A New Begining (Page 213 of 214)

I will be posting in both ongoing RPGs either Christmas day or the day after. So now you all really have something to look forward to.
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Hopefully naughty presents. 
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Just like everyone else something may have came up because it is the Holidays so let's give everyone a brake.
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dont kill yourself. it happens

I love how you can come back Starr to a rpg and it is like you have never missed a day of posting. 
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I kinda wish I stayed in this rpg but at the time I could not keep up.
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So you are saying that was just half a book that you typed?, I can't wait to read the whole book now. 
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Very true George, Very true. 
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Ah, here we are. The finished post. It's now about 10,000 words and I've changed a few things so you may want to go back over it again, George, just to make sure our posts match up. Enjoy! Can't wait for your part. It's good to be back RPGing.
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Safira groans groggily and slowly opens her eyes as she regains consciousness, the Mandalorian shifting awkwardly as she’s carried along, slung over Mat’s shoulder.

“You can put me down now, Jedi,” she states with a hint of annoyance, her tone conveying no gratitude whatsoever. After all, the group of Jedi had protected her after she’d fallen unconscious. She could be at least a little grateful.

“Right,” Mat responds as he follows Safira’s request.

The Sur’haai nearly slips from his grasp in the process, but the young Jedi’s quick reflexes allow him to catch her. He appears considerably flustered afterwards, however, realizing he’d had to grab her ass to do so. He rubs the back of his neck nervously and lets loose an embarrassed chuckle, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

Fortunately for him Safira seems to neither notice nor care, quickly turning towards George who extends a steadying hand when she sways from the sudden movement. The Mandalorian flinches away and George’s eyes soften as he steals a glance at her neck. It had to be horrifying… that feeling… to suddenly become aware that your soul –the very essence of your being –was nothing more than a terribly delicious taste of some long forbidden fruit.

Slade… what would have happened, the Jedi wonders to himself as if the vampire could somehow hear his thoughts, had you not been able to stop?

Safira regains her stoic composure almost instantaneously and narrows her eyes as if she were glaring at her Jedi companion. “Don’t coddle me,” she bites. “I’ll be fine.”

Turning on her heel, the Sur’haai finds herself confronted by the massive black door which had brought the Jedi to their current standstill. She reaches out, uncertain and hesitant, her fingers lightly brushing over the intricate designs etched into the ancient stone. She lowers her head, ashamed, the hand against the door forming a fist.

“Mandalorians… true Mandalorians… do not know fear. There is no word for it in our tongue,” she explains, her voice wavering. “And yet for generations we cowered like beaten dogs, hiding in the desert from a force none dared to face. Because we knew… we knew we could not defeat them. I knew we could not defeat them.”

“But Mandalorians, true Mandalorians, do not run and hide. I believed it was better to die at the hands of a worthy foe than be forced to live the life of a hut’uun.” She scoffs, the sound low and cynical. “I was such a fool. I ventured into these untouched ruins and in a rash attempt to force some type of final confrontation, I awoke, not only the undying army, but the eternal wrath of their god. A mistake my people have, since then, paid highly for,” she adds somberly.

“I must make amends,” she continues with hardened resolve, her unseeing gaze returning to George. “Beyond this door lies an old god… the guardian of those who came before my people. It is with its death that the Orik’baar shall finally return to the ashes from whence they first emerged.”

As she finishes, Safira pulls her hood back over her eyes and steps into the last chamber.

The room comes to life with their presence, golden light dancing across pillars of jagged stone, slowly filling the underground cavern. Rusted chandeliers dangle from the roof, swaying faintly as a cold breeze nips at the nap of George’s neck. This place… it had been sacred once. He could hear their whispers still: prayers to an ancient god for atonement. Forgiveness. A shiver runs down his spine and his eyes narrow cautiously. It was but a hollow thing now, full of pain and anger.

Rage.

A deep rumble startles the Jedi trio as well as their Mandalorian companion, sharply drawing their attention towards the center of the cavern. There, beneath the largest chandelier, a barely illuminated figure kneels in submission, brutally bound by barbaric chains imbued with dark power. The entity slowly lifts its head, the simple action requiring considerable effort and straining its bonds.

Bright, amber eyes shine out from behind a gruesome mask forged to resemble a skill and vibrant red hair, matted with a substance of the same color, falls loosely over scared shoulders.

“It has been many centuries since you last stood before me, son of Maric,” it murmurs in a thunderous voice, worn by pain and time. “Have you returned… to bring a final end to my suffering?”

o.O.o

A thick cloud of dust clings to the air of the underground temple, Slade stepping over a pile of crumbled stone as he emerges into the rather large chamber by way of the newly formed hole in the wall. His eyes narrow callously and he kicks the creature at his feet, trying to provoke a response.

“Get up,” he demands coldly.

The creature, however, remains motionless, and Slade’s patience snaps, the vampire kicking the creature with enough force to send it across the room, its back slamming into one of the thick support pillars.

“I said, ‘Get up,’ damn it,” he repeats in a harsher tone, his voice possessing a cruel edge. “I won’t play games with you.”

The creature slowly rises to its feet, powerful muscles rippling beneath a thin coat of dark fur as it laughs. “And here I thought we were having such fun,” it remarks with a rather wounded tone, licking the blood from its muzzle. “Why not play a little longer, Saluin? I would be a poor host if I did not properly entertain my guest.”

“If you were a smart dog, you would’ve run when ya had the chance,” Slade growls with annoyance. “I can’t promise you’ll stay alive long enough to have another opportunity.”

“Is that so?” the creature asks smugly. “Well, I have no intentions of being bested by a rabid wolf,” it states confidently as a rusted chain materializes in its hands, the barbaric sword attached to it eerily scrapping the stone floor as it is dragged along behind the creature. “Come, Saluin. If you wish to finish this so eagerly then I will not keep you waiting. Now, draw your sword. Face me!”

A short sound escapes Slade’s throat, the remnants of a mocking laugh he doesn’t care to fully suppress. “You talk like you’re worthy of my blade… don’t flatter yourself, eistet,” he adds sharply.

The creature snatches its chain, reaching out in a single, fluid movement to grab the hilt of its sword. “Flattery? I’ll take your head as the prize for proving myself.”

A small smile teases Slade’s features, gold and red colliding in a vibrant display within the depths of the vampire’s cold eyes as the creature charges forward. He casually turns to the side, easily dodging the creature’s initial attack at the last opportune moment, its massive sword connecting with dirt and stone rather than flesh and bone. Roaring, the creature immediately turns on Slade, lashing out again and again in ferocious succession. The vampire, however, manages to dodge that jagged blade every time and maintains an overbearing air of condescendence.

The creature growls in growing frustration and uses a sudden burst of Force energy to propel itself over Slade, the vampire turning simultaneously to match its movements. However, the creature moves much more quickly than Slade expects. Its sword comes down in a swift and deadly arc, ripping open the vampire’s shirt and leaving a long gash on the exposed flesh beneath.

Surprised by his own miscalculation, Slade curses beneath his breath as a hand presses against the wound in his chest, and he puts some distance between himself and the creature.

“Your control continues to impress, Saluin,” the creature praises, deviously licking away the small amount of dark blood sizzling along the edge of its sword. “It must be a difficult task, restraining your own power even as your instincts roar with the desire to crush me… to devour me.”

“Yet you deny its call in some attempt to save that last sliver of your soul from the monster you really are. It is as if you think you can take whatever fate throws at you with brute strength and a mere shrug of your shoulders.” The creature’s eyes narrow with contempt, its free hand forming a fist. “It would seem, however, that you have underestimated me…”

Slade’s eyes widen in shock and his heart skips a beat as it suddenly convulses, his entire body tensing painfully in some form of panicked response. He gasps and grabs his chest, the seemingly insignificant cut there now burning, his blood feeling like it might boil as if he’d been cast amid the fires of hell itself. Breathing becomes difficult, every breath a ragged and heavy pant, and beads of sweat form on his skin. A drop of dark blood leaves a crimson trail as it leaks past a corner of his mouth.

He falls to his knees, defeated, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides. This feeling… his eyes narrow. Damn it.

The creature grins sinisterly, a malicious gleam evident in those haughty hazel eyes as they look down upon Slade. “How easily you fall to your knees. I see your master trained you well.”

The tip of the creature’s sword touches Slade’s chest and the vampire raises his head defiantly, a silent threat lurking in that relentless gaze. Huffing softly, the creature uses it sword to brush aside the torn half of Slade’s garment to further reveal the scarred flesh it had hidden. Slade winces as the cold steel runs over the hardened tissue of his most severe scar.

Vampires were durable creatures. Their skin was often referred to as ‘steel skin’ due to its density and toughness. The species was also renowned for its advanced regenerative abilities with certain individuals even possessing incredible healing powers. As such, it was quite rare for a vampire to don scars. And yet, despite those facts, Slade’s entire body is covered in countless brutal scars, and it is easy to tell that the wounds which made some would have been instantly fatal… were he a mere mortal.

“Tell me, Saluin, did you enjoy it? When he gave you these scars? When he chained you down like his rebellious little pet and tortured you until you begged him to stop? When your spirit finally broke,” the creature adds with a wicked twist, “did he lick your wounds as reward?”

Slade releases a low growl but otherwise remains silent, the creature scoffing in disgust. “Crawling back to your master with your tail between your legs after you had betrayed him… did you think he would turn a blind eye simply because you were his favorite? No,” the creature responds, answering his own question without having even waited long enough for the answer. “You knew.”

“You knew what fate awaited you at his hands… and you returned regardless. Tell me… was it truly worth so much trouble,” it begins to ask as it pushes its sword beneath Slade’s chin, forcing him to meet its gaze, “to save that little human? It seems to me like he can barely even stand the sight of you…”

Slade jerks his head away and chuckles softly. “Ya know, it’s rude… sneakin’ ‘round someone’s head like that. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste so much time runnin’ my mouth. That sword of yours is quite handy,” he comments though with false admiration, looking up at the creature through disheveled bangs. “Coated in valsai’ium blood… how clever.”

His eyes harden and his voice deepens in order to carry his threat right to the creature’s bones. “Kul,” he snaps, irritated. “If you’re gonna try to kill me, I suggest ya do it while you’ve still got a bit of an upper hand. I won’t stay passive forever.”

The creature snarls as the tip of its sword pierces the skin near Slade’s jugular. “Ekam,” it bites with thick distain. “If death is all you are seeking then I shall gladly grant such a final wish!”

Slade smirks and suddenly vanishes, causing the creature to stumble back in complete surprise. His hand crushes down around its throat, however, as he reappears almost instantly just mere inches away. Its eyes widen in disbelief and its blade shatters before it even falls from its grasp. Slade’s grip tightens mercilessly and the creature claws into the toughened flesh of his arm in a desperate attempt to escape.

“And what, aleti, is your final wish, hmm?” Slade wonders on a seemingly sincere yet haunting whisper, his cold breath sending shivers down the creature’s spine. “Perhaps you’d like to know what happens to your soul…” he drawls sensually as his eyes take on an animalistic gleam, his fangs softly scrapping the thin and tender skin along the creature’s exposed throat.

“… when I devour it.”

o.O.o

The desert wind howls as it whips across the endless sea of sand, the merciless sun beating down upon the two weary travelers braving Ordo’s barren dunes. Kain stifles a groan of pain and quicken his pace in order to keep up with Riordan, the redhead determined not to slow his younger brother. The attentive noble, however, is not quick to miss the subtle tensing of his sibling’s jaw, now the way in which the older man clutches his abdomen, his healed wounds still tender.

Riordan’s eyes soften tenderly and his pace gradually slows to accommodate his brother. Kain immediately notices the change in strides and meets the noble’s concerned gaze. He was always like this, Riordan remarks subconsciously. Despite his rough exterior and brazen attitude, Kain was ultimately a selfless man who cared little, if anything at all, for his own wellbeing. In fact, to Kain, the only person who ever truly mattered was–

“Ya don’t ‘ave ta slow down for me, Riordan,” Kain tries to assure his brother with a gentle smile, interrupting the man’s thoughts. “I’m fine.”

Riordan’s eyes narrow. It was an obvious lie. The fullbring may have yet to have acquired any experience in dealing with his own inner demon, but he was quite aware of how real such entities were. And while Kain’s body no longer bore the physical wounds from his previous ordeal, Hakai had left his impact…

“Do not push yourself beyond your limits, Kain,” the younger sibling scolds though his voice maintains a caring tone. “Your inner demon’s earlier outburst caused a dangerously unstable spike in your power. Not only that, but the subconscious struggle which ensued has left both your mind and body in an incredibly vulnerable state. It was made abundantly clear that you were not to undergo excess strain after–”

“I know, I know,” the redhead butts in, waving his hand playfully as if trying to shoo away a pest. “Don’t ya ever get tired of worrin’ ‘bout me so much?”

“Someone must do so,” Riordan answers solemnly, his expression mimicking the seriousness of his statement.

Kain sighs and his fierce eyes soften as they rest thoughtfully on the horizon, those jaded pools glimmering as they catch the sunlight. He was well aware of the meaning which lay hidden in his brother’s choice words.

“I’ll die on day,” he declares bluntly. “I don’t know how or when but it’s bound to happen. Death’s… quite an inescapable fate it seems. Even for us. But there’s too much ta do for me ta make any sense of wastin’ my time worrin’ ‘bout somethin’ like that when I can’t ever change it. So if it’s alright with you… little brother,” Kain adds as he turns his head to glance at his sibling, a genuine smile tugging at his lips, “I’d rather spend tha time I ‘ave left protectin’ tha one person I’ve always believed is worth dyin’ for.”

A brief moment of silence passes between them. “A dead man… makes a poor protector, Kain,” Riordan finally utters in a somber tone.


“Then I’ll stay by your side,” Kain swears with wholehearted devotion. “For all of eternity.”

Riordan lowers his eyes, unable to hold such an intense gaze. Kain always spoke with a passion the young noble would never quite be able to grasp. It was the simple fact that the redhead’s words came directly from his heart which gave them such worth to his younger sibling. Riordan had learned that it was not that Kain lacked the common sense to think before he spoke but rather it was that the man had learned to trust his instincts above all else.

Kain’s world was one of black and white… of truth and lies; of love and hate; of passion and indifference. It was either one or the other because, to him, there was no such thing as grays and maybes.

Kain notices his brother’s uneasiness and his chest becomes heavy, weighed by a sinking feeling. Riordan was a man unlike him. A man of logic and intellect, and one who preferred to win a fight with his wit rather than his brawn. And, unlike Kain, he was not short-tempered and was wise enough to choose his words carefully. As an unfortunate consequent of his personality, however, the words which rose from the noble’s heart were so often caught in his throat.

But Kain… Kain understood, even without the words. He understood his brother’s fears, his failures, his shortcomings. He understood that Riordan’s concern for him was a sign that he was afraid. Afraid that one day, Kain’s blatant disregard for his own wellbeing would end up getting the man killed. The vampire smiles softly. He appreciated Riordan’s concern… even if it was unnecessary.

The redhead sighs heavily, throwing an arm around his sibling’s shoulder, leaning against the other man for support. “Here, Riordan…” he instructs gently. “Help me walk.”

If it would lessen Riordan’s fear, even for a moment, then Kain would swallow his pride. His strength. Perhaps in allowing the younger man to tend to him and whatever wounds may present themselves –no matter how insignificant –the vampire would be able to quell some of the noble’s fear. Kain was no mere mortal, after all. It would take more than death to tear him from his brother’s side.

o.O.o

Let them come.

It was a bold and reckless statement. For generations his ancestors had not dared to provoke the army now amassing before him… and yet here he stood, between them and the murderers of their precious god with little more than a ragged band of nameless mercenaries. Nameless. It dawns on him in that moment. The men that would be fighting at his side… he does not know their names.

It doesn’t matter, he convinces himself, suppressing the ping of guilt rising in his gut. There is no point in learning the names of men who will soon be dead.

It was the harsh truth. To face an undead army with what, twenty men? It was practically suicide. These soldiers, no matter how experienced, did not possess the indomitable nature his people were renown for. They could not possibly hope to stand against the might of such a force alone and prevail.

Kal releases a sharp and irritated huff, the Mandalorian tossing his rifle aside. It would be of no use to him in this battle. The Orik’baar had proven themselves impervious to little less than a blade to their cursed hearts. Kal’s cloak dramatically falls from his shoulders, the two long sword sheaths dangling from his hips glistening in the sunlight. He then carefully removes the bandages around his left hand, revealing a rather barbaric and seemingly primitive cybernetic model.

Clawed, metallic fingers bend easily and without hesitation as the Mandalorian forms a fist with the mechanical hand, his honey brown eyes snapping to the horizon as the first of the Orik’baar forces lunge upon them. Matching the pace of their strides, Kal draws one of his longswords and rushes forward, skillfully avoiding the swing of the first infantrymen. The Mandalorian then quickly strikes the creature’s heart, whatever lay within immediately turning to sand.

Metal clashes as another Orik’baar attacks, Kal blocking its blade with his mechanical hand before brushing the weapon aside and removing the creature’s head. Two infantrymen charge simultaneously in a half-hearted attempt to overwhelm the Mandalorian only to have him dodge their blades. Kal then stabs one through the chest before drawing his second longsword to remove the head of the other.

Suddenly, the Mandalorian finds himself surrounded, Orik'baar infantrymen snarling like mad dogs as they slowly encircle him, their golden armor glistening in the desert sunlight. Kal twirls his blades and ducks low beneath a charging infantryman’s sword only to then strike out with both his swords to completely remove the creature's legs. He is unable to deliver the finishing blow, however, forced to face his next attacker which he deals with using a swift stroke of his blades.

A third Orik'baar attempts to flank him, Kal's honed reflexes allowing him to easily dodge around its blade only to strike it heart from behind. The Mandalorian then prepares to dodge yet another infantryman but finds his leg caught. His eyes immediately snap towards the ground where he discovers the legless creature he had not had the opportunity to entirely deal with clinging to him.

Kal curses and ruthlessly stabs the infantryman's head before turning to face the Orik'baar he had been attempting to dodge. A stream of bright blood splatters in a sharp arc across the desert sand, however, as the muscles along Kal's left shoulder are sliced open by a worn and gruesome blade. The Mandalorian groans painfully and grabs his wounded arm, his sword slipping from his grasp.

Infuriated, Kal's eyes narrow and, in a fluid movement, he throws the other longsword so that it strikes the chest of the creature which had wounded him. The Mandalorian then reaches for the sword at his feet, wincing when he attempts to lift it with his injured arm. His face hardens with resolve as he tries again, despite the pain.

Shabiir! his own voice bites within his thoughts as his sword falls from his grasp once more, landing in the sand with a soft thud. I will not die so easily...

An Orik'baar general suddenly emerges from the mass of infantrymen around him, pushing aside the lesser soldiers with complete disregard. It storms towards Kal and lands a devastating blow to his gut, the simple punch imbued with enough raw energy to bring the Mandalorian to his knees. The infantrymen hiss and snarl, watching warily as the man's heated gaze rises daringly to the entity towering above him.

The general shouts in a commanding and unintelligible language, pointing its sword towards Kal's throat when he attempts to stand. A sharp and irritated tsk escapes the Mandalorian's throat and his eyes suddenly erupt like smoldering blue fires as he releases an overwhelming shockwave which forces the creatures around him to stumble backwards. The Orik'baar general quickly regains its balance, hissing venomously as the Mandalorian takes hold of his sword and slowly rises to his feet.

Kal smiles and, in a brisk and calculated move, closes the distance between himself and the general, using his entire weight to bear down upon the sword the Orik'baar raises to defend itself. Suddenly he reaches out and impales the creature on his arm, his metallic hand punching through its thin sheet of golden armor to grab the withered heart within its chest. An unearthly scream is abruptly cut short as the Mandalorian crushes its heart, the Orik'baar forces roaring in outrage as the general's armor falls, empty, to the ground at Kal's feet.

The Mandalorian immediately assumes an offensive stance, holding his hands out towards the sky as if praising a god. The fire within his eyes burns brighter still before he thrusts towards the ground with an incredible amount of force. The ground rumbles violently and begins to shift around him, huge stone spikes erupting from beneath the sand to impale the Orik'baar forces still surrounding him. And then slowly the stone retreats back into the desert sea, Kal's eyes returning to their honeyed hue as they find the innumerable horde still stretching out towards the horizon.

Those same eyes, however, widen in surprise as the soldiers he suspected to be long dead now reappear at his side, forming a hardened defensive line. He had never witness such discipline and relentlessness outside his own people. Did not know such outsiders even existed. It was... surprising to say the least. Impressive. And the raw determination in their eyes...

It's quite Mandalorian, he admits to himself.

A soldier approaches him, hardly worse for wear compared to the Mandalorian himself, and holds out Kal's other sword for him to take. Kal simply glances at the blade as if it were a curious thing.

"What's your name?" he asks abruptly as he meets the other man's gaze, the Mandalorian's accent hardly noticeable.

The question obviously shocks the soldier who doesn't respond immediately. "Your name?" Kal repeats.

"Ah, Matthews... sir," the soldier responds.

"Matthews," Kal copies in a low voice as if sampling the sound of the name. His eyes narrow and his gaze finds the soldiers beyond Matthews. "And yours? Quickly," he demands, again and again until he has learned the names of all those fighting at his side.

He then nods, kindly taking his sword from Matthews. "Know that I have asked your names because I have found you worthy to be called vode... brothers," he explains in a strong voice which carries like thunder. "My people will know that your blood bought their freedom this day," he adds with a fervor none of them expected as his eyes return to the enemy before them.

"And you shall know honor and glory as only true Mando'ade do..."

... Central 49 ...

Dust settles over the smoldering ruins which had been serving as Central 49's holding compound, seeping out into the crumbling marble halls like a chilling fog. Piles of scorched rubble mark all that remains of the main chamber, the unstable burst of Force energy which had been unleashed by the escaped alt'eri leaving the entire structure in little more than shambles.

An unnerving sound builds and echoes out over the destruction, a sinister chuckle which violently grows into a psychotic laughter. A sharp gasp of surprise brings a sudden silence, however, and fearless golden eyes widen in a turbulent combination of shock and disbelief. Tyrael turns sharply on his heel.

"Malthael..." the fallen valsai'ium announces coldly as his fierce gaze lands on the magnificent archangel who now stands between him and a rather solemn Gaiden. The valsai'ium's rusty gold colored armor seems to gleam with the aura of a pure and untarnished saint, and his sword sings softly through the Force as it is raised in a defensive stance.

The Supreme Judge was not at all the feeble old man his enemies occasionally mistook him for. He was as ancient and powerful a being as Mir'athorin himself and did not need his subordinates to protect him. And yet Malthael had come to his aid without hesitation. Stood between Gaiden and this newly awakened alt'eri as if he planned to defend the Supreme Judge at all costs.

Tyrael's eyes narrow. His interference was a nuisance.

"Tyrael..." Malthael responds, throwing off the fallen valsai'ium's callous attitude with tenderness, his voice strong and sincere.

Tyrael's face contorts with anger. It made his blood boil. To have his name rolling off that tongue with such familiar ease... to have his name spoken so gently by one now considered his enemy...

"So the old man's come to rely on his guard dog to do all the fighting for him? How the mighty have fallen... you're quite pathetic, Gaiden," Tyrael remarks venomously, his voice thick with spite. "But you cannot evade me forever. Stand aside, Malthael," he demands in a menacing tone, his golden eyes holding the archange's unseen gaze, "and be patient. I'll deal with you in due time."

Malthael's grip on his sword tightens and a short and angered tsk manages to escape him.

Of all the valsai'ium beneath the Supreme Judge only two had ever rivaled his power. The first of the two became known as the Angel of Guidance who's duty was to lead worthy souls into Drihten's sanctums. Gaiden bestowed upon this archangel the name Malthael meaning 'His Shield.' Although it had happened long ago, Malthael would forever remember his oath... to protect and defend the Holy City at all costs.

The second valsai'ium became known as the Angel of Judgement who's duty was to cast unworthy souls into eternal damnation. Gaiden bestowed upon this archangel the name Tyrael meaning 'His Sword.' Malthael had been at his side when the younger valsai'ium swore his own oath... to seek out and destroy all who dare to threaten the Holy City. But Tyrael had been compassionate and honorable, one who could not stand injustice no matter the form.

This... this monster which stood before him now was not the Tyrael he had known.

"Leave us, mi'lord," Malthael suddenly murmurs with an ancient authority, his voice cold and shallow.

Gaiden's eyes soften and his solemn expression is replaced by one of concern. "Malthael–" he begins to argue.

The archangel turns enough so that his troubled gaze finds the Supreme Judge. "We have waited long enough to end this feud... and far too many have suffered for it. Attempting to delay the inevitable any longer will only bring us all to ruin. Mir'athorin must be stopped, and he must be stopped now. But I must deal with this... 'abomination' myself," he adds as if the insult he slung at his fallen comrade had a bitter taste to it, his voice cracking as his attention briefly returns to Tyrael.

"Go, mi'lord," he insists again, his tone taking on a relentless edge. "Confront Mir'athorin. Bring an end to this civil war of ours once and for all."

Gaiden catches the pain echoing deep in the other valsai'ium's voice despite his attempt to hide beneath a facade of anger. Malthael was far too kind. He could not hate Tyrael for a choice that had not been his. The Supreme Judge sighs heavily. There were always great risks involved in dealing with an alt'eri. They were beings capable of power beyond the limitations of the valsai'ium. And yet Malthael still wished to face Tyrael alone.

However, this was not simply some nameless heretic Malthael had never known. This was Tyrael and Gaiden feared that Malthael's feelings for his fallen brother... would be his undoing. The Supreme Judge closes his eyes thoughtfully, his brows furrowing. Yet despite the gravity of the situation, Gaiden cannot help but understand Malthael's desire to act on his own.

It was not pride of even a sense of revenge which compelled him but hope. Hope that there was a chance Tyrael might somehow regain his sanity. Hope that the fallen valsai'ium might overcome the seeds of hatred and darkness planted inside of him when confronted by the one person who refused to give up on him.

"Very well," Gaiden agrees reluctantly. "I trust you know what you're getting yourself into, Malthael..."

"Failure is no option here," he adds through the Force as he disappears from the archangel's side. The valsai'ium bows his head in reverence, his eyes softening. "Thank you... mi'lord..."

Tyrael smirks, his sharp fangs visible in the slight curl of his lips. "So you want to die in his place do you? Fine. I'm sure Mortis will enjoy the chance to deal with the old man himself. But you, Malthael,... you're mine," he murmurs with a thick and haughty tone, pointing his sword towards the valsai'ium. "Let us see how that soul of yours tastes, ak'sai..."

Malthael's eyes briefly widen in shock as they jump to Tyrael. Does he mean...?! he wonders sharply, his heart leaping into his throat for an instant before he regains his composure. His gaze hardens and his eyes suddenly grow cold and distant. 

If Tyrael refused to relent he was leaving Malthael with no choice in the matter. The valsai'ium could not allow him to escape. Not now. Not when so much was at stake. So they would end it here.

"Vahan," the archangel calls, his voice sending a faint ripple through the Force as if the flow of the universe itself moved in order to carry the single word across any distance.

The summoned valsai'ium immediately appears behind Malthael and, while he kneels respectfully, does not dare allow his gaze to stray from the monstrosity he witnesses. Tyrael... could such an abomination be called by that name anymore? It seemed that as the alt'eri recklessly continued to release his power, his body mutated in response, an effect of the exposure to his own unbridled dark power.

"Vahan." Malthael's voice is gentle now as he calls the valsai'ium again, successfully drawing his attention.

"Malthael," Vahan answers, his hand resting on the pummel of his sword. "You have some need of me?"

The archangel responds with a slight nod, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Indeed. It would seem fate will come for my soul sooner than I expected." He sighs, his eyes now resting on Tyrael. "How bitterly ironic."

Vahan's eyes narrow, their silver color giving them an appearance much like steel. He was no stranger to the vile creatures his kind could become. In most cases they were nothing but savages, a rogue faction of mad dogs to be hunted and put down. But Tyrael... he was a rare specimen much like Mir'athorin... those of the alt'eri who's sanity was corrupted rather than lost.

And they were all the more powerful for it.

"Even an alt'eri cannot withstand the might of our combined powers forever. Allow me to lend you my sword, Malthael," Vahan proposes, drawing his sword and holding it up towards his superior as an offering. "There is no need for you to fight this battle alone."

"Whether I die by Tyrael's sword matters nor, I'm afraid," Malthael explains with a hint of unease. "You see, I have made my decision... and I will not leave this place."

Vahan's eyes widen in shock. "You can't be serious!" he argues, hoping he'd merely misheard the other valsai'ium. "Surely you know the consequences of such an... unsavory act-"

Malthael holds a hand out for silence, his eyes cutting to the side to steal a hidden glance at his subordinate. "Do not take me for a fool, Vahan," he reprimands firmly, his voice deep and thick.

Vahan bows his head and averts his gaze, ashamed of his outburst. "Of course. Forgive me, mi'lord. I spoke out of place."

"I am fully aware of the consequences involved in this matter..." Malthael continues, "and I will accept whatever punishment awaits me when this is done."

Vahan's jaw clenches subtly, the valsai'ium catching his words before they can escape him. Though he did not understand Malthael's decision he had not the authority, nor the right, to question a standing member of the hierarchy. He was nothing but a vassal... a sword to find their enemies' hearts in the massing darkness. His opinions were respected as the captain of the Execution Squad but he was hardly in the position to judge a higher being.

"You have summoned me for what reason then?" Vahan wonders as he stands to his feet, sheathing his sword.

"Mir'athorin will not be unprepared," the archangel responds in a low voice, little more than a coarse whisper. "He knows Gaiden comes for him. Go in my stead," Malthael commands. "Become Gaiden's shield so that monster's fangs do not reach his throat."

Vahan bows his head. "I understand, mi'lord."

"But be wary, Vahan," the other valsai'ium warns. "This is a crucial moment for Mir'athorin... he has spent milleniums plotting to overthrow us. Your brother is as wise as he is powerful. I doubt he will be quick to leave his master's side."

Vahan averts his gaze quickly with a sharp tsk. "Dmitri..." he growls the name out in a low voice through gritted teeth, his fingers subconsciously trailing over the scar along his right cheek.

I will not hesitate this time...

"Are you done, Malthael?" Tyrael interrupts rather impatiently, his sword propped atop his shoulder. "I do not have all day to waste with you."

Malthael's eyes quickly snap to Tyrael's face, the archangel suppressing the mix of emotions which boil in the pit of his stomach. "Take your leave, Vahan," the archangel orders gently, the other valsai'ium complying immediately.

Malthael sighs wearily, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he slides his feet into an offensive stance, both hands now resting on the grip of his sword. It is an ancient silver blade which dons the scars of countless battles. The hilt is a dark amber color which resembles gold which had become worn and old in appearance. Diamonds the color of crimson are engraved into the hilt to give it a majestic design.

Attached to the pummel of the sword are two ribbons, battered and ragged. One is black and the other white, a reference to concept of yin and yang... that without darkness there is no place for the light to shine and without chaos there is no order to be had. The archangel opens his eyes slowly, his gaze distant as if he did not even really see Tyrael but something far beyond him.

"So... it has truly come to this... Tyrael?" Malthael wonders in a cool and indifferent tone which smoothers the emotions which threaten to spill out of his heart. He didn't expect an answer. He knew how Tyrael would respond. His logic was corrupted. He... was corrupted.

"That is has," the alt'eri retorts coldly without even a hint of mercy.

The air tenses in suspense. "Very well," the archangel replies somberly.

In a flash of movement the two clash blades, their massive wings erupting from their shoulders in a flamboyant display of magnificent splendor. Malthael's clearly dwarf those of the fallen valsai'ium and seem to blaze with the golden colors associated with holy fire. Tyrael's, on the other hand, no longer hold their lustrous blue shine but have had it replaced by a blood red hue; and while they retain their original shape they now appear to be shattered and broken.

They push against their blades, forcing a bit of distance between them. However, Malthael flashsteps and their swords clash again, Tyrael throwing off the attack with an expert spin of his sword. He then attempts to strike a low blow but the valsai'ium gracefully evades before counter attacking. The alt'eri grits his teeth as they lock blades again, his heated gaze starring into the shadows which veil Malthael's face.

This would get him nowhere. Malthael was a powerful valsai'ium, after all, as well as a skilled swordsman. He'd been battling alt'eri much like Tyrael since time immemorial. But he made one mistake. As a valsai'ium, Tyrael's power had rivaled his in order to keep a balance of sorts. But Tyrael was no longer just a valsai'ium... he had ascended far beyond that limitation. He was an alt'eri... and Malthael underestimated that.

Tyrael releases a powerful shockwave of spiritual energy which catches Malthael off guard causing the archangel to stumble backward. The alt'eri seizes the opportunity and lunges forward. But suddenly everything around him seems to slow down, as if the universe itself had lost track of time, Malthael disappearing right before Tyrael's blade reaches him.

The archangel reappears instantly, his feet landing on the edge of the fallen valsai'ium's sword, violently forcing it to the ground under his weight as he brings his own blade up in a swift arc to cut his opponent in half. Tyrael snatches his sword from beneath Malthael and flashsteps simultaneously, the archangel landing gracefully on the floor without skipping a beat.

"Tyrael..." the alt'eri hears that familiar voice call gently through the Force.

Tyrael roars in boiling anger and throws his sword at Malthael as if it would actually strike its target. Of course, the archangel easily avoids the simple attack as Tyrael flashsteps, ripping his sword from the wall it had become lodged in. The alt'eri then turns back towards his opponent, the two entering a flashstep simultaneously.

A sharp gasp rushes past Tyrael's lips and his eyes widen in disbelief as they focus intently on the tip of Malthael's sword dangerously close to sinking into his skull. The alt'eri reacts quickly, managing to dodge underneath the archangel's attack before he flashsteps again, putting some distance between them.

He... predicted my flashstep... Tyrael fumbles through his thoughts, shocked. Impossible...

Malthael turns to face his fallen comrade, his sword seeming to almost gleam with a white aura of focused Force energy. "Tyrael..." he calls smoothly, almost as if it were a plea.

Tyrael's eyes narrow and he releases a sharp tsk as he flashsteps, his blade colliding with Malthael's again and again in violent succession, the archangel blocking each attack with swift and calculated moves. "Getting ahead of yourself already, Malthael?!" he roars venomously, bringing his sword down with a sharp and powerful swing, preparing to unleash his power upon the unsuspecting valsai'ium.

"Seijin... sake-"

The alt'eri suddenly chokes on his last word as Malthael vanishes only to instantaneously reappear behind him, his sword moving... dangerously close to its target. Tyrael turns on his heel to defend himself...

"I will end this here, Tyrael..."

... Unknown location ...

This place... it is a desolate and barren wasteland, home to little more than occasional abnormal rock formation. The earth is dry and cracked, scorched by the hellish vortex of fire which resides here. Though the mortal races had never witnessed the realm which lay beyond those fiery gates they had given such a place many names. Purgatory. Tartarus. Hell.

Dmitri suddenly appears near Mortis's feet and kneels to show his respect to his king, that ancient vampire resting in the gentle concave of a rock formation as if it were serving him as a temporary throne.

"Dmitri..."

That soft-spoken voice sends a rippling shiver down Dmitri's spine, his eyes momentarily locking with that haunting, golden gaze. "My King..." the vampire answers in a thick tone as he bows his head, his exotic accent ringing with charm. Only for him... only for his king would he ever bend his knee.

"I have retrieved the Key as you requested," he continues to report, holding the artifact up towards Mortis like a humble offering. "I also managed to save Sabien and Daisuke, despite their injuries..."

Rather than move from his current position, Mortis simply holds out his open hand, Dmitri placing the key in his palm. "You have done well, Dmitri. I am pleased," the Vampire King praises, examining the key thoroughly. "As for Sabien and Daisuke... I am rather disappointed they could not quell a single valsai'ium nor her pet. They had the obvious advantage," he comments in a cold and menacing tone. "Their failure shall be dealt with."

"They did not receive their injuries from the valsai'ium," Dmitri remarks. "She was a desperate sort and released her Summoned in an attempt to slaughter her pursuers. I doubt they were at all prepared to face such a massive and powerful spiritual creature. It made the task of retrieving the key rather trifling."

"Perhaps it was not meant to be an easy and quick task," Mortis replies smoothly, a small smile curling his lips. "After all, the Guardian of Envy was no ordinary valsai'ium. She was renown for possessing a powerful Summoned, a devastating spiritual beast capable of rivaling that of even the Supreme Judge himself. Perhaps I wanted to test their potential against such a creature. Or better yet..." he adds as he leans forward, wiping a speck of dried blood away from Dmitri's cheek, "perhaps I wished to test yours."

The fiery mixture of colors in Dmitri's eyes seem to burn with greater intensity as he holds his master's gaze. "If you wished such a beast dead, my King, you needed only ask it of me. I served you long before those pawns of yours even existed," he adds with a subtle sense of superiority, an obvious insult to the taez'riin which had served Mortis for milleniums, "and I will serve you long after they are all nothing but dust."

"As long as you demand it," Dmitri assures, his voice thick and weighed with emphasis, "I will never fail."

Mortis smirks softly. "Is that so?"

Dmitri nods. "Had you merely asked it of me, I would have killed that troublesome boy ages ago... but you insisted on testing that dog's loyalty. And he betrayed you," he growls in a low, spiteful tone. "Even so, you would not let me have him. Even when he escaped, you would not let me pursue him. And even now, when at long last he has grown tired of running and turns to bare his fangs at your throat... you do not allow me to stop him."

"You sound envious, Dmitri... and of a mere taez'riin of all things." Mortis's eyes narrow and harden with contempt, the powerful aura which clings to him growing overbearing. "How unsightly."

"And you, my King, grew attached to an indomitable pawn," the vampire bites daringly in response, "... a disloyal and filthy dog not worthy of your time nor your attention. But I will no longer sit idly by while that mongrel still breathes..."

"Oh?" Mortis remarks darkly. "You sound as if you plan to disobey me..."

Dmitri quickly looks away, ashamed but nevertheless determined to hold his ground. "If that it what it takes... my King..."

The honey brown hue of Mortis's eyes suddenly ignite with golden color, his aura unbearably intimidating. Smothering. "Dmitri... have you forgotten your oath so easily?"

Dmitri's eyes soften as a familiar feeling rises from the depths of his chest. This was the reason he served. For milleniums he had lived in isolation... in darkness... in emptiness. A monstrous being without equal, the first of an accursed breed. And yet for all his strength and power, a valsai'ium nearly half his age had dared to stand against him.

And so they fought. For hours upon hours, days upon days... until their lung threatened to collapse, until their bodies refused to move from exhaustion, and until their wounds no longer healed. Soaked in his own blood, Dmitri realized he'd finally found the adversary he'd so longer for. A being who's power rivaled his own. A man who's sword would pierce his heart and steal his soul.

And he welcomed it.

But as they waged on, as Dmitri constantly left himself open time and time again, this valsai'ium —like all the others —hesitated to deliver the killing blow. Yet it was not sympathy which stayed his hand but pride. This valsai'ium... he would not accept victory if it was handed to him. He would earn it for himself or not at all.

It was then that Dmitri realized that their fight would last an eternity. Dmitri was holding back a substantial amount, and yet for every ounce of spiritual power he released the valsai'ium quite easily matched it. It made the alt'eri curious as to just how powerful his opponent really was. However, despite having been evenly matched at the moment, Dmitri was all too aware of the differences in their power.

This man... was just a valsai'ium in the end. And a young one at that. He could never match the potential of a fully matured alt'eri. Dmitri had the upper hand. He had the advantage not only in raw power, but in age and experience. He had developed offensive and defensive skills over countless battles. A million wars. This valsai'ium would not get an opening unless Dmitri gave it to him.

And so they struck a deal...

"Never. I have sworn myself to you alone, my King," Dmitri answers in a submissive tone. "If it is your wish, I will follow you everywhere. Even if your throne crumbles and your crown rusts, even if the bodies pile up endlessly and your empire falls... I... will remain by your side," he adds, that charming voice thick with a subtle yet intense passion as his gaze meets Mortis's. "For all of eternity."

-------------------------------

Hope this all makes sense. I told you it was going to start getting climatic. And it only gets better from here. The picture of Anubis is just to give you an idea of what the creature (AKA Ancor) Slade is fighting looks like.

We're starting to see just how Mortis happened upon Dmitri... who just happens to be the first ever alt'eri. Imagine what a power-house he is. Also, if you're wondering why Ancor's blade is coated in valsai'ium blood... both taez'riin and alt'eri have extremely strong aversions to it. Small amounts entering the blood stream have the ability to paralyze for days and cause other symptoms such as intense vomiting, etc., etc. Large amounts are 99.99% fatal. As to how Ancor got a hold of valsai'ium blood... we'll get there.

Oh, and a bit of information for understand the extent of Slade's scars... taez'riin hardly ever scar. Their bodies regenerate far too quickly and their skin is super resilient (even their acidic blood doesn't affect their skin). However, an alt'eri's blood is about 41% more acidic than a taez'riin's. Give or take a little. So... say he's burned using alt'eri blood... or cut up using a weapon drenched in alt'eri blood. The scars are going to be horrendous.

Vampire Vocabulary:

eistet: mutt, dog, literally: worthless being [worse than bur]

kul: idiot
     [from] kuly: stupid, foolish

aleti: little god [used as an insult]
     [from] alet: god
     csitri: little

ak'sai: saint
     [from] akeva: innocent
     sai: man