Living here in Jersey
Fighting from afar
You gotta find first gear
In your giant robot car
You dig giant robots
I dig giant robots
We dig giant robots
Chicks dig giant robots
Nice!
Oops! Wrong show! We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
CHRONICLES OF AZARATH
CHAPTER TWO
Transcending
A lone man stood at in an almost limitless plain, a castle was barely seen on the horizon. He was wearing a black cape that reached the heels of his feet, black baggy pants and a loose black shirt that had a vertical rip through it and a scar running vertically; his shirt was stained with blood. His vivid, jade green eyes had lost their luster for some unknown reason. He took a few steps and the frost that had formed on his shoes broke and crunched as he stepped. Yet he did not seem to mind, it appeared that he welcomed the cold.
He walked to the top of a small, frozen hill, sat down and sighed; his breath rising in a puff of steam. His eyes glittered with its previous luster for no more than a moment as a single, solitary tear trickled down his cheek and froze instantly. He stood up, frost clinging onto him like a babe to its mother. He started walking in a random direction as an eerie shadow flew past him. He looked at the weak, wintry, rising suns, shrugged and continued walking as though he were a machine programmed to do just that. The shadow passed over him again, he looked up and seen gaping, black jaws of death upon him.
The man leaped to the side and evaded the winged-beast's attack. The dragon flew and turned to attack him again.
The man withdrew a concealed silver sword and shouted, "Kokoro dai mè nâsh ka, zshwagunas!" (You picked the wrong day, dragon!) The whitish dragon swooped down and struck the man as he leaped into the air. The man's vertical pupils constricted in pain as his shoulder was lacerated. The man landed and chanted, "Azarath metrion szynthos!"
The man's sword was enveloped in black-gray energy. He ran with reckless abandon toward the dragon and missed his target by mere millimeters. He leaped into the air again and managed to strike the dragon with true aim. The man landed in a pose that was similar to that of a classic hero, his sword held like a dagger, was dripping steaming blood. The two halves of the dragon crashed on opposite sides of him, steam gently rising out of their corpses like a fine mist cast by a waterfall; frost was beginning to form on the scales that touched the frozen ground.
The man wiped the sweat off his bone-white skin with his equally white hand. A welcomed frigid gale whipped his waist length platinum-silver hair about. The man lay down on the icy grass between the two steaming corpses. In his fractured mind, he replayed the events that sent his love to the grave, knowing that it was he who sent her there. He could, no—should, have stopped her from taking him head on, yet he let her. She was dead and she promised that she would come back; she had never broken a promise to him before. The price he paid to let her do what was right was too much for him.
She would have been married to him if circumstances permitted it, he had known her for ten years, and finally they would have been a family. "She's dead get over it," a small voice in the back of his mind said.
"What's the point of living if everyone I know is dead?" he asked the voice.
"There is none, none at all…" the voice said morbidly soothing tone. He so wanted to just simply... die. To welcome the blissful state of having to do nothing, yet his body simply refused to grant that one simple wish. He looked at his shoulder; it had healed in no more than a moment. He continued to play that memory as he lost himself to depression….
The two suns were just beginning to rise over the horizon, their pale, buttery yellow and blue light doing little to warm the icy land. Three beings were slipping through the shadows seemingly unnoticed, toward the bowels of the magnificent castle that they had called "home."
In the middle of the corridor, a man stood blocking the way. A richly crafted, ruby red robe hung on his broad shoulders. A haughty gold crown sat upon his head and was filled with precious stones of many colors. "Kokoro'ca volsc mè Quasé-dö venyosskai." (You're violating the King's laws.)
When no answer came from the concealed beings, he said again, "Gà kazé dolsc kokoro'ca surgite." (I know that you're there.)
In the shadows, one of the beings said, barely above a whisper, "Galscrow Moya zsa mè sommé-dasu, Gà'îne veni venos interius." (Take Moya to the shuttle-bay, I'll hold him off.)
Before he could leave the safety of the shadows, a woman held him back, and whispered, "Gà su'nto kazé mè ashram vex," (I don't know the access code,) she smiled warmly, yet weakly as she knew that she was about to do something impossible, "Vas Gà'îne veni venos interius." (Go, I'll hold him off.)
"Siva…venös'em zsa ryo dacimé kokoro, venös'îne lusec kokoro." (But…he's too strong for you, he'll kill you.)
"Gà dre thos venos," (I won't let him,) she smiled again and said, "Kaî vas." (Now go!) She leaped out from the safety of the shadows, levitated and formed spheres of green energy around her hands.
"Gà ne dolsc kokoro né zsa népo kéal, aso iyo xinsui." (I see that you wish to fight me, a wise decision.) He formed black energy around his palms and readied for battle. "Xen korkoro su zikkurm, cae kéal zsa opéquatu kéasolce. Gà so Varuna, urca kokoro?" (Before we do battle, allow me to introduce myself. I am Varuna, and you?)
"Mè gosoroe'em Achaté!" (The name's Achaté) the woman audibly whispered with anger that betrayed the calmness of her voice.
"Wecos kokoro," (Thank you) Varuna nodded then charged at Achaté; she blocked with a green shield. Varuna released them from the gridlock and charged again, dodged a blow and retaliated.
An explosion echoed through the corridor, one of the two men rushing down the corridor stopped, looked toward the source of the noise and said, "Achaté."
"Azrael," the one called Moya said to his comrade, "kokoro côraka vas." (we must go.) Azrael sighed and nodded; the two continued running until they reached the very bottom of the castle. They reached a doorway with a computer console attached to it. Azrael muttered something inaudible as he typed away, the door opened silently.
They walked out onto the catwalk and looked down upon the various crafts, "Surgite!" (There!) Azrael shouted, pointing at a small one-man craft. "Vas, demmi trwa," (Go, use this,) he sighed and continued, "deku'îne galscrow kokoro zsa karo finyr." (It'll take you to your destination.)
Moya looked at the key card, knowing that his friend had sentenced himself to exile in the outlands by aiding one of the few remaining Erths escape to another world, and sighed. "Wecos kokoro." (Thank You) He levitated down to the craft.
The entrance door exploded violently. Varuna stood there with a madman's sadistic smile plastered across his face. "Trwa valadmir zsa çyr." (This belongs to your friend.) He extracted something from within his robe and tossed it before Azrael. The object was red and covered in a red viscous substance that slowly ran on the smooth metal of the catwalk. Varuna started to dry his hand off with a piece of cloth, and then tossed a necklace next to the red lump of bleeding flesh.
The realization slowly dawned on Azrael. The lump of carved, bleeding flesh was the heart of his friend. Her necklace, now covered in the puddle of blood confirmed it. Rage, all consuming rage, filled him. He let it flow through himself without restraint, relishing the feeling of power he now possessed. He was beyond the reach of words; the only thing that would quench his thirst was the blood of Varuna.
The sound of wrenching metal startled Moya from within the cockpit of a small one-man craft. The key card having long since been placed in the activation console had a pre-rendered course set to a planet that was under developed and its magical aura was next to negligible. The propulsion systems hummed to life as the craft began its long voyage to an odd planet known as Earth. Moya said something not in any written language. It was a prayer in Azarathian tongues.
Within moments, the fusion drives of the craft had propelled him out of the planet's gravitational field and into the safety of hyperspace.
Azrael was beaten, battered, bloodied but not defeated. Despite the many wounds and lacerations, he did not mind. It only fueled his resolve to avenge the death of his lover. His mind became corrupted with one thought: vengeance. He willingly let the primal form of magic flow through his body and relished every moment of it.
Varuna looked on at the startling upsurge of power Azrael exhibited. His enemy just kept coming, no matter how many times he was wounded; and wounded he was. Azrael should have been dead from blood loss, exhaustion, multiple lung piercing and severe organ damage. Yet there he was getting up from an indention in an iron wall as if it were air.
"And now you die!" Azrael shouted in one of the simplest languages known, unable to maintain concentration to speak in his native tongue. Malevolent energy poured out from the dark recesses of his soul. His eyes shined bright with the black fire that controlled his actions.
Energy warped by vengeance, hate and spite enveloped Varuna. His screams were cut short as the energy invaded his lungs; it seeped into his body driving out the magical aura that had called Varuna its vessel. In a rush of ecstasy, Azrael had his enemy torn asunder. Varuna's body flew apart in a myriad of directions. Blood, flesh and bone covered the ceiling, floor, walls and the mangled catwalk on which he stood. The wounds on and in his body healed in seconds as dark energy slowly ebbed away, and the full weight of Achaté's utter destruction hit him. He staggered up from where he was kneeling and….
A great rush of wind snapped Azrael out of his reverie. A giant, white dragon had landed with a tremendous thud, and a rider leaped off his mount. Many other dragons were in the blue-purple sky, waiting for something….
The rider was wearing black dragon scale armor, only his head was uncovered. His eyes were a dull grey and his pupils were horizontal. "I refuse to speak to you in our noble tongue."
"Then don't." Azrael said in a said in a mechanical monotone. He stood up, frost had reformed on him and he still did not mind. "What do you want knight?" The word knight was used as an insult, not as a title.
"Watch your tongue, traitor." The knight said harshly. "Where is Captain Varuna?" the knight asked someone on a dragon.
Azrael extracted a dented gold crown that held many blood encrusted, precious stones embedded in it. He tossed it toward the knight. "That's what's left of him, Apollyon."
Apollyon's anger clouded his judgment for no more than a moment. In his fit of rage, he withdrew a projectile-like weapon and threw it at Azrael. Its aim was true and it pierced the shoulder and went through with a burst of blood. Strangely, Azrael did not notice and the wound healed fully in a matter of moments.
"Don't do that again, it was annoying." Azrael said.
"I'll do as I please," Apollyon said swiftly, "the King sent me to kill you, however, you seem to be a worn out shell of a once great warrior."
Azrael stayed silent, seemingly contemplating what had been said. "Without your lover, you're nothing but a shell," Apollyon antagonized, "Pity you couldn't see her precious body be torn apart, as she screamed for your help." Apollyon let out a barking laugh.
At this, the tiny flame of life inside Azrael flared into a spectacular bonfire. He summoned the darkness that resided inside him again. His body contorted with immeasurable power that sought to rend him asunder. Azrael welcomed the blissful embrace of darkness as nothingness consumed.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
Remnants of fire coursing through veins woke up Azrael. His slowly focusing vision told him that he was in a special holding cell. This cell was designed by an Erth. Its function was to negate any and all forms of magic, primal or otherwise.
"I see that you are finally awake," Apollyon said, "That was quite a show you put on." Seeing the blank look on Azrael's face, he continued, "I didn't think that you would remember your spectacle. You destroyed nearly half of my force when you invited the Darkness within you. I was actually hoping that your body would burn with the power you wielded."
The memories of the events that happened no less than twelve hours ago flooded his mind. They were distant as though he was recalling a fleeting dream, yet they were vivid as though they were engraved into his mind and unable to escape them. He was drawn to these painful memories no matter what he did, like a moth to the flame. Burnt flesh searing his nostrils, screams, death moans, explosions and the sound of still living bodies torn asunder by physical and unknown means.
"….Seams as though Exile is unbefitting of you." Apollyon said, "Without the Erths to seal your power, you've become a liability. King Akaröth ordered me to kill you."
Apollyon withdrew an intricate silver sword and stepped into the holding cell. "Farewell my old friend," he said as he plunged the sword deep into Azrael's delicate flesh. The sword went through its intended target, as it failed to resist. Blood spilled onto the granite-gray ground in torrents as the metal blade tore into vital arteries, and gently dripped off the sword as rivulets formed on the cold steel. Azrael showed no signs of having been attacked at all or make any indication that there was a five-foot long sliver of cold metal inside his body. At this Apollyon forced the sword higher in his victim, the metal emerged out of his back like a hot knife through butter.
Gastric juices spilled out as the sword shredded delicate flesh. Bubbles formed on its victim's chest as a lung was torn nearly in half. Blood continued to pour out in torrents; the floor was nearly covered in the red viscous substance in mere moments. Quite suddenly, the blood stopped pouring out of its vessel. The wounds that should have killed any mortal closed up. Tendrils of flesh attempted to envelop the sword and make it a grotesque appendage.
Azrael was in a comatose-like state. Having avenged the death of his lover, he had no other purpose in life. All he wanted, yet he knew it was never going to happen, was a proper burial for Achaté, and the only way to do that was by having an Erth do the ceremony. 'Pity all the Erths were slaughtered by Akaröth,' he thought, 'Erth, there's something about that word….'
Apollyon pulled out the stuck sword, his hands dripped with remnants of warm blood; his sword had skin that had grown on the blade. "What are you?" Apollyon gasped as he staggered back out of the cell. Azrael did not answer, as though possessed by an outside force, he moved mechanically toward the exit of the cell.
Once at the exit, he attempted to cross the threshold, a genetically coded shield kept him at bay. They strained in an effort to overcome the other, man over machine, machine over man. Electricity arced and danced over the body of Azrael, burns disappeared as fast as they appeared. The machines that powered the shield broke down under the strain of maintaining the proper energy levels needed to stop Azrael. The threshold danced and sparked with a myriad of miniscule explosions.
The smoking body of Azrael emerged victorious. The luster in his eyes returned with fierce determination. "Step aside," he said quietly, yet his voice was laced with threat. Apollyon did not move he was in shock; no known mortal had ever escaped from under his jurisdiction.
Apollyon gaped at his former friend and ally, unable to do anything. "I said step aside." Azrael said firmly; Apollyon scuttled out of the way. Azrael summoned the bloodied sword and slowly turned around. He looked at his former friend and said, "Deyamo döem mè Quasé?" (Where is the King?)
All Apollyon did was point in a rather vague direction. "Wecos kokoro." (Thank you.) Azrael walked away, an aura of defiance followed him.
8