Chapter 210: 210
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An unspoken air of conviction passes between the two opposing vampires. Their bodies tense, their eyes flare. The final battle has begun.
Soren and Azrael circle each other like vultures going in for the kill, their eyes darting, teeth flashing, snarls ripping from their throats as they prowl to decide which one of them will be going away with the prize of their life.
Upon first glance, one might presume that the dark haired king with mighty horns halloing his head as the upper hand: his immaculate, marble body is unscathed, barely a ruffle in his clothes and for the most part is unperturbed by the creature that faces him. His aura gleams with darkness, lashing out with talons and coiling whips of darkness that hunger for the flesh and blood of his opponent to be spilt onto the frigid stone floor before him.
Such is the nature of a vampire fight- a fight to the death that is nothing short of grim. For while a vampire may be immortal, it does not make them invincible.
And yet his opponent, the white haired fiend who has built a reputation on deception and lies, while his body is in a sorry state, torn and ripped and flayed in places, like an animal for slaughter, behind his eyes, his mind is racing. This will not be a clean fight. But it was never intended to be.
Watching the two of them circle, my mind turns and revolves like a water wheel, flickering over solutions, answers, anything that might help me make sense of the situation. Desperately I clutch onto Kal's tail, Ithuriel squished by my side as my thoughts race over what might offer answers the the problems that Azrael has posed. But no answers come, no insight into Azrael's plans, only the jarring zapping of magic, and those haunting red eyes.
Whatever Azrael is thinking, he leaves no clues to trace.
A whooshing noise alerts me to my surroundings as Soren raises his hand, rising with him two shadowy wolves that spit and growl at their contender before them. They appear from the shadows as swift and silent as the night washes over the land, red eyes glowing with a lusty menace, their shadowy fur shifting in an unknown breeze that echoes around the room. I have since come to learn that those wolves- hell hounds, are a part of his souls power, the ability to summon these guardians of hell. It is a rare treat to see them put to action, but an equally grim reminder of the battle that plays out before me, and what exactly their presence entails.
Lifting a finger, Soren points them towards Azrael, a silent gesture, but it is all he needs. With one swift leap through the air, they charge into action.
There is no contest. Not even a fraction. Soren's magic is far superior to that of Azrael, this fact is more obvious than the elvish love for vampires, and even that would be an understatement.
The wolves gnash and claw at Azrael with a vehement ferocity, swiping at his clothes, biting at his neck, aiming for the scrap of skin where my blood remains printed against his flesh. Barely, Azrael manages to dodge any lethal attacks, but soon the white haired vampire doused in a sheen of perspiration, his footsteps light, but his breaths heavy. He is starting to slow.
But the cycle of these hellish creatures is as never ending as Soren's bloodlust. Each time they attack, swipe out with their lethal claws and shadowy teeth, pointed like razors, Azrael barely scrapes away from the encounter in tact. But Soren's will is relentless.
Occasionally Azrael finds himself being caught up in their grasp once more, stumbling, his red eyes flaring with rage at his calm and collected brother before him, who directs the wolves with swirling wisps of darkness and subtle gestures of his hand, hardly even fazed. It appears Soren does not even want to leave his brother a chance at survival. But with the things he has done, I can hardly blame him.
To have gone from someone trapped and fighting for his life, to a dominant tyrant intent on destroying his brother so completely he wouldn't even need to wipe the floor of his remains, its just so… Soren.
"Your wolves are a menace, Soren," Azrael mutters with a snarling growl, dancing round the room in a series of dodges and weaves as he continues to bat away the wolves. Or at least try's to, with a pearly iridescent magic that sends their claws rebounding off some sort of shield in mid air. Most of the time, however, his reflexes are far too slow.
Soren on the other hand, continues to dart around the room with a frightening speed, an ominous aura building up like a blockade around him.
"Like I'd care. You should have learned to fight them before engaging in battle with me, before trying to extract my soul and take my wife" Soren half snickers half spits across the room.
"Like I had a choice in the matter, you were going to kill me either way," Azrael says through gritted teeth, but Soren does not care.
"Then fight for your life. Let's see how much you have earned it. brother," Soren whispers, lifting coiling tendrils of magic trailing up from his hand in tandem with the wolves. The magic darts from the ground, binding around his leg, snapping him in place. A brief look of panic washes over Azrael's features, before he slashes down with his hand, and a second later the smokey tendril is cut right through.
For a moment, I lean forward on my perch at Kal's tail, eyes widening, the hairs on the back of my arm rising in alarm.
If Azrael can cut through Soren's magic, then perhaps they aren't so unevenly matched? Similar worried buzz through my mind like a hornet of bees in frantic search of a hive, fleeting and darting with concerns and apprehensive thoughts that muddle my mind into a weary submission. Perhaps there is some danger after all?
But as quickly as they came, my concerns are disproved, just as Soren waves a hand to reclaim to coils of tendinous magic and let it circle in his palm. Besides that, Azrael looks exhausted: sweat sheening his brow, his movements becoming sluggish by fatigue. Whatever he appeared to have summoned to cut through Soren's magic, at best it must have drained him extensively.
The wolves snap and snarl at Azrael, backing him further and further into the wall.
"I am glad you could at least take a minor version of my magic, perhaps you aren't as pitiful as I thought, little brother," Soren splits, cracking his fingers out as fresh, blackened shadows coil around his form, clawing the air with a rotten blackness. Magic crackles through the air.
"I am not pitiful," Azrael spits, throwing a projectile of the opalescent light at Soren, but it merely collides harmlessly against his skin, exploding in a shatter of silvery fragments against his chest.
Soren lowers his eyes, as if to say: point proven.
But nevertheless, Azrael continues, fanatic and rambling as he makes his best attempts to fend off the wolves and the ever approaching Soren.
"I know where the souls are, Soren. I could find them if I wished, use them. That is more than you can say, and I almost had both of you too. Perhaps that lovely wife of yours might have even come along to help me with my endeavours- if she wasn't so obstinate."
It doesn't take a genius to realise that Azrael is trying to wind Soren up, to aggravate him, make him lose control, spin a rage as I have so often seen within the palace. And unfortunately- for Azrael that is- Soren is the most temperamental, protective creature I have known in the whole of Faey, and Azrael is pushing all the right buttons.
Soren roars.
"You will not hurt anyone else, you bastard."
As the Scarlet Prince leaps forward, his form begins to flicker and shift, black markings appearing on his hands, swirling black tattoos that are stark against the pale while of his skin. His body glows with a raw power, wings lengthening out as he glides across the air, hands outstretched into claws, rage consuming him. I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, yet so entirely terrifying.
The gaunt shadows of his body lengthen as it configures into that of a monster, half demon, half vampire, his eyes jet black with rage, fingers shaking as magic bursts from their tips, diving straight towards Azrael. It is as though a figment of his soul is burst into cognition, rippling out from every orifice and causing the scarlet Prince to expand with power.
Now with possession of the last fragment of his soul, there is no question about it- his power is unmatchable.
"You know, Azrael, I am getting very bored of your games. In fact, you have been boring me for a very, very long time. Between you and me, it might be about time to snuff out that little problem- don't you think?"
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An unspoken air of conviction passes between the two opposing vampires. Their bodies tense, their eyes flare. The final battle has begun.
Soren and Azrael circle each other like vultures going in for the kill, their eyes darting, teeth flashing, snarls ripping from their throats as they prowl to decide which one of them will be going away with the prize of their life.
Upon first glance, one might presume that the dark haired king with mighty horns halloing his head as the upper hand: his immaculate, marble body is unscathed, barely a ruffle in his clothes and for the most part is unperturbed by the creature that faces him. His aura gleams with darkness, lashing out with talons and coiling whips of darkness that hunger for the flesh and blood of his opponent to be spilt onto the frigid stone floor before him.
Such is the nature of a vampire fight- a fight to the death that is nothing short of grim. For while a vampire may be immortal, it does not make them invincible.
And yet his opponent, the white haired fiend who has built a reputation on deception and lies, while his body is in a sorry state, torn and ripped and flayed in places, like an animal for slaughter, behind his eyes, his mind is racing. This will not be a clean fight. But it was never intended to be.
Watching the two of them circle, my mind turns and revolves like a water wheel, flickering over solutions, answers, anything that might help me make sense of the situation. Desperately I clutch onto Kal's tail, Ithuriel squished by my side as my thoughts race over what might offer answers the the problems that Azrael has posed. But no answers come, no insight into Azrael's plans, only the jarring zapping of magic, and those haunting red eyes.
Whatever Azrael is thinking, he leaves no clues to trace.
A whooshing noise alerts me to my surroundings as Soren raises his hand, rising with him two shadowy wolves that spit and growl at their contender before them. They appear from the shadows as swift and silent as the night washes over the land, red eyes glowing with a lusty menace, their shadowy fur shifting in an unknown breeze that echoes around the room. I have since come to learn that those wolves- hell hounds, are a part of his souls power, the ability to summon these guardians of hell. It is a rare treat to see them put to action, but an equally grim reminder of the battle that plays out before me, and what exactly their presence entails.
Lifting a finger, Soren points them towards Azrael, a silent gesture, but it is all he needs. With one swift leap through the air, they charge into action.
There is no contest. Not even a fraction. Soren's magic is far superior to that of Azrael, this fact is more obvious than the elvish love for vampires, and even that would be an understatement.
The wolves gnash and claw at Azrael with a vehement ferocity, swiping at his clothes, biting at his neck, aiming for the scrap of skin where my blood remains printed against his flesh. Barely, Azrael manages to dodge any lethal attacks, but soon the white haired vampire doused in a sheen of perspiration, his footsteps light, but his breaths heavy. He is starting to slow.
But the cycle of these hellish creatures is as never ending as Soren's bloodlust. Each time they attack, swipe out with their lethal claws and shadowy teeth, pointed like razors, Azrael barely scrapes away from the encounter in tact. But Soren's will is relentless.
Occasionally Azrael finds himself being caught up in their grasp once more, stumbling, his red eyes flaring with rage at his calm and collected brother before him, who directs the wolves with swirling wisps of darkness and subtle gestures of his hand, hardly even fazed. It appears Soren does not even want to leave his brother a chance at survival. But with the things he has done, I can hardly blame him.
To have gone from someone trapped and fighting for his life, to a dominant tyrant intent on destroying his brother so completely he wouldn't even need to wipe the floor of his remains, its just so… Soren.
"Your wolves are a menace, Soren," Azrael mutters with a snarling growl, dancing round the room in a series of dodges and weaves as he continues to bat away the wolves. Or at least try's to, with a pearly iridescent magic that sends their claws rebounding off some sort of shield in mid air. Most of the time, however, his reflexes are far too slow.
Soren on the other hand, continues to dart around the room with a frightening speed, an ominous aura building up like a blockade around him.
"Like I'd care. You should have learned to fight them before engaging in battle with me, before trying to extract my soul and take my wife" Soren half snickers half spits across the room.
"Like I had a choice in the matter, you were going to kill me either way," Azrael says through gritted teeth, but Soren does not care.
"Then fight for your life. Let's see how much you have earned it. brother," Soren whispers, lifting coiling tendrils of magic trailing up from his hand in tandem with the wolves. The magic darts from the ground, binding around his leg, snapping him in place. A brief look of panic washes over Azrael's features, before he slashes down with his hand, and a second later the smokey tendril is cut right through.
For a moment, I lean forward on my perch at Kal's tail, eyes widening, the hairs on the back of my arm rising in alarm.
If Azrael can cut through Soren's magic, then perhaps they aren't so unevenly matched? Similar worried buzz through my mind like a hornet of bees in frantic search of a hive, fleeting and darting with concerns and apprehensive thoughts that muddle my mind into a weary submission. Perhaps there is some danger after all?
But as quickly as they came, my concerns are disproved, just as Soren waves a hand to reclaim to coils of tendinous magic and let it circle in his palm. Besides that, Azrael looks exhausted: sweat sheening his brow, his movements becoming sluggish by fatigue. Whatever he appeared to have summoned to cut through Soren's magic, at best it must have drained him extensively.
The wolves snap and snarl at Azrael, backing him further and further into the wall.
"I am glad you could at least take a minor version of my magic, perhaps you aren't as pitiful as I thought, little brother," Soren splits, cracking his fingers out as fresh, blackened shadows coil around his form, clawing the air with a rotten blackness. Magic crackles through the air.
"I am not pitiful," Azrael spits, throwing a projectile of the opalescent light at Soren, but it merely collides harmlessly against his skin, exploding in a shatter of silvery fragments against his chest.
Soren lowers his eyes, as if to say: point proven.
But nevertheless, Azrael continues, fanatic and rambling as he makes his best attempts to fend off the wolves and the ever approaching Soren.
"I know where the souls are, Soren. I could find them if I wished, use them. That is more than you can say, and I almost had both of you too. Perhaps that lovely wife of yours might have even come along to help me with my endeavours- if she wasn't so obstinate."
It doesn't take a genius to realise that Azrael is trying to wind Soren up, to aggravate him, make him lose control, spin a rage as I have so often seen within the palace. And unfortunately- for Azrael that is- Soren is the most temperamental, protective creature I have known in the whole of Faey, and Azrael is pushing all the right buttons.
Soren roars.
"You will not hurt anyone else, you bastard."
As the Scarlet Prince leaps forward, his form begins to flicker and shift, black markings appearing on his hands, swirling black tattoos that are stark against the pale while of his skin. His body glows with a raw power, wings lengthening out as he glides across the air, hands outstretched into claws, rage consuming him. I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, yet so entirely terrifying.
The gaunt shadows of his body lengthen as it configures into that of a monster, half demon, half vampire, his eyes jet black with rage, fingers shaking as magic bursts from their tips, diving straight towards Azrael. It is as though a figment of his soul is burst into cognition, rippling out from every orifice and causing the scarlet Prince to expand with power.
Now with possession of the last fragment of his soul, there is no question about it- his power is unmatchable.
"You know, Azrael, I am getting very bored of your games. In fact, you have been boring me for a very, very long time. Between you and me, it might be about time to snuff out that little problem- don't you think?"
An unspoken air of conviction passes between the two opposing vampires. Their bodies tense, their eyes flare. The final battle has begun.Soren and Azrael circle each other like vultures going in for the kill, their eyes darting, teeth flashing, snarls ripping from their throats as they prowl to decide which one of them will be going away with the prize of their life.Upon first glance, one might presume that the dark haired king with mighty horns halloing his head as the upper hand: his immaculate, marble body is unscathed, barely a ruffle in his clothes and for the most part is unperturbed by the creature that faces him. His aura gleams with darkness, lashing out with talons and coiling whips of darkness that hunger for the flesh and blood of his opponent to be spilt onto the frigid stone floor before him.Such is the nature of a vampire fight- a fight to the death that is nothing short of grim. For while a vampire may be immortal, it does not make them invincible.And yet his opponent, the white haired fiend who has built a reputation on deception and lies, while his body is in a sorry state, torn and ripped and flayed in places, like an animal for slaughter, behind his eyes, his mind is racing. This will not be a clean fight. But it was never intended to be.Watching the two of them circle, my mind turns and revolves like a water wheel, flickering over solutions, answers, anything that might help me make sense of the situation. Desperately I clutch onto Kal's tail, Ithuriel squished by my side as my thoughts race over what might offer answers the the problems that Azrael has posed. But no answers come, no insight into Azrael's plans, only the jarring zapping of magic, and those haunting red eyes.Whatever Azrael is thinking, he leaves no clues to trace.A whooshing noise alerts me to my surroundings as Soren raises his hand, rising with him two shadowy wolves that spit and growl at their contender before them. They appear from the shadows as swift and silent as the night washes over the land, red eyes glowing with a lusty menace, their shadowy fur shifting in an unknown breeze that echoes around the room. I have since come to learn that those wolves- hell hounds, are a part of his souls power, the ability to summon these guardians of hell. It is a rare treat to see them put to action, but an equally grim reminder of the battle that plays out before me, and what exactly their presence entails. Lifting a finger, Soren points them towards Azrael, a silent gesture, but it is all he needs. With one swift leap through the air, they charge into action.There is no contest. Not even a fraction. Soren's magic is far superior to that of Azrael, this fact is more obvious than the elvish love for vampires, and even that would be an understatement.The wolves gnash and claw at Azrael with a vehement ferocity, swiping at his clothes, biting at his neck, aiming for the scrap of skin where my blood remains printed against his flesh. Barely, Azrael manages to dodge any lethal attacks, but soon the white haired vampire doused in a sheen of perspiration, his footsteps light, but his breaths heavy. He is starting to slow.But the cycle of these hellish creatures is as never ending as Soren's bloodlust. Each time they attack, swipe out with their lethal claws and shadowy teeth, pointed like razors, Azrael barely scrapes away from the encounter in tact. But Soren's will is relentless.Occasionally Azrael finds himself being caught up in their grasp once more, stumbling, his red eyes flaring with rage at his calm and collected brother before him, who directs the wolves with swirling wisps of darkness and subtle gestures of his hand, hardly even fazed. It appears Soren does not even want to leave his brother a chance at survival. But with the things he has done, I can hardly blame him.To have gone from someone trapped and fighting for his life, to a dominant tyrant intent on destroying his brother so completely he wouldn't even need to wipe the floor of his remains, its just so Soren."Your wolves are a menace, Soren," Azrael mutters with a snarling growl, dancing round the room in a series of dodges and weaves as he continues to bat away the wolves. Or at least try's to, with a pearly iridescent magic that sends their claws rebounding off some sort of shield in mid air. Most of the time, however, his reflexes are far too slow.Soren on the other hand, continues to dart around the room with a frightening speed, an ominous aura building up like a blockade around him."Like I'd care. You should have learned to fight them before engaging in battle with me, before trying to extract my soul and take my wife" Soren half snickers half spits across the room."Like I had a choice in the matter, you were going to kill me either way," Azrael says through gritted teeth, but Soren does not care."Then fight for your life. Let's see how much you have earned it. brother," Soren whispers, lifting coiling tendrils of magic trailing up from his hand in tandem with the wolves. The magic darts from the ground, binding around his leg, snapping him in place. A brief look of panic washes over Azrael's features, before he slashes down with his hand, and a second later the smokey tendril is cut right through.For a moment, I lean forward on my perch at Kal's tail, eyes widening, the hairs on the back of my arm rising in alarm.If Azrael can cut through Soren's magic, then perhaps they aren't so unevenly matched? Similar worried buzz through my mind like a hornet of bees in frantic search of a hive, fleeting and darting with concerns and apprehensive thoughts that muddle my mind into a weary submission. Perhaps there is some danger after all?But as quickly as they came, my concerns are disproved, just as Soren waves a hand to reclaim to coils of tendinous magic and let it circle in his palm. Besides that, Azrael looks exhausted: sweat sheening his brow, his movements becoming sluggish by fatigue. Whatever he appeared to have summoned to cut through Soren's magic, at best it must have drained him extensively.The wolves snap and snarl at Azrael, backing him further and further into the wall."I am glad you could at least take a minor version of my magic, perhaps you aren't as pitiful as I thought, little brother," Soren splits, cracking his fingers out as fresh, blackened shadows coil around his form, clawing the air with a rotten blackness. Magic crackles through the air."I am not pitiful," Azrael spits, throwing a projectile of the opalescent light at Soren, but it merely collides harmlessly against his skin, exploding in a shatter of silvery fragments against his chest.Soren lowers his eyes, as if to say: point proven.But nevertheless, Azrael continues, fanatic and rambling as he makes his best attempts to fend off the wolves and the ever approaching Soren."I know where the souls are, Soren. I could find them if I wished, use them. That is more than you can say, and I almost had both of you too. Perhaps that lovely wife of yours might have even come along to help me with my endeavours- if she wasn't so obstinate."It doesn't take a genius to realise that Azrael is trying to wind Soren up, to aggravate him, make him lose control, spin a rage as I have so often seen within the palace. And unfortunately- for Azrael that is- Soren is the most temperamental, protective creature I have known in the whole of Faey, and Azrael is pushing all the right buttons.Soren roars."You will not hurt anyone else, you bastard."As the Scarlet Prince leaps forward, his form begins to flicker and shift, black markings appearing on his hands, swirling black tattoos that are stark against the pale while of his skin. His body glows with a raw power, wings lengthening out as he glides across the air, hands outstretched into claws, rage consuming him. I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, yet so entirely terrifying.The gaunt shadows of his body lengthen as it configures into that of a monster, half demon, half vampire, his eyes jet black with rage, fingers shaking as magic bursts from their tips, diving straight towards Azrael. It is as though a figment of his soul is burst into cognition, rippling out from every orifice and causing the scarlet Prince to expand with power.Now with possession of the last fragment of his soul, there is no question about it- his power is unmatchable."You know, Azrael, I am getting very bored of your games. In fact, you have been boring me for a very, very long time. Between you and me, it might be about time to snuff out that little problem- don't you think?"
