In the darkling gloom of a subterranean cavern, an immortal conflict was
about to be resolved. Explosions of dark energy crackled along the
outlines of Turel's bastardised form, lending him a macabre aura that
emphasised the misshapen grotesquery he had become. The wasted form of his
enemy, the long-suffering Raziel, circled the beast cautiously, thirsting
claws itching for their first taste of traitorous blood. Nor would they
have long to wait: The titanic form of his sibling sent a murderous arm
slashing towards him, the rush of air caused by its passing whistling
through the barbed spines that protruded from its deformed length. Raziel
dodged it easily, using his leap to edge closer to Turel's legs, striking
out as he reached them with a clawed attack of his own. His arm rebounded
from the immovable mass as though from a block of solid steel, his limb
quivering from the shock. As the Soul Reaver stared in disbelief at the
unmarked surface before him, a secondary attack from his sibling caught him
a glancing blow and he was batted aside with effortless ease to roll to a
stop next to Isca, who lay still and unmoving while death hovered nearby.
Raziel cast a woeful glance at his fallen son; although the spurs of bone had receded when Turel's concentration waned, the wounds were bone-deep and plentiful, and dark, viscous blood was pooling rapidly beneath the vampire's torn form. Wilful child. If he had but obeyed - Raziel halted in his train of thought as Isca grabbed his arm, blood bubbling from the devastated creature's mouth as he attempted to speak.
"Freya's weapon . . . is not of this world." Raziel shot a glance to the far side of the room as Turel's words echoed faintly in his mind. The blade gleamed dully in the ghostly light, but, separated from it as he was by Turel's monstrous form, Raziel was uncertain whether he would be able to reach it. Nodding his thanks to his dying offspring, the Soul Reaver bounded to the other side of the room, leaping to a low-hanging ledge to avoid a blast of telekinetic energy aimed at him by his brother. With man- sized chunks of rock exploding out of the wall behind him, Raziel tumbled the last few feet to where Freya sat propped against the wall, shivering from the loss of blood and the pain of her mangled arm. The woman was completely oblivious to his presence until, with a start, she realised that the Soul Reaver was attempting to steal her katana.
"Oi, you cheeky git! Where do you think you're going with that?" she demanded weakly.
Raziel's glance slid from the blade to her face then back again before saying, in a most matter-of-fact-manner, "To commit fratricide."
As she watched the blue-skinned form enter once again into combat with his deformed brother, Freya began to crawl around the back of the cavern towards Isca's body. She had to know for sure.
Turel's derisive laugh rebounded from the cavern walls as Raziel approached him once again.
"So, brother, you seek to defeat me with a girl's weapon? Then again, you were always the most . . . effeminate of us."
Raziel said nothing, but tapped the blade of the katana in his palm as he waited for Turel to finish his senseless rant. The madman's voice softened to one of sneakiness, the insanity in his tone rising with each passing moment. "Try as you may, you cannot defeat me - because I will be responsible for your creation!" A new dementia seemed to seize the beast as he followed the train of thought to its ultimate conclusion. "And when I create you, I will ensure that you are second-born, and that I," he giggled girlishly, a sound more terrifying than any the monstrosity had yet uttered, ". . .will be my . . . first-born son." The monster burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at the sheer ironic genius of his own plans.
To Raziel, the extent of Turel's jealousy was finally and abundantly clear: even more evident was the need for the insane wretch to be put down. With a determined gesture, he aimed a thrust at Turel's hand, which dangled just above head-height. The creature, true to Raziel's expectations, seized him and hefted him up to eye level. Before his brother could start on another of his rants, Raziel thrust forward with the katana and gouged one of his eyes out. Roaring in pain and disbelief, Turel threw the Soul Reaver from him like a child with a temper tantrum.
Elsewhere in the cave, Freya had, by dint of some strenuous effort, reached Isca's side. She gently drew a lock of hair away from his mouth and smoothed it down to lie with the rest of the jet-black mane. In repose, the vampire's face was calm and solemn, his noble visage adding to the impression that he was an alabaster statue placed in honour of a gallant knight atop an ancient tomb. Her gaze travelled sadly down the fallen body, the wounds left by Turel's cruel magicks gaping and unhealed, marring the perfect flesh of arm and torso. A cracking noise caused her to turn her head sharply towards the fight, where she saw to her horror that Turel had just snapped the Soul Reaver's spine, casting the two halves aside like so much chaff. She caught her breath, believing for one terrifying instant that she was the last remaining irritant for Turel to dispatch. She was proven wrong a moment later when Raziel returned from the Spectral Realm, miraculously whole once more, and renewed his attack on his brother. She was proved doubly wrong in the next instant as a cold claw curved about her wrist. The sensation was unexpected enough to give her a start, but it was more than worth it to see the vampire's eyes flicker as he attempted to open them. One glance at those eyes convinced Freya that he was dying. The gold was gone from the irises, and in its place lingered a dull grey sheen; the pupils were dilated to twice their normal size, and the whites of the eyes were bloodshot beyond compare.
Biting her lip to stay in control, she asked, "Why aren't the wounds healing?"
Painfully, and as though speaking over a great distance, the vampire responded. "Lost too much . . ." He groaned, the energy used in his short speech draining his almost spent reserves.
Freya risked a glance at the two former Lieutenants who were still going at it hammer and tongs: the outcome looked bleak. She considered the options: allow Isca to die and hope that Raziel could defeat his grossly over- evolved sibling - knowing his failure would result in her death, or aid the vampire's recovery and add another immortal warrior to the equation. Closing her eyes briefly as she accepted her own decision, she offered Isca her wrist.
As the failing vampire sensed the offer of fresh blood, something of the man she had come to care for showed through beneath the steadily rising demon that responded to the all-consuming edict of the Thirst.
"This is not how I wanted . . ."
"Shut up and drink."
Grimacing as she found her companion needed no second invitation, Freya turned her attention to the battle, Raziel's failed attempts at piercing his brother's adamantine hide causing her to gasp in amazement as the scene before her reminded her of another: A lone warrior faced a massive demon in a darkened cavern, the only weapon present the Dark Angel katana. With another flash of insight, she recalled Turel's mention that he had consumed the essence of the Blood Demon, infusing him with its power - and maybe its weakness?
In an almost word-for-word reiteration of Raziel's advice to her in her first minutes on Nosgoth, she called out, "Through the heart! Pierce his heart!"
With no time for acknowledgement, the Soul Reaver clambered up Turel's slab- like chest, his claws just able to gain purchase on his brother's rocky skin, splattered as it was with his own ocular fluids.
Turel squinted down at the minute form scrabbling at his chest and laughed. "You think that will destroy me? Your efforts are as futile as those of your miserable fledge!"
Raziel, thoroughly tired of the conversation with his deranged relative, took the sword in a two-handed grip as he knelt on Turel's chest, and, with a feeling of immense satisfaction, plunged it straight into his heart.
"Give my regards to our brothers, you bastard."
Turel erupted in a blaze of purple flame, the ensuing shock wave sending the Soul Reaver straight back into the Spectral Realm, the monster's dying screams a curse on the ears of those who remained.
As Raziel rematerialised in the physical plane, he noted with satisfaction that the blow he had dealt had indeed been fatal. Glancing about to ascertain the state of the room's other occupants, he surmised that he would not return from this adventure alone after all. His son's actions reminded him that he too had a meal waiting for him, and he turned his attention to Turel's body, from which the soul was even now beginning to rise. Raziel had never seen its like: it ascended, bloated and bloody from the corpse of his brother, its bizarre appearance enough to cause the Soul Reaver to hesitate, his cowl half-lowered. He had no idea of the consequences of absorbing so tainted a soul. Just then, the glowing sphere emitted a buzzing frisson, and the crimson taint was forced from the soul, leaving it glowing bright white and huge, but otherwise normal. Knowing that this would constitute the reaving of the last of his brethren's apostate souls, Raziel lowered his cowl and absorbed it.
The room erupted in white fire.
Raziel cast a woeful glance at his fallen son; although the spurs of bone had receded when Turel's concentration waned, the wounds were bone-deep and plentiful, and dark, viscous blood was pooling rapidly beneath the vampire's torn form. Wilful child. If he had but obeyed - Raziel halted in his train of thought as Isca grabbed his arm, blood bubbling from the devastated creature's mouth as he attempted to speak.
"Freya's weapon . . . is not of this world." Raziel shot a glance to the far side of the room as Turel's words echoed faintly in his mind. The blade gleamed dully in the ghostly light, but, separated from it as he was by Turel's monstrous form, Raziel was uncertain whether he would be able to reach it. Nodding his thanks to his dying offspring, the Soul Reaver bounded to the other side of the room, leaping to a low-hanging ledge to avoid a blast of telekinetic energy aimed at him by his brother. With man- sized chunks of rock exploding out of the wall behind him, Raziel tumbled the last few feet to where Freya sat propped against the wall, shivering from the loss of blood and the pain of her mangled arm. The woman was completely oblivious to his presence until, with a start, she realised that the Soul Reaver was attempting to steal her katana.
"Oi, you cheeky git! Where do you think you're going with that?" she demanded weakly.
Raziel's glance slid from the blade to her face then back again before saying, in a most matter-of-fact-manner, "To commit fratricide."
As she watched the blue-skinned form enter once again into combat with his deformed brother, Freya began to crawl around the back of the cavern towards Isca's body. She had to know for sure.
Turel's derisive laugh rebounded from the cavern walls as Raziel approached him once again.
"So, brother, you seek to defeat me with a girl's weapon? Then again, you were always the most . . . effeminate of us."
Raziel said nothing, but tapped the blade of the katana in his palm as he waited for Turel to finish his senseless rant. The madman's voice softened to one of sneakiness, the insanity in his tone rising with each passing moment. "Try as you may, you cannot defeat me - because I will be responsible for your creation!" A new dementia seemed to seize the beast as he followed the train of thought to its ultimate conclusion. "And when I create you, I will ensure that you are second-born, and that I," he giggled girlishly, a sound more terrifying than any the monstrosity had yet uttered, ". . .will be my . . . first-born son." The monster burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at the sheer ironic genius of his own plans.
To Raziel, the extent of Turel's jealousy was finally and abundantly clear: even more evident was the need for the insane wretch to be put down. With a determined gesture, he aimed a thrust at Turel's hand, which dangled just above head-height. The creature, true to Raziel's expectations, seized him and hefted him up to eye level. Before his brother could start on another of his rants, Raziel thrust forward with the katana and gouged one of his eyes out. Roaring in pain and disbelief, Turel threw the Soul Reaver from him like a child with a temper tantrum.
Elsewhere in the cave, Freya had, by dint of some strenuous effort, reached Isca's side. She gently drew a lock of hair away from his mouth and smoothed it down to lie with the rest of the jet-black mane. In repose, the vampire's face was calm and solemn, his noble visage adding to the impression that he was an alabaster statue placed in honour of a gallant knight atop an ancient tomb. Her gaze travelled sadly down the fallen body, the wounds left by Turel's cruel magicks gaping and unhealed, marring the perfect flesh of arm and torso. A cracking noise caused her to turn her head sharply towards the fight, where she saw to her horror that Turel had just snapped the Soul Reaver's spine, casting the two halves aside like so much chaff. She caught her breath, believing for one terrifying instant that she was the last remaining irritant for Turel to dispatch. She was proven wrong a moment later when Raziel returned from the Spectral Realm, miraculously whole once more, and renewed his attack on his brother. She was proved doubly wrong in the next instant as a cold claw curved about her wrist. The sensation was unexpected enough to give her a start, but it was more than worth it to see the vampire's eyes flicker as he attempted to open them. One glance at those eyes convinced Freya that he was dying. The gold was gone from the irises, and in its place lingered a dull grey sheen; the pupils were dilated to twice their normal size, and the whites of the eyes were bloodshot beyond compare.
Biting her lip to stay in control, she asked, "Why aren't the wounds healing?"
Painfully, and as though speaking over a great distance, the vampire responded. "Lost too much . . ." He groaned, the energy used in his short speech draining his almost spent reserves.
Freya risked a glance at the two former Lieutenants who were still going at it hammer and tongs: the outcome looked bleak. She considered the options: allow Isca to die and hope that Raziel could defeat his grossly over- evolved sibling - knowing his failure would result in her death, or aid the vampire's recovery and add another immortal warrior to the equation. Closing her eyes briefly as she accepted her own decision, she offered Isca her wrist.
As the failing vampire sensed the offer of fresh blood, something of the man she had come to care for showed through beneath the steadily rising demon that responded to the all-consuming edict of the Thirst.
"This is not how I wanted . . ."
"Shut up and drink."
Grimacing as she found her companion needed no second invitation, Freya turned her attention to the battle, Raziel's failed attempts at piercing his brother's adamantine hide causing her to gasp in amazement as the scene before her reminded her of another: A lone warrior faced a massive demon in a darkened cavern, the only weapon present the Dark Angel katana. With another flash of insight, she recalled Turel's mention that he had consumed the essence of the Blood Demon, infusing him with its power - and maybe its weakness?
In an almost word-for-word reiteration of Raziel's advice to her in her first minutes on Nosgoth, she called out, "Through the heart! Pierce his heart!"
With no time for acknowledgement, the Soul Reaver clambered up Turel's slab- like chest, his claws just able to gain purchase on his brother's rocky skin, splattered as it was with his own ocular fluids.
Turel squinted down at the minute form scrabbling at his chest and laughed. "You think that will destroy me? Your efforts are as futile as those of your miserable fledge!"
Raziel, thoroughly tired of the conversation with his deranged relative, took the sword in a two-handed grip as he knelt on Turel's chest, and, with a feeling of immense satisfaction, plunged it straight into his heart.
"Give my regards to our brothers, you bastard."
Turel erupted in a blaze of purple flame, the ensuing shock wave sending the Soul Reaver straight back into the Spectral Realm, the monster's dying screams a curse on the ears of those who remained.
As Raziel rematerialised in the physical plane, he noted with satisfaction that the blow he had dealt had indeed been fatal. Glancing about to ascertain the state of the room's other occupants, he surmised that he would not return from this adventure alone after all. His son's actions reminded him that he too had a meal waiting for him, and he turned his attention to Turel's body, from which the soul was even now beginning to rise. Raziel had never seen its like: it ascended, bloated and bloody from the corpse of his brother, its bizarre appearance enough to cause the Soul Reaver to hesitate, his cowl half-lowered. He had no idea of the consequences of absorbing so tainted a soul. Just then, the glowing sphere emitted a buzzing frisson, and the crimson taint was forced from the soul, leaving it glowing bright white and huge, but otherwise normal. Knowing that this would constitute the reaving of the last of his brethren's apostate souls, Raziel lowered his cowl and absorbed it.
The room erupted in white fire.