Thanks for the reviews! Here comes another installment. Enjoy!
Zephon was so different from Melchiah that it took Raziel by surprise. When he finally stole into the chamber of that great beast, he had expected a pitiable creature. Melchiah had been terrible, yes, but the hideousness of his visage was equal to the self-loathing and misery that he had suffered internally. Zephon, however, actually delighted in his monstrosity. He took to his transformations so willingly that he had to some degree been able to advance its growth, as far as Raziel could tell. Spreading his spider's web across the whole of the citadel, Zephon claimed to be a part of every room and passageway and filled with the knowledge of his entire domain.
That knowledge, however great it may have been, was not enough to save him from the brother he betrayed.
Now in possession of that demon's soul, Raziel can feel that a great change has come over him. Obviously, there are the physical characteristics. His ability to manipulate his body to climb walls with the efficiency of an arachnid will prove to be a great aid to him in his pursuit of his remaining foes. Yet the most powerful affect that Zephon has on Raziel is entirely internal.
Zephon fancied himself a god. There was no mistaking that. His love of his metamorphosis was one born purely of madness. Any who could delight in demonic transformation and the spawn of parasites could not to any degree call themselves sane. This lack of mental stability bent toward the manipulation of power for an unholy goal was Zephon's defining attribute. As a result, it is also the greatest factor in Raziel's own evolution.
Raziel jumps from the top of the bell tower and onto a ledge overlooking a vast courtyard. The last few tremors of the quake of energy passes through the Reaver of Souls, leaving him oddly both exhausted and invigorated at the same time. This constant state of contradiction, of an existence of paradox is finally beginning to make some measure of sense to him. It is still a grim lifestyle, he muses, but at least it is better than that prescribed to his former brethren.
He crouches low upon the ledge, looking down into the courtyard with a detached interest. The memory of Zephon's fanatically maniacal mind lingers like a poor, filmy taste in the mouth. The blue, ragged flesh of his face curls into a snarl of disgust. Beside him a dusty old gargoyle seems like a large-eyed puppy in comparison. Raziel snorts at the thought and focuses back upon the courtyard below.
The hellish, spider-like spawn of Zephon continue to mill about in the courtyard. Here is where they capture most of their victims for feeding or turning. Vast webs connect the small buildings in the area to the walls and towers of the citadel. One would think that the broken weapons and grisly remains strewn about on the ground and caught in webbing would seem to discourage any human visitors, but such is obviously not the case. Even now a small group of three human vampire hunters creep into the area, weapons and torches clutched tightly as they search for their quarry.
Raziel cannot help but to find a measure of twisted amusement in the situation. The humans think that they are the predators, hunting the Zephonhim in hopes of eradicating their kind from the face of Nosgoth. He is reminded of the stories of those knights of old, the Seraphan, how they had at one time almost decimated the vampire race if it were not for the ancient hero Vorador.
But those had been Kain's stories and Raziel doubts there could be much truth to them. Certainly now it seems that Kain would say anything at all to trick the mind of his subjects, former or otherwise into service to him. Besides, regardless of the disdain he now feels for the vampire race, Raziel finds it incredibly hard to believe that simple humans could have the power to slaughter so many undead foes – especially when they only hunt in small groups of three.
Even from above Raziel can hear the clicking of mandibles. It is the language of the Zephonhim, a summons alerting others to their prey. The human warriors cast their torches out farther into the growing darkness of the descending dusk. From his vantage point, Raziel can see the vampires advancing on the humans, just out of their vision. There are nearly a dozen of them.
"Do they not know?" Raziel shakes his head in disbelief.
It is not the plight of the humans which interests him. It is the fact that not ten minutes previously Raziel had destroyed the master of these arachnid abominations. The soul had been ripped from his ungodly form and the resulting tumult of energy was enough to make Raziel almost lose all corporeal cohesion. Even more than a physical blow, it was a spiritual storm that should have rocked the entire area.
Raziel thought that the demise of Melchiah left his remaining brood sorrowful and listless. Yet the Zephonhim seem to be totally unaware, still totally consumed with the venture of feeding upon human interlopers. If they truly have no knowledge of the death of their supposed god, then perhaps the link between master and servant has decayed to nothing in this bizarre realm. Upon closer inspection, Raziel has to admit that the condition of the Melchiahim may have been merely supposed – for what else has a rotting corpse truly have left to feel but sorrow and listlessness?
When Raziel had served Kain, he had felt a bond with him that he felt with no other. His Lord was the center of his vampiric being and he was a grateful servant. Kain had no need to utter a word at times, for the anger or satisfaction that was his punishment or gift to his children was always plainly visible to Raziel. He also knew that the same bond was shared between his own brood and himself.
Therefore to now see a land filled with vampires with hearts who know nothing of that bond or of loyalty fills his own heart with rage. To Raziel's eyes, this is the fruit born of the seed that was first sewn with that one great betrayal. His own destruction filled him with a desire for vengeance. Now, this proof of the total lack of whatever was honorable or good about his former vampiric life has no legacy, no procession through the resulting generations of the monstrosity that had once been his own kind. The effect of this knowledge burns a hate so hot and so powerful that his eyes come alive in blue flame.
"Die, foul beast!"
The cry breaks Raziel's reverie. Down below, the humans and Zephonhim are engaging in battle. The vampire hunters are surprisingly effective with their torches, capable of alighting four vampires before having to resort to their swords.
In close-quarters combat, the Zephonhim have the upper hand. As the humans jab with their swords, the vampires easily cut through their defenses and slash at their exposed chests and limbs with their clawed legs. Two of the humans partner together to attack one vampire. As their enemy falls down dead on the ground, two more vampires rush in from behind them. The third human shouts to get their attention, but it is much too late. The Zephonhim pounce on the two humans and immediately begin to feed.
Raziel jumps from the ledge and glides to a position just above the two Zephonhim before dropping down onto them. Taking Zephon's soul improved both his strength and the structure of his taloned hands, the latter of which he now uses to crush the necks of the two vampires. Their souls fly from their bodies, blazing with a green incandescence. Quickly sucking the pathetic, incorporeal forms from the air around him, he now has the energy to draw the Soul Reaver into the physical realm.
For the lone human survivor, it is a macabre scene of nightmares come to life. Only in his darkest dreams could he imagine the demonic fury with which the blue-skinned creature deals with his vampire foes. The shining ghost-sword the creature wields cuts down enemy after enemy with an ease only hinted at by the old stories of gods-sent avenging angels. Whether the creature was an angel or a demon, the man can not say. Only one thing is certain – it is the Reaver of Souls.
"Please, spare me!" The human cries, falling to his knees as Raziel approaches him.
Raziel looks down upon the man in disgust. He is appalled at the cowardice of the person who had at least shown some bravery in coming here.
"I did not come here to harm you," the Reaver of Souls says in a voice as cold as the grave.
"Oh, thank you," the man's face erupts into the grin of one who finds a new friend. "We have heard about you. You're the Reaver of Souls, aren't you? You destroyed the vampires of the marsh? Thank you for saving us!"
Raziel cocks an eyebrow.
"I did not come here to save you, either," he tells the kneeling man before him.
"Th-then, why did you come?" The man begins to stutter in dawning horror.
Raziel looks around to the corpses of the Zephonhim and then to the Soul Reaver attached to his right hand. He had unconsciously willed it into existence after feeding. Feeling somewhat uneasy, he wills the wraith blade to vanish once again.
"I was hungry."
With that, Raziel runs past the man and back into the darkness of the night.