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Mordred -> RE: =DF= Friday the 13th - Rising Fire! War Stories and Poetry (4/14/2012 22:53:39)
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A darkened shadow flew over the dunes of the Sandsea, visible from below for precious, fleeting seconds. Indistinct in form, it traveled through the air away from a sky that grew lighter as dawn approached. So fast did it cleave its way that when it drew close to the sands below, the air disturbance of its wake kicked up the fine grains violently. As the shadow arced over the top of a particularly high mound of sand, a floating city came into view. It was enveloped by its own night sky, and even had a miniature moon overhead. On the shores of the lack below, signs of struggle could be seen as the defenders of Atrea fought off infernal creatures that poured out of otherworldly portals.
The shadow put forth a greater burst of speed as it sensed dawn’s approach, hoping to dive into the safety of Atrea’s magical night sky. As it drew closer and closer to asylum, the shadow’s form grew more corporeal. Witnesses claim to see the darkness part from the creature to show the pale face of a blond-haired man. The shadowy form dove into Atrea without a sound, and made impact by the obelisk where Isiri tended to Veyla and her confinement spell. The two looked up, startled, so see a man kneeling in the open square, wisps of darkness rising from him like smoke. His face was pale, deathly so, and his locks were a glorious golden blond, falling down slightly below his shoulders like a regal made and concealing half of his face. The one eye they could see was a cold grey color. He wore dark black and crimson clothing; a richly adorned vest, from under which was a bright red shirt with silk hanging from the cuffs, and crisp, tidy pants on his legs. On his feet were pointed, black shoes, as if for tapdancing. On his hands were white gloves as pale as his skin, and hanging on his shoulder was a rich, black cloak, tied by a golden chain resting upon his white cravat.
The man rose to his feet slowly, and flashing a smile with very large canines, said in an elegant European accent: “Good morning, ladies.” The Atealans stood still, too shocked to move. “Now, I’ve had a rather long flight here, narrowly avoiding the sun-a problem I’ve heard you’re no strangers to-, and require a good long rest. Or a nice soak in fresh blood. I don’t think you have any to spare, though.” The vampire looked first at Veyla, then Isiri, hoping for a response. “Oh!” he called out suddenly, as if remembering something. “My, how I’ve forgotten my manners! Count Beaumont, at your service; how may assist you with your infernal infestation?”
When the two Atealans finally recovered from their shock, they realized the vampire was there to aid them in fighting of Wargoth’s army, and not to feast on their blood, or “something as crass as that,” as Beaumont had put it. He was a prominent vampire from deep in Darkovia; mostly keeping to himself, drinking only enough blood to sustain himself, rather than to kill. When Wargoth’s army began to invade, he felt the elemental disturbance, but paid no heed the first time. When a stronger rippled reached him, he set off at once, knowing that the last time was a major war.
The guards were slightly more difficult to convince, though, so the savvy vampire had no choice but to use his charms to brainwash them a little bit. Only enough to convince them he was an ally. A young Atealan boy watching the affair smirked as he noted “These are not the droids you are looking for.” As soon as he secured his stay in the city, he retreated towards the inn, where he slept soundly as the oppressive sun rose in the sky, preventing him from aiding the foreign beings yet.
The vampire quickly became the talk of the city. When he later awoke just as the sun began to set and began to roam about the streets, he heard whispers. “How will he be fed? Won’t he go berserk without blood in time?” “I bet he’ll begin bleeding us try within a few nights. Just you see.” “A man doesn’t come literally out of nowhere like that and offer his help. He must be up to something.” This last statement was… partly true. Lately, the long-lived vampire began to feel… dissatisfied. He’d seen most of what Darkovia and the nearby region had to offer. He had lost sight of a reason to continue to feed and live. A cause greater than himself. And he was on the cusp of something big, something huge. Demons began to invade Lore, and shortly after a rather notable hero disappeared? It was far too much of a coincidence. Some grand machine was revving up for something big; his animalistic instincts could feel it. Now, he was beginning to find a reason to continue. He strove for the Truth.
As the Count reached the outer perimeter of the city, intending to leap down and join the fray now that the light was no longer a hazard, he was stopped by a group of Guardians from Falconreach. “Halt, monster!” one of them, presumably the leader, called out.
Beaumont’s grey eyes rolled in his head. “Good evening, Guardians,” he replied with almost sarcastic civility, gesturing with his hand and bowing as he did so. “That was a fine welcome, might I add.”
“We want you out of here,” the leader said, ignoring the vampire’s cordiality. “My men don’t like the thought of fighting beside the likes of you.”
“Hmmm, it really does seem I was wrong,” the vampire began. “You humans really do seem to stride backwards in common sense.”
At this, the commander began to raise his barbed blade in anger. Before it was raised above his head, though, another Guardian held his arm back. “Kain, sir, you don’t want to do this,” he advised, struggling to hold onto his leader’s arm. “It’s not a fight you’d win.”
Kain gruffly broke free of his soldier’s grasp, but willingly stayed his blade… for now. “I’ll say it again; leave.”
“You, sir-Kain, was it?-have no control over my actions. I wish neither you nor your men any harm, but should I be threatened, I will retaliate, and it shan’t be pretty.” As the Count said this, his eyes flashed red briefly, and his pupils became cat-like slits in that instant.
“If your teeth find their way into a human neck…” Guardian Kain threatened, a vein on his neck throbbing. He did not finish his sentence, but stormed off towards his headquarters in the city’s center, his Guardians in tow.
Pleased by this, the creature of the night leapt over the edge of the city, shadows and wisps of darkness enveloping his lithe form as he fell…
Beaumont alighted in the sand without a whisper of a sound, the shadows around his body dissipating as he did. He was behind the portals, so as to attack from behind and thus avoid unnecessary confrontations with Atrea’s defenders. People didn’t take too kindly to his kind. For this reason he was stalking his prey far away from the frontlines. Even as he slowly strode through the still-warm sand, he could see the portals below him, with their infernal armies emerging seemingly endlessly.
“Let’s partake in some good old fashioned fun with this,” the vampire said sadistically, a savage, toothy grin on his pale visage of a face, his visible grey eye gleaming in his excitement. Black markings suddenly came into being on the fabric of his gloves in the form of pentagrams with strange phrases written in the spidery language of the undead around the points of the star. The symbols began to glow a cold blue around the edges as the count leaned forward. The sand below his feet were covered by a sheet of solid ice by his magic, and a trail of ice began to snake its way over the dunes, leading straight into the lines of the infernals.
Just as the ice was newly formed, Beaumont was sliding across its surface, propelled by an unseen force at a breakneck pace. In his wake, spikes and thorns of ice rose out of the trail and sand, leaving a path difficult to tread. But, just like the shadow-creature, it would be gone by morning, reduced to a memory of a puddle long-lost to the ever thirsty sands. That night, the dunes would greedily quench their thirst with the hot blood of demons.
The Count dashed past a large, hornet-like insect, slicing through its thorax with a hand covered in a sheet of ice. The other infernals blinked in surprise as its body exploded for seemingly no reason. Only the golems wielding barbed blades of Fire could comprehend what had happened, for they took notice of the ice trail left in the creature’s wake. Growling savagely, they took up their weapons, challenging the assailant to come out and fight.
“I smell weakness…” one of them hissed angrily. “You there, worm!” it cried out, pointing towards a red, goblin-like creature with a hat. “Be on your guard; this goes for all of you pathetic, lowly creatures!” Suddenly alert, all of the infernals grew cautions; they were lighter on their feet, and casting glances all about. They were waiting for their invisible foe to confront them. However, more creatures of Wargoth’s armies were emerging into Lore, and found their selves being held up by this group of infernals who would not move and risk compromising their positions.
“What’s the holdup over here?” another golem of ash cried out harshly as it confronted a fellow golem. “Why are you holding up the line?”
“There’s fresh blood to be spilt here,” another golem replied, a grim pleasure in its unearthly voice. Hearing this, the arriving infernals joined in on the wait, and they did not have to wait for long. Out of the gloom of the darkness came shards of ice, hurled through the air at several infernals, who collapsed into motionless heaps of limbs and bodies almost immediately.
“Grah, where are you?” an Ashen Squire cried out in fury as an imp ran off into the murk, laughing as its flames lit up the night. Before it got far, though, it was fully encased in ice as a heavy mist fell upon it from the silhouette of a man. “There you are!” the golem called out triumphantly, raising its blade as it rushed in for the kill.
Just as the blade began to fall upon the man’s darkened form, the vampire sidestepped within the blink of an eye, easily dodging the blow. Before the infernal golem could cry out in fury, a spike of solid ice emerged from the sand, and the golem’s own momentum impaled it, ending whatever artificial life it had possessed.
The creature of the night strode unfazed towards the line of infernals, bloodlust in his eye. As soon as they caught sight of him in the darkness, a group of about a dozen imps rushed at their foe, laughing madly as they ran with flames in hand. They did not get very far before the sand was frozen over, and their feet restrained by ice. When they found they could not move, the imps blinked stupidly, unable to comprehend this twist of events. Before it dawned on them that they could use their Fire magics to free their selves, shards of ice flew from the vampire’s fingertips, striking with lethal accuracy.
Just as those demons were downed, however, the flaming beetles and large wasp-like creatures challenged Beaumont, closing in on him with mandibles flexing hungrily and wings stirring every few moments. Flashing his inhuman teeth, the Count focused pure Cold elemental energies in his hand, creating a whip out of the element commonly known as Ice that had a temperature of Absolute Zero. He flicked the whip idly in the air as he drew closer to his prey cautiously. Then, without warning, he lashed out with the whip, slicing the head off of one of the wasps in one clean blow. He then changed his momentum, sending the whip down upon a beetle, crushing its thick exoskeleton and sending its oily juices flying.
The vampire almost danced about with his lethal whip, slaying infernals with ease. As soon as one was downed, another would emerge to take its place. Through the night the combatants danced, a ring of bodies forming a sort of dancing stage for the immortal monster as they were felled. With a mix of magic and a flick of his whip, Beaumont was able to hold a large portion of the line streaming from this portal back from the city, until he could feel the dawn approaching. As the sky began to lighten, and the stars fad, the vampire took flight, retreating into the safety of Atrea, leaving behind what looked like a heartless massacre of demons in the desert.
Count Beaumont von Blutseele followed an almost rigid schedule of sleep in the day and slaughter in the night, refraining from feeding on any blood as the days passed, for his hunger amplified his powers, even as they dulled his sharp mind. Five days of warfare had passed since he arrived, and the infernals were just as persistent as ever, pouring out endlessly despite all efforts.
It was on the sixth night, when Beaumont’s powers were nearly at their zenith from starvation, that this schedule was changed. The vampire alighted down near the shore of the lake for a change, so as to admire the reflection of the moon in the still water before he engaged in his nocturnal activities. He resolved that on this night, he would have to feed on the blood of an imp, or else risk going into a frenzy within the city. As he grimaced at the thought, he heard the distinct noise of a gun’s hammer being pulled back from behind him. Driven by instinct, he whirled about and stepped to the side just as three silver bullets bathed in water blessed with Light magic whizzed through the air where he had stood only milliseconds before.
Standing before the Count were two men; one in heavy full plate armor, trimmed in gold and carrying wards against Darkness, and a hefty halberd with two blades rather than the traditional one in his hands; another in the black leather garb of the Shadowslayers, with a smoking gun in hand.
“Ah, you do not fail to disappoint,” the Shadowslayer said in a suave voice as he lowered his gun. “I feared it would have been far easier than your repertoire would suggest.” His voice had an almost musical trill to it, suggesting either magical charms to disarm foes and woo women, or merely an exotic voice.
“Repertoire, you say?” the vampire replied in kind. “So, then, you know of me.”
“Lord of the Night,” the paladin began to breathe from under his helmet in a muffled voice with vehemence, “the Blood Walker, Demon of the Cold, ShadowStalker, MistWeaver, you have many foul names, vampyre. Each more chilling and hair-raising than the last. You may claim to keep to yourself in your estate, but I know your history. You were not always so indifferent to mankind.”
In what remained of his heart, the creature felt a twinge of regret, but it was fleeting. “You do seem quite familiar with me, then,” Beaumont said in a cold voice, his eye gleaming as a savage smile split his face. “Then you both know that you’ll die this night?”
Without hesitation, the paladin leapt forth, brandishing his weapon and bringing it down on the smaller, lithe man’s form. There was a strange thud noise as the Count intercepted the handle of the weapon with a single hand, holding back the savage blow without the slightest hint of effort. The paladin grimaced from under his helmet as he started into his foe’s unblinking eye and twisted visage, trying to overcome his supernatural strength. However, he did not need to as the ShadowSlayer fired off a round into the vampire’s arm, distracting his efforts with a flash of pain. The halberd twisted to the side and fell solidly into the sand, barley missing its target’s shoulder.
Enraged, the supernatural creature grasped the pauldron of the paladin’s armor in his left hand as he released his magics, sending a cold wave down the metal plating and effectively freezing the warrior of Light’s arm. With his wounded right arm, bleeding a slow-flowing, incredibly dark blood, he punched the paladin’s breastplate solidly, sending the man reeling back without a weapon in hand. With the paladin temporarily dealt with, he turned his attention to the ShadowSlayer, who was drawing out an enchanted sword has he began to raise his gun once more. Just as he fired, Beaumont summoned up a wall of solid ice, several inches thick, stopping the bullets mere millimeters from piercing clean through the sheet of ice. Before the human could react, blasts of Cold energy disarmed him and froze his hands, while a sheet of ice trailed along the floor and froze his feet without warning, leaving him flailing.
The vampire turned around to see the paladin had freed his arm and reclaimed his weapon, now coming in with a furious assault. The Count easily dodged the first few swipes of the axe, but the paladin suddenly changed tactics without warning, sending out a beam of Light from his palm upon the vampire, sending a burning sensation all over his body, and an especial pain in the wound on his arm. Shadows enveloped his form as he darted with inhuman speed into the water of the lake, which froze over as soon as he dived into its depths.
The paladin, with light in one hand and his axe in the other, began to cautiously tread across the ice, peering down to try to detect his foe underneath it. “Stop, you fool!” the ShadowSlayer cried out in vain to his ally, who did not heed him. As the paladin drew closer to the center of the lake, a gloved hand, now with claws tearing through the fingertips, began to reach up through the ice as if it weren’t even there, following the warrior’s heavy footsteps with increasing speed as it rose higher. Then, in a flash of dark clothes, Beaumont burst through the surface of the ice, unbroken thanks to his curious magics. He grabbed the paladin by the neck with his clawed hands and easily dragged him under the ice, again causing no harm. Even from afar, the ShadowSlayer could hear the muffled screams of his companion in the water, until all was silent.
While this had been going on, the suave slayer of dark creatures had been struggling against the ice that restrained him, and managed to break free and reclaim his weapons as Beaumont came out of the lake once more, striding to his solitary foe as a lion stalks its prey. Stricken with fear, the ShadowSlayer fired round after round into the vampire’s body, drawing more and more blood with each hit. After several rounds, the Count began to fall to his knees, seemingly unable to overcome his injuries.
“Hah, this is the mighty Beaumont von Blutseele?” the man cried out with confidence as he strode closer to his foe’s injured form, firing a round into him with each step. “You may have been one to the greatest vampires to walk upon the surface of Lore, but even you are no match for my Hydra!” The hunter of nighthunters was referring to his gun, which had three barrels for firing three bullets at a time. It had been crafted specially for Beaumont, taking his great powers into mind. “You are powerless before me!” the human continued, almost raving. “I, who have vanquished you, shall become Darkovian legend! Even Safiria will have fear of me in the recesses of her monstrous heart!”
The vampire’s body suddenly flared up, surrounded by a mass of shadows which sent him higher and higher, until Beaumont towered a full twenty feet over the ShadowSlayer, only his upper body and face visible in a mass of swirling Darkness. The cowering man continued to fire of his rounds, to no avail. “What is it, puny mortal?” the Count cried out in a truly savage voice, no longer his own. “I thought you had vanquished me! Why don’t you end it right now?” The leather-clad man could only throw down his weapon and begin to scramble in the sand for safety. “Come on, finish me!” the dark creature goaded. “FINISH ME!!” Tentacles of Darkness emerged from the shadowy mass of the vampire, grasping the fleeing prey by the legs. He struggled at first, so much that in fury, Beaumont tore off the man’s leg at the knee. At the sight of the spurting blood, the vampire’s eyes turned red, and his pupils became cat-like slits. Unable to hold back any longer, he descended down upon the mortal, the sounds of screaming filling the Sandsea air as the creature fed to its content.
“Explain yourself,” Guardian Kain said sternly as he motioned towards the ragged, torn remains of a once luxurious leather jacket. Sitting atop the shreds was the pointed, wide-brimmed had the ShadowSlayer had worn, strangely intact.
“Whatever do you mean?” von Blutseele said with agitation. He had been sleeping in his uncomfortable bed in the inn(while comfortable by most standards, the Count was suited to sleeping in his coffin) when Guardians had roughly woken him and dragged him towards Kain’s headquarters, despite his resistance.
“This is what we didn’t bury of the man found by the lake,” the Guardian seethed, grasping the edge of his make-shift war table in an iron grip. So overcome with emotion was he that the wood was snapping and crunching between his armored fingers. “His… remains were completely drained of blood. You try explaining to or showing me how you aren’t responsible for this!” When he had said “remains,” Beaumont couldn’t help but mutter “leftovers” under his breath.
The vampire suddenly grew indignant, his eye smoldering with anger like a hot coal. “Are you insinuating that I fed upon an ‘innocent’ man?”
“Oh, I’ll do more than insinuate!”
“You assume this man was innocent without even hearing me out. I was on my way to assist in holding back Wargoth’s minions when this impudent ShadowSlayer and his lout of a companion attempted to slay me. I acted almost purely in self-defense.”
Kain was overcome by a bout of rage at this response. He flipped over the table with its map and troops and strategies as he made incoherent attempts to speak. After fuming like this for a few moments, he stomped over to Beaumont, shoving his finger into his pale face. “You are a monster; a blood-sucking, murderous monster! You have no self-defense! We can’t even find what’s left of the paladin; we only have his armor! You should have been destroyed, not those men!”
The Count was as unmoving as stone as Kain almost literally barked in his face. He was a good few inches taller than the human, so he was looking down upon his display of hatred and anger. He took a deep intake of breath through his nose and exhaled loudly, showing his displeasure with the Guardian’s outburst. While the stench of his inhuman breath made the human’s eyes water, he turned around sharply, attempting to make his exit into the city square.
“Where do you think you-“ the commander barked back, only to be cowed into silence as he stared down the three barrels of the Hydra, now pointed directly at his face. The vampire had taken a liking to its design and lethality, and took it up as his own to modify upon his return to his estate.
“I don’t answer to you, or anybody else. Including Safiria,” von Blutseele said with a chillingly cold voice that made Kain’s spine tingle. “I will be leaving this room unharmed, and will continue in my usual nocturnal activities of late tonight, despite what has just occurred. Should you or any of your men or women try to stop me in any way, I will take action.” He began to leave once more, before a thought came upon him and stopped him in his tracks. He quickly darted past Kain and snatched up the leather hat, placing it atop his head as his shadowy form darted through the door within a blink of the eye.
An ice shard flew through the night air, embedding itself within the red face of a thin kilhoh golem and downing it in a single blow. Beaumont came forth, kicking the remains of the golem aside as he walked on. Behind him were some Atealans and a human knight of the Pactogonal Table known as Sir Mordred. The vampire was altogether not opposed to the young man he had very quickly accepted the monster as an ally in this war.
“That appears to be the last of them…” the vampire called out to his companions, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.
“I think you should look again…” Mordred said warily as he raised his visor with one hand and pointed into the distance with another. The Count cast his gaze over to see another rift forming, this one much larger than the last. “It’s so huge…” the knight murmured as he replaced his visor. “It’s going to be a big one all right…”
They watched in awe as the massive rift formed, and in its depths they could see nothing but blames. “Wait, that’s not Somorah…” one of the Atealans said in confusion.
“Well, if it’s not Somorah, then where is it?” the knight questioned, hesitation in his voice.
“It’s your Elemental Plane of Fire,” the Atealan replied. It was then the rift belched out a wave of flames as it closed. It its place was a pillar of fire that burned brightly and slowly died down to reveal a feminine elemental.
“Is that?” Mordred began.
“Fiamme…” Beaumont muttered under his breath as he pulled the brim of his new hat down over his eyes. “This demon is powerful indeed if he can hold the Elemental Avatar of Fire under his sway.”
The Pactogonal Knight unfurled his rich purple cloak away from him, revealing his shining armor. A spear suddenly materialized in his hand in a flash of white light. It was rather simplistic, with a three-foot long shaft of metal topped with a broad head with wicked barbs and flanges on its edges. Hanging on the shaft just below the head was a large black feather, purportedly a good-luck charm from a friend of the knight. It was far too large to be from any birds or feathered creatures von Blutseele was familiar with, and he had seen a good many different birds in his long life.
“We have no choice but to fight, then,” the knight stated as he sank the shaft of his spear into the sand. “Hopefully, if we can manage to defeat her, Wargoth’s hold over her will break, just as Veyla’s was broken.”
“This is an Elemental Avatar,” the vampire said as he wagged his finger. “The chances of victory are slim to none.”
“We have to try, regardless,” Mordred insisted, folding his arms. “If we don’t, she’ll be ‘free’ to wreak havoc for Wargoth. I’ll go in with my spear, while you take her on from afar. Together, we could pull this off, depending on how strong his hold on her is.”
Before the Count could protest, Mordred was off, spear in hand and his cloak trailing behind him. The creature of the night sighed heavily as he pulled out his new Hydra, which he had rechristened the Typhon. The gun had been slightly altered in that the bullets it fired off were now cursed with a spell that made them home in one targets and hit multiple times before returning to the chamber of the gun, rather than being blessed with Light magic. It wasn’t quite yet his weapon, but it was getting there.
Gun in hand, the vampire dashed towards the Avatar at a superhuman speed, kicking up sand in his wake. The knight was still charging at his foe, his spear thrust forward for the strike. The possessed Fiamme failed to notice him as he drew near; she was too busy reducing the dunes of the Sandsea into an inferno. Just when the spear was about to embed itself into her body, she whirled around, a wall of fire slamming into Sir Mordred and sending his spear to the ground. He ignored the burning pain of being engulfed in fire and shot a small bolt of lightning out of his hand, striking Fiamme on her shoulder and forcing her to lose focus over her flames. While she backed out of his reach, the knight reclaimed his spear and took up a defensive stance.
It was then that Beaumont was within range of his target, away from the fray and atop the surrounding dunes. With Typhon in his right hand and a glowing orb of Ice magic in his right, he began to assail his foe from afar. A barrage of bullets guided by dark magic and projectiles of Cold pelted the Avatar from afar, attracting her attention. She looked up, gazing at her new foe with a fire in her eyes that was not her own. She responded in kind, sending her own barrage of magics at him He was too fast, though, and dashed off to the side while drawing nearer, firing off his own magics as he did so. Typhon was out of ammunition for the moment, and until he heard the distinctive click of his bullets returning to their chambers, he would have to rely on himself.
If only I hadn’t fed last night… Beamont thought to himself as flames licked at his heels. I’m too weak to try to finish this in one blow… Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mordred coming in with his spear once more. It was now crackling with Energy as blue bolts of power coursed through its metal, lending to its already lethal power. With Fiamme focused on von Blutseele, the knight was able to come in closer, and was slashing at her elemental form with the head of his spear. She cried out with agony as it ripped through her body, but the wounds it caused were quickly healed, for her body was comprised of pure Fire.
The Avatar screamed with rage as she turned on Mordred. Gouts of flame erupted from her hands and bathed the knight in an inferno, leaving him barely protected by his magical purple cloak, which he used as a shield. He shied away from her as he held up his cloak defensively, avoiding getting singed as best as he could. Fiamme say that his cloak was capable of holding off her flames like that, so instead began to gather up all of her energy into her right hand, aiming to fry him with one blow his cloak couldn’t possibly protect against.
The vampire saw the peril his ally was in and rushed to his rescue, darting between the flames that still dotted the desert landscape. Just as Fiamme felt the energy was satisfactory, the undead Count was grasping her right hand in his left, pushing as much Cold energy into her as he could while he confronted her. Face-to-face with the vampire, the possessed Avatar let out an animalistic shriek, before speaking in a deep, rumbling voice that was not her own.
“Why do you resist, pathetic man?” Wargoth sneered through his minion. “I have power enough to crush you should we meet face to face.”
“I need… something to fight for,” the vampire replied as he winced at the pain of grasping and trying to contain Fiamme’s magic.
“Then know that I fight for something far greater than you ever could,” the warlord said with Fiamme’s mouth. “He is coming. I prepare now for the fight that looms even now.”
“Who is coming?” the Count questioned as he cried out with pain. The flames were almost too much for his cold plod, and he could feel himself falling to one knee before his foe.
“You’ll never know, for you die this day!” Fiamme put forth another burst of magic through her arm, increasing the pain Beaumont was feeling even more. She grinned as she sensed victory was nigh, and pressed ever harder against her foe.
The vampire put forth a final effort against his foe, this time pouring Darkness as well as Ice energy through his hand, almost crushing Fiamme’s hand in his inhuman grip. Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, his combined powers pushed back the Avatar’s strength, and began to extinguish the flames of her arm. Eyes widened, the possessed elemental said with a snarl “If you won’t die, then I’ll leave you with a parting gift…” Just as the vampire felt he could do no more, his foe fell to her knees, her body only glowing warmly and the fire in her eyes extinguished. Unable to hold on anymore, von Blutseele released his grip on her hand as he felt his consciousness fading. As he fell backwards, he saw Sir Mordred come to his side, and Fiamme gaze shamefully at his left hand with eyes that were now her own. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the Atealans rush towards him as they cried out his name. Then, all was black…
Beaumont awoke to find himself in the makeshift infirmary that had been set up in the opera house of Atrea. He was in a soft white bed, which he still found to be uncomfortable. He tried to get up, only to hear a voice from his side say “Easy there… You need time to recover.” The vampire sat himself up, with his hands folded on his lap underneath the white covers, despite the voice cautioning against it. He looked over to his left, where the voice had come from, to see Mordred there, garbed in his armor, but without his helm and missing a gauntlet. His hand was wrapped up to staunch what looked like severe bleeding.
“I’d like to, ah, um, well…” the knight began awkwardly, scratching his head as he thought of how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Thanks,” he said finally, bobbing his head with its short-cut, brown hair with satisfaction.
“For what?” the vampire questioned, a tad confused.
“For, well, ah, you know…” Mordred said, flustered. “Saving my life and all.” He had an embarrassed expression on his face; a knight does not enjoy admitting he owes his life to another man.
“Oh, that,” the Count said wistfully, remembering what had happened. “It was no big deal.”
“Welcome back to the land of the unliving,” another man’s voice said from Beaumont’s right. Surprised, von Blutseele turned to see Kain sitting upon another bed, also without his helmet and a gauntlet, with his exposed hand also bandaged.
“Guardian Kain,” the vampire said in surprise with a barest hint of hostility in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
The Guardian looked down at a spot between his feet, either in thought or in a state of regret. “I-I came to make sure you were okay,” he said sheepishly. “I-I saw what you did from the lookout tower, and got details from Sir Mordred and Isiri.”
“That’s… kind of you,” the Count said with surprise and kindness in his voice.
“I’d… I’d also like to apologize,” the Guardian continued, looking up into Beaumont’s grey eye.
“I-I was out of line when we last met. I didn’t… didn’t mean what I said. I’ve hated vampires ever since… Well, I-I’ve hated vampires. A-and I held that against you. It-It was wrong of me. After what y-you did the other day, I could-couldn’t admit as a Guardian that you weren’t an ally. M-most men, my-myself included, wouldn’t have been able to do… To do what you did that day. So, I’m-“
“Apology accepted,” the monster replied matter-of-factly.
Guardian Kain was dumbfounded. “Er, well… I didn’t… Didn’t think you’d forgive me so-so quickly.”
“We vampires can’t afford to hold grudged. We live a long time. And… And I need to apologize as well. I certainly wasn’t very friendly towards you, or your men.”
Kain simply nodded his head dumbly a few times, before leaping up from the bed. “Good… good talk,” he said somewhat awkwardly before taking his leave. The vampire was left with a slight grin on his face over these events.
Beaumont turned back to Mordred, who had been looking about the room as the two men had talked to one another. “So… What’s with the bandages you two have?” he questioned the knight, an eyebrow raised.
“Well, some of us decided we could take a little prick to the hand and pool up some blood for ya,” the young man replied as he rubbed his wrapped hand. “We knew you need it to heal up. “
“Thank you,” the vampire said, genuine gratitude in his voice. “This was your idea?”
“No, no actually. It was all Kain’s.”
The monster was left dumbfounded by this statement. Inside his feeling for the human defender had changed. He didn’t like him, but he had a newfound respect for him. “I truly do need to thank that man.”
“Hmmm… Isiri will be in soon with a fresh batch some Guardians donated. She’ll be glad to see you can drink it without help this time.”
The vampire then pulled his hands out from under the covers, to see if he could lift something to his lips like this. He gazed down with horror upon his left hand; the skin was blackened and scarred almost all the way up to his elbow, and on the outside of his hand was a glowing red mark that seemed to warm his entire arm. It was not withered up, and it could still feel sensation, for his vampiric nature had healed it of the actual damage it had caused. However, it could not heal the scar left behind, nor could it make that strange, glowing red marking on his hand.
“Nirios says that’s the mark of Wargoth,” Mordred said apprehensively. “You’re lucky to be around; Fiamme said she had weakened her own powers, and that when Wargoth realized you could overcome them, he decided to leave his mark.”
With Atrea safe, Count Beaumont von Blutseele returned to his estate in Darkovia as soon as the Atealans would allow him to leave their care. In his estate, he worked upon the Typhon and a gauntlet for his scarred, marked hand. The gun was now crafted out of blackened metal, and the special bullets the vampire carried could not only strike many times and return to his gun to be fired once more, but also drained their victims of their stamina and gave it to the gunman, strengthening him as they grew weaker.
The Count was standing atop the battlements of his castle, gazing up into the full moon as his cloak trailed in the wind. His appearance was unchanged, except for the leather hat and the gauntlet that he now worse in lieu of his former glove on his left hand. It was crafted from darkened gold, and segmented to allow full mobility. The fingers were fashioned in the likeness of claws, and when balled into a fist, the knuckles and joints of his fingers would each be a savage spike. The fabric underneath was of black leather, which also kept it clasped on his arm. On the outside of his hand burned that bright red mark of Wargoth, glowing just as brightly on the metal as it did on his scarred hand.
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