for me."
Freya feigned offence that he would think her capable of such a deed, only to make a petulant face at the door a moment later as it closed behind him.
