Stoic as always, Isca faced this newest challenge with the characteristic
aplomb that had made him such an excellent substitute in Raziel's absence.
He drew his blade in readiness, sizing up the odds in the moments before
the knights' attack. The Sarafan were slightly greater in number and the
vampires were on enemy ground, which gave their opponents a distinct
advantage - especially since Isca had no idea how many knights this complex
might hold. However, these were the hours of darkness, the time of the
vampire troops' greatest power, which, along with the keen night vision,
afforded the immortals an advantage of their own. Isca liked the odds.
Even as the Sarafan officer gave the order for attack, Isca sent his own
men forward with a flourish of steel and a demand for victory.
Freya hesitated for a fraction of a second before joining her new comrades in the charge: the last time she had taken a human life, there had been no choice. She chanced a quick look at the creatures with whom she now stood and recognised that even as the Sarafan P'ramma she had held her pale- skinned foes in high esteem. True, they were heartless and brutal in combat, but what she now knew was that the one feature that distinguished them from the Sarafan knights was their directness - no underhand machinations, just plain, simple aggression. That was something she both understood and respected. Aware that her actions over the next few seconds would affect all her future interactions with her own species on this planet, and no longer finding that prospect such a burden, Freya took a solid grip on the handle of the Dark Angel and gave herself completely to the fight.
A trio of knights rushed one vampire warrior who was separated from the main body of the group, the first aiming a low blow to the knees while the other two circled, looking for an opening in his defences. The surrounded Razielim growled low in his throat as he parried the first knight's tentative thrusts, a rapid feint to the side narrowly saving him from decapitation as one of the guards to his rear chanced a slice at his neck. Now in a better position to face all three, the vampire made a taunting gesture for one of the knights to dare an assault. The more foolhardy of the three complied, a severed leg serving to warn his comrades against this method of attack. Shortly thereafter, the Sarafan advanced together, flanking their adversary. As the vampire swivelled to intercept the stroke of the knight on his left, his cohort lunged into the opening, the speed of the zealot's swing ensuring that the vampire could not possibly block it in time. Even as the Razielim essayed to withdraw his snagged weapon from the body of the first knight, he perceived that his fate was sealed. Then, impossibly, the human stopped, transfixed at the apex of his strike. His body crumpled to the ground, a deep rent in the back of his armour evidencing the means of his demise. Behind him, bloodied katana in both hands stood Freya, who paused fleetingly to afford her comrade a quick wink before returning to the thick of the battle.
Elsewhere, Isca had engaged the Sarafan officer in single combat, as was proper in the circumstances, and was even now infused with the exhilaration of facing a worthy opponent for once. The easy victories of the past few days were as poison to the spirit, he mused as he countered the Sarafan's slashing blade with no small amount of difficulty. His men needed a hard- won triumph, and from the way this battle was going, they were going to get it. Ducking under a particularly well-aimed head-height slash, Isca countered with a fierce side-swipe at the knight's torso. His blade met the steel casing with a solid clang, the resulting rent in the well-forged armour testimony to the unnatural edge on the Vampire blade. Pressing his advantage, Isca bore down on his opponent with demonic speed, his insane grin serving to further incapacitate the Sarafan officer. The human made a valiant effort to parry the frenzied blows the undead was raining on his head, but to no avail: Sarafan steel shattered beneath vampiric strength, the knight casting one last distraught glance at his splintered weapon before Isca's blade sheared skin, flesh and spinal column in one single devastating move. The vampire watched with an emotion akin to regret as the officer's severed head, still perched on top of its body, gave up its hold as gravity enforced its will.
Glancing about to find his next opponent, Isca's gaze fell in Freya's direction just in time to see her thrown bodily onto a marble table at the edge of the courtyard, the hulking brute who was poised over her even now preparing to cut her in half with a two-handed cleaver. His cry of warning died on his lips as the woman executed a speedy sideways roll, avoiding the slashing blade by inches. He watched as the weapon caused splinters to fly out of the solid marble surface before seeing her vault from a shoulder- stand to her feet and bring down the katana in a clean stroke to split her opponent's skull. Having heard Isca's half-uttered cry, Freya searched out his face, poked her tongue out at him, and cartwheeled off the table.
Isca managed to wipe the idiotic grin from his face before his next adversary saw it.
Buoyed by the vampire's apparent concern, however misplaced, Freya charged at a blonde haired knight, his tender years indicated by the light film of fluff that covered patches of the lower portion of his face. An hour ago, his age might have stayed her hand, but now, her decision irreversibly made, she no longer considered these humans as kin, and the youth's lifeforce would be extinguished at her hands without pity or remorse. She glanced around her as she paused to remove the boy's flesh from her blade, almost instantly pinpointing Isca mid-swing. The vampire was magnificent in action, his every movement fluid, practiced, well-timed - if a little on the sadistic side. She bit down on the smile that was tugging at a corner of her mouth, an unexpected but not unpleasant thought rising to the surface - her father would have hated him. A punch in the nose from a plated Sarafan fist caught her off-guard, the lightning reflex that prompted her to roll with it saving her face, but unfortunately sending her tumbling out of control into the basin of a fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The icy touch of running water caused her to involuntarily catch her breath, and Freya struggled to regain her feet as the knight who had knocked her down leaped towards the fountain, broadsword raised for the kill. She cursed herself for allowing such a trifling thought distract her mid-combat.
Swords clashed and sparks flew over every square foot of the garden; the grass, so fresh and verdant but a few moments earlier was already trampled to a brown sludge; roars of anger and cries of pain echoed from the plastered walls in a chilling imitation of a lunatic asylum as every man fought for his life and his cause. In one corner of the courtyard, a seasoned greybeard had engaged one of the younger Elite, though no-one would have guessed from their appearances that their true ages were not so very far apart. The human launched an old-style attack at the Razielim, disguising the direction of his blow as he brought it to bear. The vampire fell for it, his attempt to parry the swipe he initially thought aimed at his legs falling short as the old man changed directions at the last minute, plunging his blade through the creature's heart with a satisfied grunt. A smug smile spread across the human's face as he imagined telling that young punk of a commanding officer how, contrary to all expectations he was still able to match wits with the vampire legions. With this invigorating thought in mind, he turned to seek his next foe, only to see that one of the bastards had crept up on him, unheard by his aging ears, and that the creature's sword was already penetrating his battered breastplate. Without so much as a groan, the old warrior sank lifeless to the ground, a slight smile bringing a touch of that long-lost youth to his features, his dreams of vanquishing one more undead leech now fulfilled.
Isca, a savage smile on his features as sword rent flesh, paused to take stock of the situation. His men were winning, slowly but surely, and as long as the Sarafan did not call for reinforcements, the Razielim would add another victory to their growing list before the night was out. A final sweeping glance revealed no sign of Freya. Cursing under his breath, he batted a willing opponent aside distractedly as he strode forward with single-minded purpose. He had spotted a flash of black satin near the centre of the square and watched in alarm as the form tumbled into the fountain pool with a splash. The Sarafan who had put her there was even now closing the distance to push home his advantage and Isca realised he would be too late. An image of the events at the Abyss flared fleetingly in his mind with unbearable clarity, and he lunged forward, determined that this day would not end in a like tragedy. However, as he reached out to grab the Sarafan, he found himself sprayed with a jet of blood as a sword point erupted from the knight's back. On observing the woman's resultant struggle and hearing various muffled curses about men having no right to be so heavy when they were so dead, he reached down to drag the corpse off her.
Freya was more than a little relieved to see it was Isca who stood above her, proffering his claw to aid her to rise - but in the space of a moment, the look of utter horror that appeared on his face was enough to freeze her where she lay, the water tinkling musically in her ears. She followed the direction of his pointing claw to her stomach where a dark pool of ruby liquid was slowly collecting.
Sensing his understandable mistake, she grinned "It's alright - it's not mine!"
Glaring at her from beneath a lowered brow, Isca pulled her to her feet - a little too hard, and she was thrown momentarily against his chest, her "oops-a-daisy" freezing on her lips as she interpreted his stony expression.
"Reconsider." He growled through gritted teeth.
Freya's resolve wavered. Feeling primal and reckless as she always did after a battle, she found herself intoxicated as much by the heady rush of a brush with Death as by the proximity of this potent male so soon afterwards. Fortunately, the temptation quickly subsided, common sense prevailing over mindless desire.
"I think we won," she managed, when she trusted herself to speak, avoiding both the vampire's gaze and the ultimatum. Isca's stare continued, unwavering, but whatever his reply might have been was cut short as the earth began to tremble beneath their feet. The few duels that remained in the courtyard broke off as opponents were thrown apart by the bucking ground, sending Sarafan and Vampire alike crashing to the floor in undignified heaps. Moments later, a blinding wave of energy burst from the confines of the Sarafan Stronghold, its dazzling glare surpassed only by its tremendous force. The crackling energy surged inexorably across every obstacle that stood in its path, representing a power against which not even time could hope to prevail.
Kain's coin had landed on its edge.
Freya hesitated for a fraction of a second before joining her new comrades in the charge: the last time she had taken a human life, there had been no choice. She chanced a quick look at the creatures with whom she now stood and recognised that even as the Sarafan P'ramma she had held her pale- skinned foes in high esteem. True, they were heartless and brutal in combat, but what she now knew was that the one feature that distinguished them from the Sarafan knights was their directness - no underhand machinations, just plain, simple aggression. That was something she both understood and respected. Aware that her actions over the next few seconds would affect all her future interactions with her own species on this planet, and no longer finding that prospect such a burden, Freya took a solid grip on the handle of the Dark Angel and gave herself completely to the fight.
A trio of knights rushed one vampire warrior who was separated from the main body of the group, the first aiming a low blow to the knees while the other two circled, looking for an opening in his defences. The surrounded Razielim growled low in his throat as he parried the first knight's tentative thrusts, a rapid feint to the side narrowly saving him from decapitation as one of the guards to his rear chanced a slice at his neck. Now in a better position to face all three, the vampire made a taunting gesture for one of the knights to dare an assault. The more foolhardy of the three complied, a severed leg serving to warn his comrades against this method of attack. Shortly thereafter, the Sarafan advanced together, flanking their adversary. As the vampire swivelled to intercept the stroke of the knight on his left, his cohort lunged into the opening, the speed of the zealot's swing ensuring that the vampire could not possibly block it in time. Even as the Razielim essayed to withdraw his snagged weapon from the body of the first knight, he perceived that his fate was sealed. Then, impossibly, the human stopped, transfixed at the apex of his strike. His body crumpled to the ground, a deep rent in the back of his armour evidencing the means of his demise. Behind him, bloodied katana in both hands stood Freya, who paused fleetingly to afford her comrade a quick wink before returning to the thick of the battle.
Elsewhere, Isca had engaged the Sarafan officer in single combat, as was proper in the circumstances, and was even now infused with the exhilaration of facing a worthy opponent for once. The easy victories of the past few days were as poison to the spirit, he mused as he countered the Sarafan's slashing blade with no small amount of difficulty. His men needed a hard- won triumph, and from the way this battle was going, they were going to get it. Ducking under a particularly well-aimed head-height slash, Isca countered with a fierce side-swipe at the knight's torso. His blade met the steel casing with a solid clang, the resulting rent in the well-forged armour testimony to the unnatural edge on the Vampire blade. Pressing his advantage, Isca bore down on his opponent with demonic speed, his insane grin serving to further incapacitate the Sarafan officer. The human made a valiant effort to parry the frenzied blows the undead was raining on his head, but to no avail: Sarafan steel shattered beneath vampiric strength, the knight casting one last distraught glance at his splintered weapon before Isca's blade sheared skin, flesh and spinal column in one single devastating move. The vampire watched with an emotion akin to regret as the officer's severed head, still perched on top of its body, gave up its hold as gravity enforced its will.
Glancing about to find his next opponent, Isca's gaze fell in Freya's direction just in time to see her thrown bodily onto a marble table at the edge of the courtyard, the hulking brute who was poised over her even now preparing to cut her in half with a two-handed cleaver. His cry of warning died on his lips as the woman executed a speedy sideways roll, avoiding the slashing blade by inches. He watched as the weapon caused splinters to fly out of the solid marble surface before seeing her vault from a shoulder- stand to her feet and bring down the katana in a clean stroke to split her opponent's skull. Having heard Isca's half-uttered cry, Freya searched out his face, poked her tongue out at him, and cartwheeled off the table.
Isca managed to wipe the idiotic grin from his face before his next adversary saw it.
Buoyed by the vampire's apparent concern, however misplaced, Freya charged at a blonde haired knight, his tender years indicated by the light film of fluff that covered patches of the lower portion of his face. An hour ago, his age might have stayed her hand, but now, her decision irreversibly made, she no longer considered these humans as kin, and the youth's lifeforce would be extinguished at her hands without pity or remorse. She glanced around her as she paused to remove the boy's flesh from her blade, almost instantly pinpointing Isca mid-swing. The vampire was magnificent in action, his every movement fluid, practiced, well-timed - if a little on the sadistic side. She bit down on the smile that was tugging at a corner of her mouth, an unexpected but not unpleasant thought rising to the surface - her father would have hated him. A punch in the nose from a plated Sarafan fist caught her off-guard, the lightning reflex that prompted her to roll with it saving her face, but unfortunately sending her tumbling out of control into the basin of a fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The icy touch of running water caused her to involuntarily catch her breath, and Freya struggled to regain her feet as the knight who had knocked her down leaped towards the fountain, broadsword raised for the kill. She cursed herself for allowing such a trifling thought distract her mid-combat.
Swords clashed and sparks flew over every square foot of the garden; the grass, so fresh and verdant but a few moments earlier was already trampled to a brown sludge; roars of anger and cries of pain echoed from the plastered walls in a chilling imitation of a lunatic asylum as every man fought for his life and his cause. In one corner of the courtyard, a seasoned greybeard had engaged one of the younger Elite, though no-one would have guessed from their appearances that their true ages were not so very far apart. The human launched an old-style attack at the Razielim, disguising the direction of his blow as he brought it to bear. The vampire fell for it, his attempt to parry the swipe he initially thought aimed at his legs falling short as the old man changed directions at the last minute, plunging his blade through the creature's heart with a satisfied grunt. A smug smile spread across the human's face as he imagined telling that young punk of a commanding officer how, contrary to all expectations he was still able to match wits with the vampire legions. With this invigorating thought in mind, he turned to seek his next foe, only to see that one of the bastards had crept up on him, unheard by his aging ears, and that the creature's sword was already penetrating his battered breastplate. Without so much as a groan, the old warrior sank lifeless to the ground, a slight smile bringing a touch of that long-lost youth to his features, his dreams of vanquishing one more undead leech now fulfilled.
Isca, a savage smile on his features as sword rent flesh, paused to take stock of the situation. His men were winning, slowly but surely, and as long as the Sarafan did not call for reinforcements, the Razielim would add another victory to their growing list before the night was out. A final sweeping glance revealed no sign of Freya. Cursing under his breath, he batted a willing opponent aside distractedly as he strode forward with single-minded purpose. He had spotted a flash of black satin near the centre of the square and watched in alarm as the form tumbled into the fountain pool with a splash. The Sarafan who had put her there was even now closing the distance to push home his advantage and Isca realised he would be too late. An image of the events at the Abyss flared fleetingly in his mind with unbearable clarity, and he lunged forward, determined that this day would not end in a like tragedy. However, as he reached out to grab the Sarafan, he found himself sprayed with a jet of blood as a sword point erupted from the knight's back. On observing the woman's resultant struggle and hearing various muffled curses about men having no right to be so heavy when they were so dead, he reached down to drag the corpse off her.
Freya was more than a little relieved to see it was Isca who stood above her, proffering his claw to aid her to rise - but in the space of a moment, the look of utter horror that appeared on his face was enough to freeze her where she lay, the water tinkling musically in her ears. She followed the direction of his pointing claw to her stomach where a dark pool of ruby liquid was slowly collecting.
Sensing his understandable mistake, she grinned "It's alright - it's not mine!"
Glaring at her from beneath a lowered brow, Isca pulled her to her feet - a little too hard, and she was thrown momentarily against his chest, her "oops-a-daisy" freezing on her lips as she interpreted his stony expression.
"Reconsider." He growled through gritted teeth.
Freya's resolve wavered. Feeling primal and reckless as she always did after a battle, she found herself intoxicated as much by the heady rush of a brush with Death as by the proximity of this potent male so soon afterwards. Fortunately, the temptation quickly subsided, common sense prevailing over mindless desire.
"I think we won," she managed, when she trusted herself to speak, avoiding both the vampire's gaze and the ultimatum. Isca's stare continued, unwavering, but whatever his reply might have been was cut short as the earth began to tremble beneath their feet. The few duels that remained in the courtyard broke off as opponents were thrown apart by the bucking ground, sending Sarafan and Vampire alike crashing to the floor in undignified heaps. Moments later, a blinding wave of energy burst from the confines of the Sarafan Stronghold, its dazzling glare surpassed only by its tremendous force. The crackling energy surged inexorably across every obstacle that stood in its path, representing a power against which not even time could hope to prevail.
Kain's coin had landed on its edge.