Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael sat stone still, watching the door that he knew would be turned to splinters at any moment, thinking of how he was going to deliver the news. It was an odd turn of events, to everyone else, but to the vampire with the purple eyes, it was just right. The community was in turmoil, the wolves were dancing to the tune that he aptly played, the vampires were suspecting of all, and the humans were racked with paranoia. Each race, ready to cut the other's throat, if it meant their domination.

Hair tickled at his pale cheek as he waited, a draft coming through the decrepit house that he was in. Fitting he'd deliver the news here, in the den of a house that so many lives had been lost in. For a moment he let his eyes wander, taking in the staircase of rotting and rotted wood, the laminate floor that had long since curled and split, the ceiling barely hanging on to the structure, the moss and fungus ridden walls doing their best to hide the skeleton of this place. In it's own way it was quite beautiful.

Scents from all the years this house has been standing still clung to the structure, telling a violent history. A pang of sorrow hit Michael as he thought about the violence he was about to add to the long and bloody list of deeds done within this place. It wouldn't be long. While still looking at the festered beauty around him he checked himself, his weapons, his clothing, all ready for the fight about to begin. Finally, the smell of wolf came through the house, carried on the breeze dancing through the holes in the walls.

As the vampire predicted, the door was torn asunder, reducing it to splinters and dust, by the gigantic hands of an Alpha wolf. He was a huge specimen of the species. Standing over seven feet tall, thick with muscle, long hair flowing to the middle of his back, a closely cropped beard decorating a strong and noble jaw. This wolf was no assassin, he was a member of the Houses. Michael smiled through the chaos still flitting through the air at his new house guest.

"Welcome. My name is Michael. Before we begin would you be so kind as to introduce yourself?" The wolf walked in the doorway, ducking the frame and bowed slightly, "I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word." The wolf stood back up to full height, "Whenever you are ready, Michael." It brought a smile to the vampire's mouth as he stood, bowed at the waist, and answered, "Thank you, Master Raecian. En Garde." With a deep breath it began.

This wolf was strong, willing, and ready for the fight. Michael's strength counted for almost nothing as he delivered punch after punch, each action lightning fast and all punctuated with kicks that went after vital points. The wolf blocked, evaded, and countered, his punches much heavier than the vampires, knocking Michael's thin frame through a wall, the chair he sat in, and part of the railing of the stairs. And all without exuding any effort.

Dust and pulverized plaster and drywall floated through the morning rays that penetrated the kitchen, missing Michael by inches as he lay on the floor, catching his breath and spitting the blood from his mouth. More crunched under the Lycan's foot as he approached the downed vampire, "Michael, I want you to know that I take no pleasure in this, but it must be done." Another stream of red spouted from already stained lips as the vampire answered, "I know, Master Raecien, I know. However, it's all happening as it must."

The vampire's claws left four red, angry cuts across the chest of the wolf, another strike aimed for the throat. The surprise angered the Lycan, and with a growl he began to change, fur growing, claws elongating, fangs and ears presenting. Michael knew the fight was about to get infinitely more difficult, but he, too, had been holding back. With speed to rival his own the Lycan grabbed Michael's waist and flung him through a wall and back to the entrance of the house.

The wolf stood confused as it watched Michael land on his feet, stand, and take a deep breath. Purple eyes turned to a burning yellow, claws appeared at the end of each digit, and fangs grew to intimidating size. A confident Raecien took a step forward, already aware of the transformations of the vampires, but stopped short of his second step as he watched Michael continue to change. Black and blue veins began to line the vampire's skin, lips turned a deep purple, and the white of the eyes became red as blood, standing out against the bluish skin surrounding them.

Power ran through Michael's veins like fire, igniting want and chaos in him. His vision turned red, every throbbing and pulsing vein in the wolf was visible to him, the smells of the world were suddenly vivid and more poignant than ever. 'This is what was necessary', a thought that was above the animalistic drive that coursed through every fiber of being of the vampire, now fully unleashed. The fight began again.

The wolf was thrown through a wall, a second wall, and through the ceiling and into the second floor of the house. Raecien lay on his side, trying to catch his breath, holding closed wounds, hoping they would heal quickly. He struggled to stand, leaving a large, bloody print on the floor. Blood soaked his fur and ran over his hand holding the ragged pieces of flesh together. He tried to listen through the pain and ascertain where the vampire was, but his head spun with the blows he'd received. He'd never fought a vampire, or anything else, for that matter, that moved that fast and hit that hard.

The Lycan's heightened hearing couldn't find the vampire. He considered his last resort, knowing that any moment that thing would burst into the small room and finish him. The creaking of the first step alerted him. The second one did the same. It was a slow and methodical pace, menacing and terrifying, even to the giant wolf. Another step. Raecien decided he had no choice and let go of his restraint, transforming himself into a full fledged Lycan. The last step sounded it's cry just as the process was complete.

A roar announced his readiness for battle, his wounds healed, his fangs bared, the Lycan waited for his opponent. And he didn't have to wait long. The door between the wolf and the stairs didn't move, no other steps creaked. The vampire flew up through the hole in the floor with an unworldly hiss. The wolf was not prepared and Michael took full advantage, digging his clawed fingers into the wolf, wrapping his legs against the thick torso, and lastly, sinking his fangs into that muscular neck.

Michael drank deep, draining huge amounts of blood from the wolf as it thrashed at him, fighting the cold and fatigue that was currently seeping into it's core. The panic subsided for a moment and the Lycan's huge hand found the vampire's leg and ripped the blood sucker away. Not to waste the opportunity Raecien slammed the undead creature through the floor, hoping it was enough to give him some time to recuperate. Slowly the feral form he was in began to slip, and soon he was back to his human form again, holding his still bleeding neck.

Michael collected himself and forced back the creature he'd become, retracting his fangs and his claws as he walked up the stairs again, dusting himself off. The red faded away and his normal vision returned, his muscles relaxed again, and rational thought returned. At the top of the stairs the vampire opened the door to find the wolf behind it on it's knees and clasping at the wounds in it's neck. Such a giant creature in such a supine position was nearly art to the vampire's eyes. Raecien's honey colored eyes met his own purple ones with hate and determination. The wolf roared and threw itself into an attack of desperation.

"Stop." An almost whisper quiet command came from the thin lips of Michael. Inches from his throat and chest were the Lycan's claws, ready to rip him asunder. The wolf's muscles were rigid with exertion, but they were frozen in place. "Stand." Another command came from the vampire. Shaking with the effort of fighting against what was happening the wolf stood tall, like a soldier ready for orders. Raecien's eyes were wide with terror and confusion as another command came, "Kneel." Grunts came with the action, railing against his own body as it did what the vampire commanded.

With one fist and one knee on the floor the wolf before Michael quivered. The vampire figured the poor thing deserved an explanation, squatting down and placing his finger under Raecien's chin. "Look at me." Panic was still heavy in those beautiful eyes as Michael spoke, "We're of the old blood, the old ways, you and I. And back then the wolves weren't free. They served the House of Tor. As you, now, will. The blood pact is complete." Rage replaced panic in Raecien's eyes as he realized what had happened, the trap he'd stepped in to, the slavery he'd brought upon himself.

"Rise." Unwillingly the Lycan stood straight, again, his eyes burning with hate. Michael's hands went gently up to the giant's face and moved away wisps of hair, wiped blood away from lips and brow, and then rested gently on his new companion's hairy cheek, "Don't worry, Raecien, I wish you no harm. And I truly regret having to do this, and you have my undying word that you will be free again. But. For the time being, my good man, we will create chaos. We'll bring about blood, death, and disorder." Michael's other hand came to rest upon Raecien's chest, feeling the heart beat so rapidly beneath it as their eyes met. "We're going to wage war. Merciless, vengeful, world rending, beautiful, beautiful war."

Old friends, new blood (Original Short)

Michael had come to hate heights lately. First jumping from them, then throwing others from them. Now he found himself in a very precarious situation, similar to the ones he’d put others in recently: hanging over the edge of a very tall building at the end of an arm that was attached to a very angry vampire. Though he didn’t need to breath it was still very uncomfortable to have a hand gripped tightly around his throat. In all the things he’d done to get this war under way he’d never been worried. Until now.

“You would have the houses war again?!” Balthezar was furious, the fire of the night in his eyes shone to near neon proportions, his voice had deepened and was not much more than a gutteral growl. Michael began to answer when he was shaken violently, interrupted by the vampire still holding him over the edge, “Do you forget I sit in court of the House of Lee?” Michael waited a moment before tried to answer.

“Not just the houses. The humans, too.” Michael hadn’t forgotten where his sire sat, nor had he forgotten the temper and fury that his sire possessed. With a roar Michael’s thin body was thrown against the brick wall that housed the door to the roof. Mortar, dust, and pieces of the wall joined the thrown vampire on the floor. Through the physical pain that was near overwhelming Michael fought back the mental anguish of hurting someone he was once so close to. Even as he was picked back up by his hair and slammed against the already cracked wall again he wanted to apologize to his friend, but couldn’t. The plan wouldn’t work otherwise.

“Have you lost your mind?!?” Belthazar, much taller than Michael, and much more muscular, with black, curly hair down to the small of his back, finally stood back to hear an explanation. The thin vampire struggled to straighten himself, sliding up against broken bricks, “No, Belthazar, I have not lost my mind. I was setup. As were others. Many others. Our brothers and sisters were played and fed to the hunters. It is time for the houses to fall.” The ancient vampire was not moved by the words. It showed. Michael fought back tears, knowing what would have to happen next.

His plan had been moving at the proper pace, but now with his sire interfering, things would have to be accelerated. “You could’ve requested a trial, Michael. You could have plead your-” “MY CASE? TO THE SAME ONES THAT HAD PUT ME IN THAT TRAP?” It was Michael’s turn to roar with that voice most vampires hated to use, “The hunters were waiting for me! How bloody convenient they would show up the second after a human gets fed upon! How droll that they had silver bullets with UV accents in their weapons, ready to go! How funny that they opened fire as I tried to tell them what happened!”

This time the weight of what had been said made the ancient one take a step back and look away, trying to hide his emotion. The time was drawing near for this part of the plan to be executed. Michael wanted to apologize, wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to plead for forgiveness, but couldn’t. Silver killed vampires. Iron slows them down. Both hurt very much, no matter the quantity. The younger of the two could feel his body hot, his breath racing, the blood of that human advocate still pumping through his veins, fueling him like high octane fuel thrown on a fire.

Belthazar still looked away as he spoke, “I can help you, Michael. It’s not how it used to be. I can still help you get out of all of this. Just come with-” The impact of the knife in his side silenced him. The iron blade was buried hilt deep, rendering the ancient one all but paralyzed with pain, as Michael cradled him while he fell to the ground, grunting and groaning. The fire had gone out of both their eyes as they looked at each other, one with pleading, one with determination. “You’ll know what our brothers and sisters went through. What I went through. You’ll know, Master.”

Michael hiked up his sleeve and forced Balthezar’s mouth open, the ancient’s fangs at the ready. With little effort the pointed teeth of the elder sank into flesh, bringing blood forth. Michael wiped the sorrow from his face, replacing it with concentration as he forced his sire to drink. Eyes wide with pain were suddenly wide with alarm and understanding at what was being done. Belthazar was being force fed blood tainted with human blood. The tests would confirm it. He’d become an outcast.

Michael drew the knife out of his sire. With a gentle hand he moved the curly black locks away from his friend’s face, speaking softly, “When they come for you, and they will, come find me. Just know that I do this for the better of our kind. The houses must fall and a new regime must be made. Goodbye for now, Master.” The thin vampire stood, sheathed the iron blade and walked to the fire escape.

The broken door to the rooftop was kicked open by hunters just as Michael disappeared below the line of bricks. They asked the vampire on the floor the standard questions. Then one motioned to the other the blood that was still wet. With an apology one of the hunters produced a blood scanner, designed to detect human blood in a vampire, and asked for Belthazar’s hand.

The Blade Of The Princess: Final Chapter

Days passed since K’anda had fallen down a hole that was a portal to a dead world. She’d stopped walking with a limp by the time she’d rejoined the main road, following it to her destination: the village of Vit’ae. She reached the great gates just as the sun began to sink from the sky, bruising the horizon with its exit. Two giant faces of a mountain, carved out to house the giant wooden doors, stood to each side of her. As she approached, shouts, calls and all sorts of movement sprung to life to allow her safe passage. With a well-practiced groan that made the ears ache, the magnificent monuments adorned with polished brass and workings of the name of the city, itself, began to part.

Behind them stood a testament to consumerism that was nothing short of breathtaking. A market, twice the size of her kingdom, lived and breathed and moved with purpose. As far as K’anda’s golden eyes could see, there were shops, inns, taverns, trading posts, callers, and preachers of a long-dead religion. The princess of Zhu’ul could barely believe it all. Women of all manner of dress roamed the safe streets, none paying heed to the opening or closing of the gates, most with servants in tow. Poor women had ropes tied from their rags to the necks of their slaves, while the more financially blessed ones had things like fine gold chains attached to ornate leather collars.

Smoke, smells and lanterns filled with fire lighting the whole city overwhelmed the rest of the senses. Burning pitch and cooking meat wafted through the loud streets as K’anda pushed forward, seeking the middle of the town: the slave auction. Commerce never ceased; not at any time of day or night. Although she was dead tired from her journey, the princess knew that the sooner she began conducting her business, the sooner she could be away from the noise in which she’d been thrust.

The giant market - that stretched the entirety of the chasm left in the mountains, themselves - was built like a circle. In the middle was the auction block and circle of testing. That was her destination. K’anda moved her sore legs, ignoring peddlers who shoved charms, armor and weapons at her, promising immortality and the ability to slay any and all beasts with one fell swoop. All she did was smile in response, not acknowledging any of them. As she got closer to the epicenter, the spectators went from sparse to standing-room-only as an auction began.

Upon a giant stage taller than K’anda, a woman wearing a leather vest and linen pants held a whip in one hand and a ledger in the other. Next to her were three fine specimens of men, all tall and muscular, chained together by the neck. Numbers were called out as the bidding reached a fever pitch; women in the crowd were gnashing teeth and throwing curses at one another, like they were fighting for the best cut at a butcher’s shop. But those being sold were not for a princess. Then K’anda saw her: Mistress Holtz, self-proclaimed queen of the auction square, commanding almost all the slave trade, and sorting the fodder from the prizes worthy of a princess. Tired feet made a beeline for the woman in charge.

Mistress Holtz stood a good foot shorter than K’anda. Her hair was done up in ringlets, face painted in the latest style, sporting a dress packed to the seams with frill and pomp that hung loosely upon her thin frame. In her dainty hands, lay an ornate rod of hard maple adorned with a gold and silver handle. A fine gold chain swayed between the mistress and her man, half the age of the woman reaching her late 50s. The barefoot man was thin, and dressed in a simple shirt and shorts. He was decorated with new and fading bruises bviously dealt from the rod his mistress carried. None of this concerned the princess of Zhu’ul, for she was here on business.

Holtz tore her aged eyes away from the auction block just in time to catch K’anda moving toward her. “Ah, Princess K’anda! Is it finally time for you to pick a mate?” Her tone was snobby and carried her pomp. “Yes it is, Mistress Holtz. And I’ve traveled a long and weary mile. When can I begin the process?” The imperious woman smiled and bowed her head, “Well, Princess, as soon as you’d like. And you came at an extraordinary time. Another princess has come, too, to choose a mate. So we will be having a grand spectacle… now that you’re here, of course.” K’anda did not return the smile. She knew that this meant a new set of games for the slaves to play.

“I’ve no stomach for ceremony, Mistress Holt,” K’anda said. “I’d like to choose my mate and go on my way. If that suits you, that is.” K’anda smiled insincerely and the woman picked up on the tone. “But of course, dear Princess. The holds are this way, if you’d follow me. Pick up the pace, Anry!” Quick as her aged arms allowed, she cracked the rod across her man’s face, pulling the chain and collar taut. As she turned to lead, the man didn’t even reach up to comfort the new bruise as he turned and nodded. The princess following the pair ground her teeth and hid her disgust as they trekked to the higher priced pens.

It was dark when K’anda entered the market in the niche of the mountains, and it grew even later as she walked behind Mistress Holtz and Anry. Thoughts played slowly, like a bard’s stringed instrument, of how her mother loved her father, that taboo and of how the impossible existed between them. She remembered smiles and companionship. And how when the palace would quiet, her mother would remove her father’s collar in their bed chamber and kiss his neck gently. Love was possible. She hoped that one day, she, too, would love her mate. Near midnight they reached their destination.

Anry stopped sharply behind Holtz, so much so that K’anda nearly knocked him over when she absent-mindedly ran into him. Before the princess could apologize, a chiding of ‘Clumsy oaf’ was growled and another crack from the rod came, this time on the other side of his face. Torches were being lit in their newly arrived presence to show off the stock, and Holtz turned to her customer. “Here we are, Princess. The best I have to offer. Please, take your time.” With a grand gesture, the woman pulled back a leather curtain and ushered in K’anda.

To the surprise of the princess of Zhu’ul, it didn’t stink. It wasn’t dark or dismal. In fact, it was rather clean. The stalls themselves were huge, numbering four in total, with bars between the observer and the men. Though the spaces between said bars were wide enough for even the broadest shouldered one of them to slip through, none even dared to try. They knew better. The spaces were there as windows to look at the merchandise unabated. Standards that her mother had instilled in her ran through K’anda’s head as she walked by each stall, her golden eyes taking in each man carefully. At times, her gift came forward and helped her perception. By the third stall, she’d given up almost all hope, settling for the fact that she’d have to wait for the next batch.

But there, in the fourth stall, a pair of eyes caught hers, and stopped her breath in her throat. Deep purple eyes sat in a tanned face that was as intense as the glare it wore. She peered into those eyes and nearly lost herself, having to force her gaze away as she took in the rest of the man. He was large, much larger than her, and even more so than most of the men around him, though he sat crouched in a corner, shrouded in a cloak made of tattered and torn pieces of black cloth that hung off his broad shoulders. Long, black, wavy hair that curled here and there fell from his head. Before she could think she pointed and spoke, “You. Step forward.” His gaze never wavered, but he pretended not to notice her command.

The Mistress’s voice came suddenly from beside K’anda, “Oh. You don’t want that one, Princess. He’s diseased and scrawny .” The words shook her out of her concentration and she looked at the pompous woman, “Describe that slave to me.” At first, the woman tripped on her words then came forth with a sentence. “Well. He’s...skinny. And his skin is covered in lesions. He’s pale and dirty.” K’anda’s eyes went back to the man and she sent forth a bit of her power and nearly gasped when it neared the man. The air around him was nearly aflame with his own power, the glamor he wore to make himself seem less than what he was. She knew in that instant: he possessed the gift of magic. Holtz spoke again, “Surely, you wouldn’t be interested in such a...waste of fle-” K’anda’s royal temper flared, “You mean to advise me on my choice of men and possible mate? You deem your words worthy enough to question mine, Mistress Holtz?” Golden eyes came to rest upon the thin woman and she blanched at the fury and cutting nature of the tone.

“Why...no! Of course not! Forgive me! I lost myself for a moment...Uh….slave! Stand at once and present yourself!” This time the man obeyed. K’anda watched as he unfolded himself, standing nearly a foot taller than her, his tanned skin stretched tight against muscles that looked hard as steel. The scars, some fresh and some old, moved with him as he strode forward, closing the distance in two strides. The Princess of Zhu’ul was in awe of the man, not knowing what the others saw, but in total admonition of his dangerous nature, herself. “What is your name, slave?” K’anda’s voice had not cooled, but neither had his eyes. “Xelga’dis, Mistress.” His voice was deep and as strong as his physical appearance, and yet it carried intelligence and power with it, as well. “Your form is appealing to me, Xelga’dis. What think you of mine?” For the first time his eyes left hers and moved quickly up and down her body. She could feel her face heat with the action.

“Forgive me, Mistress. But you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes upon.” Despite her power, training and all her abilities, K’anda felt very much exposed at that moment. Seeking to put herself back in control, she drew her sword, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard, and she presented the handle to him, “Do you think yourself worthy of carrying my blade tomorrow at the trials?” Near every living thing within range of hearing the weapon being drawn cowered away, including Holtz, but not him. He took the handle and held the blade up to his face, turning the instrument between his long and powerful fingers, examining the weight and the balance. “Mistress. I do not believe I am.” He offered the handle back to K’anda and bowed his head. For a moment she let her eyes linger on his hands and fingers; flashes of things that she would never discuss aloud played in her head, but she returned her attention to his face. She studied him for a while before she spoke. “Yes, you do. And you will. In the morrow, you will carry this blade in my name. And you will be my mate.” His eyes came up to meet hers, though his head stayed bowed, “If the Princess wishes.” There was the ghost of a smile on his lips. One she returned. “I do.”

He bowed his final subjugation to her will as she took back her blade, him returning to his corner, her standing proud and tall before the cell. She watched him, like a cat eyes a mouse, all of him, the way he moved, his muscular form, the way his eyes watched her back, and it all made her feel a few degrees warmer than the air around her. As they exchanged one last look, he smiled, a tight, half smile, with only half his mouth, and she returned it, letting her imagination drift again. She turned to the short woman, “I need a place to stay for the night. I expect you will have a room ready for me by the time I reach the pagoda, Mistress Holtz.” Several agreements and curtsies later, Anry was sent forward to make preparations for the Princess. K’anda felt new feelings well up inside her. Things she’d never felt before.

In the cozy room, four times larger than any wayward shack she’d spent many a night in lately, K’anda’s armor was peeled off her skin, and underwear cast off, as she strode toward a large tub. Steaming water had been brought in, but it had already cooled. Since she desired a bath more than she wanted to yell at her host, with a wave of her hand, her power sprang forth and heated the tub to her liking. She sank in, letting her days of travel melt away and be replaced with her encounter with Xelga’dis. She imagined his powerful hands and what they would feel like on her bare flesh, or how his lips would taste. Slowly she let herself get lost in the fantasy and soon her hands mimed the ones in her vivid visions. The tub was barely lukewarm by the time she climbed out, and she was suddenly grateful for the privacy of her own wash room. She laid down upon the soft mattress and was asleep in moments.

Noon found K’anda sitting at the forefront of the stadium, set prominently in the middle of the mountain town. Nearly ten feet below was the arena’s earthen floor, girdled by giant, thick walls of wood, decorated with iron gates here and there. Bells sounded the hour, and then Mistress Holtz stood up, her chair a story higher than everyone else’s, a new dress and hairdo to help set her position of authority. She spoke loudly to counteract all the noise of the women of the town shuffling in to get their seats. “Here, today, we have a treat. A rare treat. Two princesses, one from Zhu’ul, one from Tchottle, have chosen mates at the same time. So we will see not one, but TWO feats of proving today.” The crowd cheered with a glee that K’anda had never heard in her life. “We all know the rules. For their mates to go home with their princesses, they must survive the trials. And now, let the games … BEGIN!” Holtz sat down to the roar of the colosseum.

Across from K’anda sat the other princess, not armored like her, but in a frilly blue dress, rented slaves holding shade over her and a venomous look in her eyes. Raven hair down to her back was done perfectly, face painted to highlight sharp features, with fair skin and small lips making her look much younger than she really was. K’anda let her gaze drift to the arena as she saw Xelga’dis and the other chosen mate brought out and their chains released. The sickle blade of Tchottle was tossed in the dirt at the same time that K’anda’s sword was, each at the feet of the chosen. The other mate was tall and also muscular, with a shaved head and wearing nothing but a pair of leather shorts. Xelga’dis was still shrouded in his black, tattered cape that looked like crow’s feathers from this distance. Each weapon was retrieved as another gate opened, and the whole crowd quieted. A bellowing roar tore from the blackness beyond the raised iron bars.

The Kerroc stepped out, ducking its full height under the nine-foot-high gate. Green, scaly skin moved easily with the mass of muscle beneath it. Razor claws decorated four digits on the end of sinewy arms, matching the ones on its feet. Clear rivulets of saliva dripped freely from the elongated jaws lined with long, sharp teeth. Black eyes burned above a squat head, supported by a thick neck. Iron bars slammed closed, barely missing the tip of the tail trailing behind the creature, cutting deep swaths into the white dirt floor. It roared again, and then locked its glassy midnight eyes upon the two men sharing the arena. As the last of the bellow rumbled out, the thing charged the two humans, heavy footsteps shaking the wooden rafters. K’anda’s eyes widened with amazement, wonder, and most of all: fear.

K’anda watched with the rapt attention of a child, staring as the man with the sickle spread his beefy arms, and shouted challenges at the creature. Xelga’dis stepped back a few paces, keeping a distance between him and the beast. The monster’s attention focused on the shouting one, missing the man in the black cloak as he quickly circled around to the side of it. The bald one charged forward, screaming and swinging his weapon. The curved blade caught the Kerroc’s bottom jaw as it snapped at the man, deflecting its head for a split second. Xelga’dis saw an opening, and quickly closed in and buried the sword deep into its side. Another cry sprang forth and the giant arms swung, missing the bald one, but caught the black cloak that shrouded Xelga’dis in his glamour, tearing it to shreds as it ripped away.

An apocalyptic crescendo of lightning and thunder joined a ring of power that pushed air, dirt and debris out from the center that was Xelga’dis, standing in the arena of now flowing blood. He stood like a pillar of power, his illusion shattered, the force of what had just sprung forward even knocking the Kerroc back a few paces. K’anda’s eyes feasted on her chosen. He was beautiful and primal: broad shoulders and back, scars criss-crossing here and there, tense muscles, a dark glare, with her blade in his hand.

However, the battle waited no longer. The creature turned back to the still-suffering mate of the princess of Tchottle, and this time the man wasn’t able to avoid it. With a heavy snap of its jaws, the giant creature caught the soft middle of the bald man, closing quick and hard, spilling blood to and fro as it thrashed. The crowd responded with deafening cheers.

With the creatures’ attention on the meal in its jaws, Xelga’dis used the momentary pause. With speed hard to track with the naked eye, he moved in and slashed at the monster’s body, aiming for weak points. Tendons, muscles, soft tissues; all were severed without hesitation, viscera and intestines spilling forth. The body of the other man still in its maw, the creature fell to all fours, the damage that had been dealt taking its quick and sudden toll. The surviving mate didn’t allow a moment to pass. He hopped atop the crocodilian monstrosity and quickly buried K’anda’s blade through the thick skull, killing it instantly. A death rattle and a huff of white dust later, Xelga’dis stood above the grisly scene, victorious. The crowd’s roar filled with whispers of magic and its uses, and the fact that he was, indeed, a gifted man. K’anda could only smile as the competing princess huffed and stood, making a quick exit.

K’anda couldn’t help the smug feeling coursing through her, and stood, clapping and joining in on the cheers from the women next to her. She barely noticed when Mistress Holtz stood and announced a quick break from the festivities. K’anda beamed with pride as other women passed her and touched her shoulder with congratulations and well wishes, so much that she hadn’t noticed Holtz’s hand on her shoulder. “Princess K’anda, we must talk before the next round of the trial.” The statement was said with a mix of nervousness and opportunity ringing through every syllable. Not a half hour later, the Princess of Zhu’ul stood in the office of the one running the show. Each wall was decorated with commendations and letters of thanks, to help boost the sales of the slaves. And behind a giant desk littered with papers sat Mistress Holtz.

“Congratulations on your mate’s victory. It seems Tchottle will be without a breeding stock this year. Now, as a matter of price, I think we must delve into the subject as quickly and fully as possible. Please sit.” K’anda stood, facing the aging woman with nothing but contempt and ire. “Price, Mistress? I didn’t know that such a thing was up for change, due to a fact like a simple victory.” Holtz spread her arms in an appeasing manner. “Well, Princess, we’ve never actually discussed the price. And with such a new trait and … appearance of your chosen...” K’anda’s tempered flared and she’d had enough of the game, “Do not attempt to blindside me, Mistress! Just because I am young does not mean that I am ignorant or uneducated. I will not pay for traits you didn’t know were there. And so, you will get your original asking price, but, just to end this discussion before it angers me any further, I’ll double it so Xelga’dis can get on with this farce of a trial and I may return home!” Mistress Holtz was more than shocked at the outburst, her wrinkled jaw hanging open, lips quivering to find words. Before the woman could retort, K’anda stalked out of the office, using her power to control the wind to slam the door hard enough force to crack the frame.

K’anda returned to her seat far before Holtz, with Anry, her manslave, accompanying her, showing a few new bruises shining brightly in the afternoon sun. In the arena below, Xelga’dis was escorted back to the center of the arena, sword tossed at his feet. Mistress Holtz stood and announced, “And now...THE RING OF STEEL!” Again the women attending kicked up excitement and noise, cheers and screams. All of the arena’s metal doors shot up and out poured more than fifty men, with shields, armor and swords. Xelga’dis stood mute, watching without interest, kneeling down casually and scooping up a handful of white dirt, He rubbed it into his palms, in preparation for all the blood about to stain the blade and into his grip. As he stood, there could be no doubt of what kind of man he was to K’anda.

The men, safe behind their steel armor, were hunch-backed, hiding their stomachs and chests, shields held before them in fear of an impending attack. And there stood Xelga’dis: tall, chest out, wearing black shorts to just above his knees, K’anda’s blade in his big hand. The air was thick with tension, each of the fifty combatants measuring their would-be slaughter. One man screamed and charged, breaking the silence, running at full speed toward Xelga’dis. The armored one took a giant, reckless swing at his target and was quickly cut down, blood spraying and tainting the white sand. More poured forth, their battle cries becoming as loud as the crowd sitting above, and they all began to fall before the dark man with the mass of wavy hair and K’anda’s blade in his hand.

There was no grace to him, no fluid movement. He was a hard line drawn through the soft and waning circle of bodies closing in on him. Each cut was brutal, solid, and cleaving, driving through the lines. Each time he turned, he answered a new threat and quickly ended it. Soon, though, the numbers became overwhelming, and he knew it. Wildly swung blades got closer and closer to him, while his body clashed with others, knocking them off balance, all closer than any fighter would deem acceptable. A blade bit his flesh, then another, and pain took over. K’anda could see how the battle was going to go in very short order. The yellowing sky was lit blue for a second, making all but the princess of Zhu’ul shield their eyes. Xelga’dis stood with an arm stretched out, and blue lightning danced from his shoulder to his wrist. The battle had just turned.

Without pause, the wielder of the blue lighting began cutting more opponents down, sending bolts out to make men in their armor explode, like sacks of red liquid dropped from a tall building. Bolt after bolt, swinging cut after another, the number of opponents fell. The last of the armored men deduced the battle was futile and threw down his sword and shield, running for the iron gate. With a bit of power, Xelga’dis lifted a blade from the ground and launched it at the fleeing man. The sword found its target and buried itself to the hilt, knocking its target forward and off his feet.

Once more in the middle of the arena, Xelga’dis stood triumphant, panting with effort and exhaustion. A sweep of his dark eyes surveyed the chaos in front of him, then settled upon hers. She felt her face heat as they shared a look; a ghost of a smile came to his face, the same kind of smile appeared on hers. His big arm shook her blade, sluicing the blood off, then he held it up, and upon a cloud of air the blade floated effortlessly to her, from whence she plucked it. She saluted with it, before returning it to the sheath at her hip.

Now dusk had come and gone, painting the fading day with its mirage of dying colors, but K’anda cared not for spectacle. She paced her room; large as it was, it seemed tiny, a prison cell. Her mind was busy with her mate, and what they’d done to him. Her armor, freshly polished, sat in the corner, with her boots. Her skin was clean, her hair brushed. She was anxious. A knock came that startled her so badly she let out a tiny yip. She ran to the door to see three guards and her mate. He had finally been delivered. As she stood there and the three other slave men disappeared, she felt suddenly exposed wearing nothing but her underthings. Xelga’dis stood tall and proud, shoulders back and a small smile upon his lips. With a flourish of her hand and a silent invitation, he stepped in, ducking the door frame. They smiled at each other for a long moment, taking each other in, her in her underwear and him in nothing but his black shorts.

Silently she took his hand, closing the door, and led him to the bedroom. She found her voice after placing her hand upon his hard, muscular chest. “Now. We must….finalize….you being my mate…” Her golden eyes met his with meaning. Slowly his thick, calloused hand found her cheek and with a gentle movement, his lips met hers. Passionate, heavy and wanton, they went on, each other’s hands finding new places to explore. She tore away with a look on her face and feelings she was unfamiliar with, but she wanted them, and breathlessly she spoke. “Do not be gentle with me. For I will not be with you.” She steeled her will and body and so did he. Together they hit the bed with heavy need, her underthings ripped asunder and his shorts burned off in a blaze of magic fire. It would be near dawn before they fell asleep in each other’s arms, talking of their pasts and wants for the future, both falling deeper in love as the seconds passed. Nothing was gentle during that night except for their tender embrace, lying together under soft blankets with the golden sun leaking into the room and coloring everything in its gentle, yellow glow.

Near noon and with little sleep, the giant gates closed behind K’anda and her new mate Xelg’adis, bidding them farewell with a loud metallic clank of the locks. Both smiled contently as they walked, parts of them sore and other parts simply bruised and tired, but in whole satisfied. Near the setting of the sun, the sky darkening into purple and pinks and reds, they found their first wayward home. As they both disrobed to share the tiny bunk inside, the princess of Zhu’ul smiled at her new love and asked a simple question after the door was locked. “Have you ever heard of the city of the dead below the earth?” Xelga’dis gave her a puzzled look and answered ‘No’. She beamed brighter and asked the last question before their new life and adventures with each other began: “Would you like to?”

An Immortals Tale: Part 10

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"

Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.

The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.

A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.

Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.

As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."

The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.

The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.

The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.

The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.

The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.

"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.

Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.

Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.

Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.

He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.

An Immortals Tale: Part 9

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"


Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.

Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.

Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.

Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.

He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.

A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.

The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.

Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."

An Immortals Tale: Part 6

The Man In The Black Suit
Part 6
"It's Only Stupid If It Doesn't Work"

Jon's body was slow to move, taking it's time to react to the giant sword coming down on him. Even his mind seemed to have taken a small break at this more than crucial moment, not bringing forth anything that was of any use at all. In fact he had to remind himself later why he was thinking of recipes for potato salad later, but now he had to act fast. He did the only thing he figured he could do: Work a hunch. Many years ago Jon heard that even a holy man could control the most demonic of creatures with a gesture of a hand and the right incantation. He dismissed it as stupid. Now he racked his brain to figure out what the incantation was. The whole idea seemed ubsurd but he thought after a second, 'It's only stupid if it doesn't work."

His hand shot out, missing the descending blade by a breath and he made the sign of the cross, backwards. Down to up, right to left, then he shouted as quickly as he could while still being understandable, "Creature of the inferno in the name of The Lord I hereby command thee!" His hand was still pointing at the creature, his eyes wide, muscles tense as rocks, and a heavy sword resting it's razor sharp edge against the crown of his head, just above his hair. The world was paused. Then the sword lifted and the demon before him began to take a knee, begrudgingly as it was, but it complied. Jon laughed like a madman while he scrambled to his feet, trying to get the chalky, white dust off his suit. He squatted before the creature and adjusted his hair, his grey eyes focused intensely.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those sand grains out of a suit like this? We're going to have a little chat now. Depending on your answers you could either walk away from this or your people can come collect you with a sponge." The demon's eyes were filled with hate and ire, staring at the imoortal as it had to obey every word it was told. "Y....Y-yes....Master..." Jon nodded and let the conversation between two things that should not be begin.

"Who sent you?"
"My clan."
"For revenge?"
"For the honor of justice."
"Because I killed your brother, was it?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Did you know your brother along with five others were at a place with a copy of the Devil's bible and the Spear of Tristen?"
The creature hit it's first wall, "......No. But he was doing his duty to-"
"To the one who abandoned your kind here? To the one that cast you out to be slaughtered on the end of the swords of people like me?"
"........There are things you do not understand..."
"Oh? Like the fact that your kind gets promised a thousand times a day to be sent hom in exchange for your servitude? Or that the Templars still hunt you?"
"Like you know anything, puny human!"
"I'm not human. Far from it. I'm older than your entire race. And I know the promises and the subjugation that your kind has suffered, as well. What's your name?"
"....Krevwath....."
"Okay, Krevwath. Here's the sixty thousand dollar question: What do you know about the ones buying up all the realty the old graveyards stand on?"
"Only one thing...."
"Go on."
"They're human."

Jon stood up and nodded his head, his hand coming up to rub his smoothly shaved chin, deep in thought. Humans mean more trouble than misguided demons and their silly, ancient beliefs. And now he had a solid clue to stand upon as well as the addresses of the graveyards. Money had to be flowing as well as the land moving. He needed to speak to a banker. Usually there'd be some odd nomenclenture that came with the entire banker premise, but this time it was just a banker. Then the issue of the giant, horned, revenge seeking demon at his feet came back around.

Again he squatted before Krevwath and looked deep into the burnt brown eyes of the demon, "You'll not get your revenge today. Or any day. For that matter you no longer serve the one below. You serve me. Now. Go back to your normal life before this quest and I'll summon you when I need you, Krevwath. This is not a mercy. This is my way of showing you the truth of what it is you're claiming to want. Stand and go forth." Jon stood up as did the demon. It stared at Jon for a while then sneered and snorted it's disapproval for all the things Jon had just said. Then it turned, sheathed the giant sword, and walked away.

'Zealots.' Jon thought. 'They make the world blind.' Jon restarted his inturrupted walk to the curb again and his phone chimed, alerting him of new messages. Fingers now wide awake with adrenaline and a mind working a million miles an hour pulled the phone out and checked the newly received news. It was an email from Ricky, the vampiric bartender, with the subject line "Brutal Murder On Capital Street". Jon's face twisted into a puzzled expression as he opened the message and read the first line. Then he froze. The line was plain and easy to read and Jon knew what it meant
.
"Michael Larotche, private banker, gunned down in front of business on capital street."
For once the immortal was behind the line, the enemy a step ahead. And that's never a good way to start a fight. If humanity stood a chance Jon needed to even the odds, and quick. He'd need more than a vial of holy water to do it, so he closed the email and switched to his contact list, scrolled down and hit dial. "Hey there, Peter. I'm going to need some stuff. Be there tonight." He flagged down a passing cab and hung up on the contact named 'Armory'.

The Lady or The Rifle? (Original Short)

She remembered watching them as they entered, guns ready, masks drawn down, voices powerful. Watched as her workers ignored her, she was just an innocent bystander which they'd take hostage, after they'd robbed the bank, of course. All according to plan. The four of them all pushed and bullied the rest of the bank tenants to the floor and her as well, gathering money and getting ready for the final phase: Escape. She remembered the bags so heavy, the M-16 rifles they had, unfired, the entire crowd terse and cooperative.

Then she remembered HIM. He rose from his knees, like a shadow rising during sunset, clad all in black, hands still above his head. She remembers her worker grabbing her and forcing her to her feet, but she couldn't take her eyes off HIM. Then one of the other men approached him and told him to stay down. Or he would have if he had been able to finish the second word. She remembered the speed, the veracity, the power which the man in black moved with. One second her four guys are in control and the next He is attacking like a well trained warrior, wise to the chase. 

The first of her men went down in a flurry of limbs as the magazine from his rifle struck the man holding her in the face, she swears she remembers bones cracking before he slumped to the floor, screaming. The third took aim, but didn't have a chance to fire, the man in black whipped his hand out and with a flash of metal there was a knife stuck through her third man's hand, which gave Him the opportunity to close the gap and put her third down and retrieve his knife. Her fourth man rushed over and grabbed her arm hard, she didn't notice because she couldn't stop looking at Him, he made threatening remarks and brandished his rifle every which way. 

She remembered the tip of the rifle being pushed against her ribs, then she remembers the warm spray of blood across her face. His long arm gently and swiftly lifting and turning her away from the grizzly sight he had just created as the body of her man fell to the ground. It was then and only then she was able to look into his eyes, light blue, sad yet jovial, gentle and fierce all at the same time, aged years beyond his youthful face. She plopped down on her bottom when he ever so gently set her down, right before he smiled and rendered the last of her men unconscious. Weeks later she'd found out everything about him. He was a no one. In the bank that day by accident, he disarmed the whole situation and killed one of the masked robbers, essentially saving her life. Not knowing that she was their ring leader all along. And not knowing He'd just cost her hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Still. She couldn't stop thinking about Him. The way he moved, the violence he wrought with the same gentle hands he used to cradle her away from the horror. She was a professional thief and Violence was a regular part of her life, but He was different. Then the weight of the money came into mind, a single job with a very large payout all gone in His swift actions. Her men demanded freedom and pay. So now she sits in her office staring at a text message, unsure of her answer, "Do we kill him or bring him to you?" She tried so hard to figure out why she kept thinking of Him, why her mind kept returning to that moment when she was in his arms, why she could remember the way he smelled. She looked at the screen and typed an answer then hit send. She gently put her phone on her desk and sat back, deep in thought and waited.

An Immortals Tale: Part 5

The man in the black suit

Part 5 

"Sword Fights Are For Romans"

He Waited a long time, the man in the black suit, longer than he thinks he should have. Another sunless day with grey clouds greeted him as he walked out his door, the seven automatic locks clicking shut behind him. With something as big as trying to merge the three kingdoms people behind this would be looking to do a few things and real estate was number one. Can't raise an army of they have somewhere to stand. 

Although he didn't need to Jon enjoyed eating and drinking all the flavors of the world, so on such a big discovery and the possibilities of a lot of people dying he decided to spoil himself a little bit. On a crowded corner of his city there was a very special place for him: Jim's Hot Dog Stand. "A special with everything on it, my good sir." Jon's smile made the very tall and skinny man smile in return, "Jon! Oh this must be a special day if your here. One special with everything coming right up." Jon waited patiently, hoping for rain, for some reason. Jim handed the paper wrapped confection to his customer and refused the money Jon was trying to hand him. 

Jon smiled and sighed, "Really?" Jim's smile was almost child like in innocence. "Okay." Jon thought for a minute then snapped his fingers, "Ah. Okay. There was no second gunner. Oswald acted alone." Jim iclapped once and laughed out loud. "I knew it! Thanks, Jon!" The two men smiled and shook hands and parted ways. 

The tasty treat was quickly devoured and he kept walking. He took out his phone and sent several emails and text messages, some purposefully sent to the wrong recipients to provoke the right reactions. As soon as the mobile device slipped back into his pocket it started chiming and sounding alerts of emails and text messages being received. Jons grey eyes sparkled with mischief and a sly smile crept across his face. Today would be eventful. 

He had to buy time to let the pot stir so he stopped by a local coffee shop. As he stood in line to get his third favorite beverage of choice he checked the contents of his pockets to make sure that he had all he needed. Vial of holy water? Check. Rosary made of the bones of saints? Check. Pocket bible? Check. Gloves of the great alchemist Mikhael? Check. Double mocha coffee with extra espresso? Check. Time to see the messages he's gotten. 

Two denials, three 'have no idea', and five with fingers pointing to one name: Scud. Jon didn't answer the messages, just to keep the pressure up. But. He had a destination and a name. He polished off his coffee and left a generous tip as he walked out. Luckily one of the messages had an address providing a door to knock on. Or kick down. Either way he'd be doing it with a smile. And depending on his reception an apology. 

Outside in the cold air Jon stood still and let the wind wash over him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the chill atmosphere of the city around him fill his lungs. He let it out slow and hailed a cab, enjoying it all. Inside the cab he gave the address and sat still for the 45 minute ride, his body still slightly chilled from the outside. Grey eyes watched the city change from behind the window of the back seat, the cabbie not wanting to make conversation and Jon more than fine with that. 

The streets changed from the crowded and bustling city to that of warehouses and empty bays of half destroyed buildings. He tried hard not to let his mind wander to memories of his life, instead saying small prayers and going through all the ways to defend himself from demons and all the beasties that could be waiting for him. 

47 minutes after he stepped into the cab it slowed to a stop at his destination. Jon handed the man his fare and again tipped heavily. His expensive shoes landed on a gravel road in front of that seemed to be an old garage. The large door and the skeletons of old cars around the premise giving reason to believe garage. The immortal took a moment to gather himself and steady his nerves then approached the door. The handle gave way and the door swung in. 

Inside there stood a single counter with car parts scattered across it, the walls decorates with nails holding various belt loops and fans, and a single person behind the wooden barrier with car signs all over it. He was a tall man, taller than Jon, with a thin and bony frame, an almost shaved head and a prominent nose between two bright purple eyes. The man held up his hands in a surrendering pose and spoke first, "Look, man, I know who you are and I don't want nothing to do with you!" Jon smiled suspiciously and closed the door behind him, walking towards the counter and letting the nervous man do all the talking. 

The man with the name "Scud" sewn on his mechanics shirt backed up hurriedly and nearly tripped over a chair. "I'm serious man, I don't know anything." Jon let his grey eyes lock on the man and kept a stern look on his face. "Come on, man! I'm just a mechanic, here! I got nothing!" The immortal didn't budge. "Alright! Alright! I'll tell you what I know! Just don't...melt me or anything." Jon gestured for the man to sit down at the counter and the man obliged, albeit very nervously. 

"Start singing, Scud." And he did. "Okay. There's some weird stuff going on in the underworld. Like, a lot of new faces trying to buy old relics. And a group of...demons, not like me, man, but real bad dudes, trying to buy up old graveyards." As he spoke he dry-washed his grimy hands over and over, "My garage here is on top of this old....miners graveyard or something and they came here and tried to buy it. I couldn't sell it cause it's the only place my kind can live, and they got mean with me. They started threatening and smashing stuff and so I compromised with them." Jon leaned in and put a bit of authority in his voice, "Compromised how?" 

Scud was taken aback a little bit, nervousness pouring off him in waves, "I told them a list of old graveyards they could probably buy up. That's it, man! I swear!" Jon nodded, seemingly half satisfied with the information, "Okay, Scud, because you're going to write down that same list for me I won't have to subject you to the old method of getting cooperation: A sword duel. And I must warn you. I'm an expert." The mechanic nodded enthusiastically and brought a piece of paper around and started writing quickly. After he was done he handed the information over and quickly backed away from Jon's hand reaching for it. 

The list was folded up and Jon started walking towards the door, ready to exit when Scud's voice came from behind, "Hey...were you really gonna hack me up in a sword fight or something?" Jon paused at the door and turned back, a big smile on his face, "Of course not. Sword fights are for Romans." He stepped out and slammed the door behind himself, proud of not having to resort to violence. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and began answering all those messages he received, sending an 'All clear' to the recipients. 

As he hit 'Send' on the last message and tucked the phone back into his pocket movement ahead of him caught his eye. He looked up just in time to receive a heavy fist to his left cheek so powerful it lifted him off his feet and sent him back a few feet. After Jon coughed out the white dirt from his lungs that the impact sent flying he tried to focus his vision and looked down his body at the owner of the big hand. 

There stood a hooded demon, horns and a flat, pig face barely visible under the heavy robes. Pain radiated slowly from Jon's now bruised cheek to other parts of his face and he struggled to listen to the words that came from the creature. "For my brother fallen under your hand I will eat your soul, immortal." Jon's face twisted with pain as he tried to recover himself, trying to focus his blurred vision on the method of the next attack. 

Metal sung as the beast drew a scimitar from underneath the heavy robes and started closing the distance between itself and the immortal on the ground. Jon's body was still swimming with pain when the demon lifted the heavy blade above its head.