Disclaimer: JK Rowling is the creator of the Harry Potter world, and all said characters included. Underworld holds the term death-dealer, though it has a different use in this story. All original points (plot, characters, pasts, ect) belong to me, and cannot be used without permission.
Tmctflyboy: I have a hundred different reasons for updating late. Half of them are reasonable, a handful of them are true, and none of them would interest you. So I had best stick with a simple apology... as for your clear comment on Blair Kryeen, that is the first time I have heard of someone not liking her. I am glad that I have some variety in the opinion of my reviwers, diversity spawns interest.
ebtwisty9: Last chapter was more fast-paced, but this one should be easier to understand.
PsychicLunar: Lol, I think so too. I am flattered that you like my writing style (my old work is shit) And that you have a very keen concept of the characters. I am afraid poor Harry will be put through a bit more before this is over...
Evergreen Sceptre: Daemon's secret will stay hidden for just a little while longer... Along with the necklace (although it is not Slytherin's but Celia does have something to do with him)
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A being walked through the decrepit field; his hunger peaking a the smell of bodies and blood, but his master was not one to be kept waiting. His soft black moccasins left no trail nor gave a sound to tell of its owners approach to the rearing building ahead. The cardinal eyes burnt through the hostile environment, warning all nature to keep away. Even the sun was reluctant to peek away from its could to shine a path on the battlefield littered with bodies. The figure's pace began to speed, the air carried a heavy stench of rotting flesh; yet his sharp nose caught the scent of life, human life. He had no time to deal with the flickering world of mortals. Stealing through the dim light, he came to the shadow of a mighty temple.
Its tall columns were of black obsidian, arching up to support the high gray ceiling, enchanted to not allow even the faintest trace of sunlight enterance. The walker came to a pair of double-doors three times the size of a man, and wrought with iron. Inlaid, were carvings made of garnet and written in a dead tongue.
The traveler pulled a necklace from his neck, hiding beneath the high-collar black shirt. It was a long, pale silver chain that had not rusted in its extended years. Clinging onto it, was a sickle-moon shaped onyx stone. The sheen was a bottomless black, contrasted by the fair silver around it.
This stranger knew his way into the temple. He found the small niche in the door, an enchanted lock that fit with a few selected keys. The black moon was one of them. As the pendant swung into the niche with a soft click he spoke, rolling his tongue and moving his jaws to form words no human, magic or not, could do. The beauty of the words stilled the air, and removed the stench from the air, took the soft bite of chill from the air, and made the cracked ground give a small shudder of delight. Though it is nearly impossible to translate the words, at best they would say,
"The nightwalker greets his lord and master. May the black moon shine high in his kingdom beyond the gray sea and dead gates."
With a relieving creak, the double doors slid open on magical hinges, metal screeching to protest its long life. The creature pulled the key from its niche before entering, doors closing with a daunting thud.
Inside the cathedral, the roof was deceptively low and the obsidian stone path cutting through the charred debris, was surrealistically narrow. They symbol of the unlit hall meant one thing. The path is one, the path is straight, the path must be traveled. The trespasser had already walked his path, and he had been rewarded with another life. Winding and long, he passed silently in the dark, his crimson eyes glowing with blood-light. Finally, a single fading torch sparked at the end of the stone path through the burnt temple. It ended in an alter, the single torch glistening eerily next to its wooden surface.
The immortal stooped to a bow before the black-varnished ash wood. The single light was small and pale yellow, serving to lengthen the shadows around the alter from its bronze bracket. Yet it never sputtered or went out, and it never would.
This was the one place where living servants could call their master without crossing the dangerous path to his domain. This was the Templum de Mortis. The Temple of Death.
The servant began to reverently mutter words in the ancient language, beads of sweat breaking upon his pale brow as his immortal energy raveled its deep magic into the gray waters of death. He was calling for his master. His impassive tone, cool and merciless, hinted with with Italian heat, grew in volume as the spell wove stronger. The shadows in the darkness crawled along, waiting to see if they had claimed another life. But then, the onyx crescent began to glow without light, a powerful magic awakening within it.
An ethereal voice echoed in his mind, scratching along the stone walls of the cathedral. It spoke in the dead tongue, the tone of moaning souls bound by endless power, the voice of eternity and end. Shaking pitch and toneless, it existed with control. Again, the translation is a fraction of powerful words.
"Ah... my nightwalker returns to his lord's call. You have served me well, Draeg Darkling."
"I await my master's call." The immortal replied without changing a note.
"And it is as it should be, night beckoning to the call of death... It is the way of eternity, of all things." Death replied, neither male or female, one or many.
"Are there those that still rebuttal the power of my lord?" The speaker's tongue slid easily between his sharp teeth.
"Water is sleeping under gray waves, day is stealing upon battle grounds, earth is gathering souls, wind whispers in dreams yet, my fire... the Aduru Epopis has fallen to the sway of her own blood." The ageless voice whispered with deceitful promises and fathomless power.
"The youngling is far to headstrong... mortal blood taints the immortal spirit. I will quench the fire into the depth of the colorless sea..." Venom seared through the servant's eyes.
"No, the mortal heart is fading with each breath, only shadows and ghosts remain of mortality. She has only to kill them, and her power will be unbroken. But the fire in her soul burns through reason. My Aduru Epopis must be taught to value her immortal power, must taste the stint of pain and the flow of blood again...Then she shall return and serve me." Death replied with knowledge of all times passed.
"No, I call you here to ensure my claim does not forget who her owner is. There is a war brewing between the mortals, the ones with magic dust in their blood. It will be the most centered claim of mortal enchantment in all time. She feels the draw, of power and pain, death and life. While, the one whose name they fear to call sets upon the dawn of bloodshed, Aduru will watch. I want you to go... no immortal belongs in any mortal war, it is not wise to sway with the tide of time. Ensure that my Epopsis does not bind herself into it... kill all, but leave her alive. This is your task."
Draeg Darkling gave a cruel grin, long canines exposed for a moment as he felt his connection drift away back into the living world. Scarlet eyes fell on the cool chill of the air, alight with a need to feed. The hunger was strong from the power he had used to call upon Death. Darkling felt no worry. There was a field littered with bodies for the taking just outside, and if the humans tried to stop him... well a fresh kill was always better. His feet silently brought his tall form back into the pale twilight, bright compared to the darkness of Templum de Mortis. Draeg blinked once, his cunning mind ticking.
Food, he had no need to think over. No, it was the Aduru Epopis that held his higher thought conscience. He had met the immortal once, and it had arisen into a bloody fight. Immortals rarely battle, a few brawls are common, but hardly an all-out match. Mostly it is because they all payed a weighty price for their life, and were reluctant to endanger it. Draeg was well-known as one of the most powerful immortal, one of the Death-Dealers. For he had immortal blood before being chosen. But then she came... the memory still rose blood-lust in his ancient veins. Her arrogant voice, poisoned blade, skill far to great for one so young... he thought of the scar along his muscled abdomen, and the flawless flesh Aduru Epopis had left with that day. His lord had spared him, but the bitterness still lingered. Now, now he had a time for what all Death-Dealers live for, the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of power... vengeance was the sweetest cup of wine to ever grace his lips.
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Miles away, and across a deep sapphire ocean, an eagle flew easily along the warm drafts. These were getting rarer to find, and the creature's instincts drove it south. He had traveled this path many a time, but something new was happening below. On the sparse ground far below, was a wave of flickering lanterns and camouflaged tents that no human eye could see. Magic sweetened the beauty of night sky, as the amber colored bird sensed the power far below. Curious, yet wary, it swooped a little lower, yellow eye observant.
There were people scurrying around the campsite, people who smelt of magic and dressed in long black robes. Enchanted sticks waved at their side, and the creature knew to stay away from them from experience. The wizards were running about the wide valley, calling to each other in words the eagle could not understand and flashing colors of red and white, power scorching the air as the raucous sounds grew louder.
The keen eyes of the predator saw a thin line splitting the multitiude of black canvas. On one side, huge creatures of primitive form and strong muscle thumped angrily, kept in check by the wand-bearing wizards and their almighty leader, easily found because he stood a head taller then any of the other creatures. Fire crackled and sweat mixed the air with a hot odor.
Giants. The bird instinctively knew.
On the other half a trill of freezing cold, a patch of sky where the stars could not reach, and darkness spawned fear. The eagle soared high overhead, wheeling away from this part of camp. The long flight-feathers shimmered high under the moon, visions of rattlesnakes and guns peeking through his sight. Dementors, Magicfolk called them. They were a danger to a flying bird, as they could cause him to instantly fall. But, the eagle had been lucky, the wind had carried the scent of old magic and dark power deep from time like a corroding hand. Still, the chill in his feathers lingered for days under the high sun.
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Giants, Dementors, and wizards. Strength, intimidation, power. The army of Lord Voldemort camped under the low valley, Death Eaters marching to their final hide-out. Their numbers reared over 2,000 in just that valley. The game was approaching, the pieces moving to the starting point. The wager was all of England, perhaps the entire world. Boy fought man, bound by prophesy. And Death itself had now entered, a third force that struck randomly at both sides. All that awaited was a sign,
A movement,
A start,
A first strike.
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A/N- Sorry about the shortness, I wanted to give another pov before we went beck to Daemon. The eagle view was just a little add-in. So what do you think of Draeg Darkling and the force of Death?