Grix was most displeased with his current situation. As elected leader of
the rapidly diminishing Vampire forces, he did not expect to be summoned to
such squalid surroundings at the peak of his resting period. He tapped his
booted foot in impatience as the bowing, scraping serf who had accompanied
him enjoined him to wait while he went to seek his master. Grix sighed and
glanced impatiently around the interior of the slum, somehow managing, even
when viewing the ceiling, to look down his long, aquiline nose at
everything. Setting foot in the swamp was degrading enough - only the
lowliest of his breed would spend any length of time in the dank atmosphere
of the parasite-ridden marsh - but to be forced to enter one of the slime-
dripping, tumbledown structures that rose like blemishes throughout large
areas of the spreading fen was an outright insult. If it hadn't been for
the sigil the filthy little wretch had flashed before his eyes, he would
probably have eaten him for breakfast.
Presently, the affronted vampire became aware that he was not alone in the room. Grix pivoted swiftly, his lean frame and light gait belying the redoubtable power concealed within. His cold, grey eyes swept from mouldy wall to cracked pavestone, no detail escaping his all-encompassing gaze, until it came to rest on a pair of cloven feet lit by the glimmer of the torch in the serf's hand. Grix's gaze was drawn slowly upwards, taking in a long white robe, bare muscular arms shaded in azure tones, a thick golden necklace and black-feathered wings until his disbelieving eyes met those of none other than Janos Audron himself. The vampire fell to his knees in fervent adulation, his shell-shocked brain unable to give voice to any other phrase than:
"We feared the worst, my Lord."
Janos smiled beatifically down at the man who knelt before him, mildly amused that the creature's head, so recently held aloft in sneering disdain, was now bowed in unquestioning worship at his feet.
"Arise, my son." said Janos, "I have called you here for a reason."
Grix got unsteadily to his feet, and, facing his Lord in all seriousness he said, "Had you asked, we would have attempted to reach the Aerie."
Janos shook his head with a smile, knowing as well as Grix that such an act would have amounted to nothing more than merciless death at the hands of the Sarafan who, even now, laid siege to his retreat.
"I would never ask for such a meaningless sacrifice." advised the Ancient gravely.
Grix nodded in grateful acceptance of his master's generosity. "What is it you wish of us, Lord?"
Janos' expression became somewhat secretive. "A child has been born in a nearby town. Bring him to me."
Grix was perplexed "You wish a human child, Lord?"
"The fate of Vampirekind rests on his shoulders."
Not wishing to question his elder's superior wisdom, Grix simply asked, "Who is this child?"
It seemed to the vampire as he asked this question that the room began to darken, the wan yellow light afforded by the flickering torch growing almost imperceptibly weaker with each passing moment. He looked back at Janos to see the Elder's face contorted in a most unexpected expression. As quickly as the look had appeared, it was gone; the light resumed its normal brilliance, and Janos was once more gracing him with a benign smile. Grix turned tail and stalked proudly from the room, infused with the glory of his mission, and the name of the child embedded deeply in his mind. As he departed, the blue-skinned creature allowed free reign to the snarl it had suppressed, darkling eyes flaring briefly with an unnatural light.
Afternoon drew its lazy shadows in shades of maroon and tan, the scurry and chatter of Nosgoth's prolific fauna increasing as the last few hours of day ticked their finite seconds away. The darkening of the air saw the emergence of swarms of the lurid green fireflies that were so characteristic of this particular area, swirling in mysterious order about every wooded bole and rocky spar. Dusk was on the approach, and as the sun's moribund rays limned the clothing of the band of travellers in a hazy cinnabar aura, one of their number was silently dreading its departure and the consequences of the oncoming dark. On the whole, however, the Razielim were back in good spirits. This day had seen not only an easy victory against their oldest and gravest enemies, but also a good feed, which always improved their disposition. Despite her earlier misgivings, Freya was starting to feel a little more at ease as the evening wore on and the mood remained light-hearted. Isca had not mentioned his proposition a second time, and the woman was beginning to think that maybe she'd be safe as long as her travelling companions were kept well-fed. She'd also just come to the decision that she was not going to make any more wisecracks in front of Isca - his hearty back-claps were only just short of spine- shattering - when the entire party came to an unexpected halt. Unable to see the cause of their abrupt stop over the massive bulk of the Elite guard preceding her, Freya twitched her eyebrows at her neighbour, who was a foot taller than her, in a patent request for information.
"Vampires," he hissed by way of response.
Isca made his way to the front, a path opening automatically for him as he strode forward, every inch the confident, martial leader. This first encounter with their cousins of the past was crucial; if Isca could win their trust and co-operation, they could be a great asset to both his quests. The Razielim's penetrating gaze locked onto that of the foremost vampire, keeping his stance relaxed and his hands well away from his weaponry.
"Greetings, friend."
The response was stony silence, shortly followed by the repetitive metallic sliding sound that signalled the drawing of several blades.
Isca maintained the eye contact despite a powerful temptation to glance at his men to gauge their readiness. He decided to move to more obvious ground.
"We are brethren."
Grix eyed the half-dressed dandies with open malice: that they should so overtly flaunt their identities was quite beyond his understanding. The Vampire struggle for survival in these beleaguered times was difficult enough without fools like these drawing attention to the fact that they were undead. He made his disgust at Isca's statement known.
"We claim no kinship with the likes of you!"
Isca held his temper despite the filthy looks the malnourished vampire was affording him. "There is no need for us to be enemies," he continued, endeavouring to keep his tone level. "The Sarafan play that role well enough."
Grix was in no mood to be placated: he was on a sacred mission, and every second he tarried here meant a delay in the execution of Janos' edict.
"Get out of our way or die where you stand."
Initially troubled by the vampire's refusal to accept the Razielim as kin, this skinny wretch's continued hostility was starting to grate on Isca's nerves. He took a few steps forward, a movement that brought him to within feet of the opposing group's leader, and stared down into his drawn, bloodless face with firm intent.
"You would do well not to make enemies of us," he advised in a tone so low it bordered on a growl. The creature's retaliation was so swift it caught Isca off-balance, forcing him to adopt a defensive posture instead of his preferred offensive stance. As their swords clashed with a resounding clang, the two parties, separated by hundreds of years of vampiric evolution, surged forward to bridge the time-span with a conflict of timeless ferocity.
Freya, situated in the middle of the crowd was unavoidably borne along with the forward charge. She was therefore glad when the guards before her split off to either side so she could get a clear view of these new adversaries, most of whom, unlike the undead she'd become accustomed to, looked badly in need of feeding. With this disconcerting thought in mind, she threw herself into the fight, revelling for the first time in months in a conscience-free gorefest. Those first breathless seconds of skirmish brought back golden memories of glorious days fighting for territory and honour on the battlefields of Nosgoth's far-flung future, and although she now travelled - and she was not unaware of the irony - with the very creatures she'd fought and occasionally killed, still it felt good to be vanquishing undead enemies once again.
Grix had to hand it to this narcissistic fop, he knew how to handle a sword. His opinion of his adversary rising with each passing moment, the vampire almost wished he had time to finish the duel properly - however, there were more pressing matters at hand. He waited until his opponent's next forward thrust forced him to parry to his left, and used the opportunity to reach into his belt pouch and withdraw a pinch of silver powder. With an almost apologetic look, he threw the substance straight at Isca's eyes. As the vampire backed off with a bellow of pain, momentarily blinded, Grix motioned to two of his companions to take his place while he made good his escape. This underhand manoeuvre did not go unnoticed, and Freya, who was separated from the scene by a matter of a few metres, shoved her latest antagonist away as she made a dash for Isca's side. The woman's eyes widened in horror as Isca sank to one knee, the damage was evidently severe - but worse still, the two vampires who had taken Grix's place had raised their weapons in preparation for the strike. Freya did not relish the thought of being stuck in this time without him: although because of his very nature she would never be completely safe in his company, he was at least less likely to kill her than these new foes. It was hence a heartily relieved woman who witnessed the creature behind Isca go down with a Razielim sword protruding from his skull.
Isca, his vision a morass of blurred images tinged with blooming rosettes of pain, knelt on the battlefield, sword all but forgotten in his loose- clawed grasp. He was dimly aware that someone had approached and stood before him now, shadow elongating as the its owner stretched upwards for the killing blow. It never came. The vampire felt fresh blood splash his face as a length of steel pierced the heart of his attacker, and a moment later, warm hands were gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. His vision clearing slowly, he managed by a process of elimination to deduce that it was Freya who stood at his side, querying him on the state of his eyes while keeping her own on the surrounding fray. A few more forceful blinks, and his eyesight returned to a semblance of normal, the speedy recovery due as much to the splatter of vampire blood that had connected with his face as his own inherent healing abilities.
Though the conflicting sides' numbers were still more or less even, Freya observed that the Razielim had fallen into the defensive combat pattern that had made them such a nuisance to fight when she'd led the Sarafan. They had grouped together in twos and threes, back to back, each watching out for the others' weaknesses, and forming a stronger, more impenetrable unit as they did so. Finding herself closest to Isca, and mindful that she wanted to keep an eye on him, she adopted the same approach, only then realising what a great asset this style of fighting was. Every time the enemy tried to press an attack, lunging forwards singly or en masse, they were met by an impassable wall that covered the full 360 degrees of the couple's periphery. The pair were well-matched in battle; Freya's speed, agility and outlandish fighting style were perfectly complemented by Isca's great reach, considerable skill and not insignificant measure of pure brute strength - it soon became apparent that nothing could touch them.
Finally realising the futility of attacking these staunchly defended units, the vampire troops began to cut a retreat. Their task was complete and there was nothing to be gained by throwing themselves repeatedly at the bristling protective walls the Razielim had erected. Their leader had passed on to complete his errand, and if all went according to plan, the child named Kain would soon be in their hands.
Presently, the affronted vampire became aware that he was not alone in the room. Grix pivoted swiftly, his lean frame and light gait belying the redoubtable power concealed within. His cold, grey eyes swept from mouldy wall to cracked pavestone, no detail escaping his all-encompassing gaze, until it came to rest on a pair of cloven feet lit by the glimmer of the torch in the serf's hand. Grix's gaze was drawn slowly upwards, taking in a long white robe, bare muscular arms shaded in azure tones, a thick golden necklace and black-feathered wings until his disbelieving eyes met those of none other than Janos Audron himself. The vampire fell to his knees in fervent adulation, his shell-shocked brain unable to give voice to any other phrase than:
"We feared the worst, my Lord."
Janos smiled beatifically down at the man who knelt before him, mildly amused that the creature's head, so recently held aloft in sneering disdain, was now bowed in unquestioning worship at his feet.
"Arise, my son." said Janos, "I have called you here for a reason."
Grix got unsteadily to his feet, and, facing his Lord in all seriousness he said, "Had you asked, we would have attempted to reach the Aerie."
Janos shook his head with a smile, knowing as well as Grix that such an act would have amounted to nothing more than merciless death at the hands of the Sarafan who, even now, laid siege to his retreat.
"I would never ask for such a meaningless sacrifice." advised the Ancient gravely.
Grix nodded in grateful acceptance of his master's generosity. "What is it you wish of us, Lord?"
Janos' expression became somewhat secretive. "A child has been born in a nearby town. Bring him to me."
Grix was perplexed "You wish a human child, Lord?"
"The fate of Vampirekind rests on his shoulders."
Not wishing to question his elder's superior wisdom, Grix simply asked, "Who is this child?"
It seemed to the vampire as he asked this question that the room began to darken, the wan yellow light afforded by the flickering torch growing almost imperceptibly weaker with each passing moment. He looked back at Janos to see the Elder's face contorted in a most unexpected expression. As quickly as the look had appeared, it was gone; the light resumed its normal brilliance, and Janos was once more gracing him with a benign smile. Grix turned tail and stalked proudly from the room, infused with the glory of his mission, and the name of the child embedded deeply in his mind. As he departed, the blue-skinned creature allowed free reign to the snarl it had suppressed, darkling eyes flaring briefly with an unnatural light.
Afternoon drew its lazy shadows in shades of maroon and tan, the scurry and chatter of Nosgoth's prolific fauna increasing as the last few hours of day ticked their finite seconds away. The darkening of the air saw the emergence of swarms of the lurid green fireflies that were so characteristic of this particular area, swirling in mysterious order about every wooded bole and rocky spar. Dusk was on the approach, and as the sun's moribund rays limned the clothing of the band of travellers in a hazy cinnabar aura, one of their number was silently dreading its departure and the consequences of the oncoming dark. On the whole, however, the Razielim were back in good spirits. This day had seen not only an easy victory against their oldest and gravest enemies, but also a good feed, which always improved their disposition. Despite her earlier misgivings, Freya was starting to feel a little more at ease as the evening wore on and the mood remained light-hearted. Isca had not mentioned his proposition a second time, and the woman was beginning to think that maybe she'd be safe as long as her travelling companions were kept well-fed. She'd also just come to the decision that she was not going to make any more wisecracks in front of Isca - his hearty back-claps were only just short of spine- shattering - when the entire party came to an unexpected halt. Unable to see the cause of their abrupt stop over the massive bulk of the Elite guard preceding her, Freya twitched her eyebrows at her neighbour, who was a foot taller than her, in a patent request for information.
"Vampires," he hissed by way of response.
Isca made his way to the front, a path opening automatically for him as he strode forward, every inch the confident, martial leader. This first encounter with their cousins of the past was crucial; if Isca could win their trust and co-operation, they could be a great asset to both his quests. The Razielim's penetrating gaze locked onto that of the foremost vampire, keeping his stance relaxed and his hands well away from his weaponry.
"Greetings, friend."
The response was stony silence, shortly followed by the repetitive metallic sliding sound that signalled the drawing of several blades.
Isca maintained the eye contact despite a powerful temptation to glance at his men to gauge their readiness. He decided to move to more obvious ground.
"We are brethren."
Grix eyed the half-dressed dandies with open malice: that they should so overtly flaunt their identities was quite beyond his understanding. The Vampire struggle for survival in these beleaguered times was difficult enough without fools like these drawing attention to the fact that they were undead. He made his disgust at Isca's statement known.
"We claim no kinship with the likes of you!"
Isca held his temper despite the filthy looks the malnourished vampire was affording him. "There is no need for us to be enemies," he continued, endeavouring to keep his tone level. "The Sarafan play that role well enough."
Grix was in no mood to be placated: he was on a sacred mission, and every second he tarried here meant a delay in the execution of Janos' edict.
"Get out of our way or die where you stand."
Initially troubled by the vampire's refusal to accept the Razielim as kin, this skinny wretch's continued hostility was starting to grate on Isca's nerves. He took a few steps forward, a movement that brought him to within feet of the opposing group's leader, and stared down into his drawn, bloodless face with firm intent.
"You would do well not to make enemies of us," he advised in a tone so low it bordered on a growl. The creature's retaliation was so swift it caught Isca off-balance, forcing him to adopt a defensive posture instead of his preferred offensive stance. As their swords clashed with a resounding clang, the two parties, separated by hundreds of years of vampiric evolution, surged forward to bridge the time-span with a conflict of timeless ferocity.
Freya, situated in the middle of the crowd was unavoidably borne along with the forward charge. She was therefore glad when the guards before her split off to either side so she could get a clear view of these new adversaries, most of whom, unlike the undead she'd become accustomed to, looked badly in need of feeding. With this disconcerting thought in mind, she threw herself into the fight, revelling for the first time in months in a conscience-free gorefest. Those first breathless seconds of skirmish brought back golden memories of glorious days fighting for territory and honour on the battlefields of Nosgoth's far-flung future, and although she now travelled - and she was not unaware of the irony - with the very creatures she'd fought and occasionally killed, still it felt good to be vanquishing undead enemies once again.
Grix had to hand it to this narcissistic fop, he knew how to handle a sword. His opinion of his adversary rising with each passing moment, the vampire almost wished he had time to finish the duel properly - however, there were more pressing matters at hand. He waited until his opponent's next forward thrust forced him to parry to his left, and used the opportunity to reach into his belt pouch and withdraw a pinch of silver powder. With an almost apologetic look, he threw the substance straight at Isca's eyes. As the vampire backed off with a bellow of pain, momentarily blinded, Grix motioned to two of his companions to take his place while he made good his escape. This underhand manoeuvre did not go unnoticed, and Freya, who was separated from the scene by a matter of a few metres, shoved her latest antagonist away as she made a dash for Isca's side. The woman's eyes widened in horror as Isca sank to one knee, the damage was evidently severe - but worse still, the two vampires who had taken Grix's place had raised their weapons in preparation for the strike. Freya did not relish the thought of being stuck in this time without him: although because of his very nature she would never be completely safe in his company, he was at least less likely to kill her than these new foes. It was hence a heartily relieved woman who witnessed the creature behind Isca go down with a Razielim sword protruding from his skull.
Isca, his vision a morass of blurred images tinged with blooming rosettes of pain, knelt on the battlefield, sword all but forgotten in his loose- clawed grasp. He was dimly aware that someone had approached and stood before him now, shadow elongating as the its owner stretched upwards for the killing blow. It never came. The vampire felt fresh blood splash his face as a length of steel pierced the heart of his attacker, and a moment later, warm hands were gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. His vision clearing slowly, he managed by a process of elimination to deduce that it was Freya who stood at his side, querying him on the state of his eyes while keeping her own on the surrounding fray. A few more forceful blinks, and his eyesight returned to a semblance of normal, the speedy recovery due as much to the splatter of vampire blood that had connected with his face as his own inherent healing abilities.
Though the conflicting sides' numbers were still more or less even, Freya observed that the Razielim had fallen into the defensive combat pattern that had made them such a nuisance to fight when she'd led the Sarafan. They had grouped together in twos and threes, back to back, each watching out for the others' weaknesses, and forming a stronger, more impenetrable unit as they did so. Finding herself closest to Isca, and mindful that she wanted to keep an eye on him, she adopted the same approach, only then realising what a great asset this style of fighting was. Every time the enemy tried to press an attack, lunging forwards singly or en masse, they were met by an impassable wall that covered the full 360 degrees of the couple's periphery. The pair were well-matched in battle; Freya's speed, agility and outlandish fighting style were perfectly complemented by Isca's great reach, considerable skill and not insignificant measure of pure brute strength - it soon became apparent that nothing could touch them.
Finally realising the futility of attacking these staunchly defended units, the vampire troops began to cut a retreat. Their task was complete and there was nothing to be gained by throwing themselves repeatedly at the bristling protective walls the Razielim had erected. Their leader had passed on to complete his errand, and if all went according to plan, the child named Kain would soon be in their hands.