Dark grimoire - Tales of Zamiel

I guess I´ll contribute too Here I´ll post what few stories I´ve written about Zamiel, following rpin with him or just to establish some backstory for him. Comments and criticism are always welcome, since I always strive to improve my writing.

Oh and a fair warning before you start, the stories do get rather gritty and dark, so if that´s not your cup of tea...

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Starting Point

The night on the outskirts of Claypool was especially dark that day, the sky clouded, light of stars and moon obscured by the shadowy clouds overhead, lightning blasts amongst them foreshadowing the oncoming rain. But even then, the carousing group of nobles went on with their delights, drinking and shooting off guns into the sky recklessly, much to the delight of the noble ladies there, their approval only giving more incentive to the young men.

A lone man sat near the gates of the town, watching the festivities, his worn travel attire fitting him well, dark crimson and dark brown dirt colors veiling him from curious eyes as he rested against one of the now empty carts that came in with today´s caravan. The cowl was pulled over his head, mostly throwing his face into shadow, but still, his blue eyes gleamed with inner fire, cold and calculating.

He watched one of the nobles advance rather harshly on one of the servant girls, much to cheering of his companions.

Just as that happened, dark sky overhead finally broke, the rain pouring down. Dragging the cloak closer around himself, the man stood up, picking up his long staff, putting it in a leather strap around his back. He had half turned to go and seek shelter inside the town when the same girl that was being harassed screamed, her scream followed by more drunken laughing and suggestions. The man paused, water streaming down his face, his hood hardly doing much to keep the water away. He watched the young brunette tangle herself out of the man´s grip, running away into the wood, towards a lone house there.

Quietly, he walked down the muddy street, passing by giggling noble ladies fleeing the rain before turning to the dirt trail, mud sticking to his boots with every step towards the small living place. Five of the men were still outside, drinking and chatting in the rain, not perturbed by the wailing and begging coming out of the house, along with more animalistic sounds of grunting and pleasured laughter. Just one of them seemed concerned by everything that was happening, but his protest was met with ridicule and promises of his own turn, along with a sharp push that had sent him sprawling in the mud.

The wanderer was less than fifteen feet away from the hamlet when they noticed him.

˝Hej, look at this.˝ one of the younger men alerted the others. Eldest of them, a man in expensive vest and pants, with a rapier strapped around his belt, came forward to confront the lone wanderer.

˝Hello stranger!˝ he made a courteous bow, which was met with silence.˝ This is a private party, so I´m requesting that you take your leave.˝

˝Just look at him Damien!˝ another one staggered forward, taking aim with a flintlock pistol, even with his companion in the way. ˝Just another commoner.˝

˝Borus, don´t...˝ the one called Damien started, half-turning, when the shot rang out. The wanderer standing a few feet aside him didn´t flinch when the side of the hood got shredded, revealing his expressionless face, high brow under which two cold eyes watched, the straight nose and thin lips, with faint traces of beard and mustache. His flowing hair fell to his shoulders, white as snow, which made his appearance all the more ominous, the way he looked and smiled at the nobles before him making him seem almost... snakelike.

Borus cursed, reloading and aiming for another shot, but he never made the shot as the earth beneath him erupted in form of several spikes, skewering him in a grotesque fashion, his quivering, mangled body twitching briefly, only to fly apart as the spikes exploded, showering the two behind him with rock, blood, bones and worse. One of them buckled back, face set in a horrified, silent scream, blood gushing from his open throat, bone of his companion sticking out of the side of his neck.

Damien whirled around, his rapier half-out of its sheath, only to find that he couldn´t feel his legs anymore, nor his arms. A glance down revealed that his legs up to the waist were encased in ice, while his hands were almost blue hue, as if he was having a very bad case of frostbite.

˝Who are you?˝ the noble muttered, feeling the ice worm its way in his insides, killing him. The man walked past without giving an answer, pushing him slightly with his hand. What was once a man now just feel against a tree, shattering in frozen, crimson pieces. The other noble, having sobered by the death of his friends, raised his hand high, scepter in it, calling out to his power.

There was a steaming hiss as warmth suddenly exploded in the rain soaked forest, some sort of molten rock forming above the man silently approaching the hamlet. The white haired man paused, looking up and raising his hand, just as the fiery rock descended upon him. The heated stone, still hissing from all the rain, met the hand, stopping cold.

˝Magic is ever flowing, elements all around us giving it proper form, either empowering us, or weakening us.˝ Man commented, his voice rich baritone. The stone stopped hissing, its fires gone out. With no visible effort from the man, it shattered in icy dust, shimmering in the rain.

˝You will pay for disrespecting your betters! Feel the fire magic of Istvan family!˝ the noble elementalist did not relent, forming a fire sphere in his hands, sending it hurtling towards the man, who calmly stretched out his hand again, coated in its own flames.

˝In rain, fire weakens.˝ Wanderer remarked, catching and then crushing the flaming sphere in his fist, ebbing flow of magic before him dissipating into nothingness. With a flick of fingers on his other hand, two lances of brilliant white flame appeared slightly above him, one on the each side of his shoulders. ˝To maintain flame in these conditions, one must train and learn for many years. Do you not see? These flickers of yours do not even compare.˝

˝Why, you...˝ anything young elementalist wanted to say disappeared with a shrill scream as two burning lances tore though his body like it was thin paper, engulfing him in scalding hot white flame.

˝Burn, heir of the Istvan family. Learn what true flames are.˝ Wanderer commented as he passed by the smoldering corpse, up the steps and through the door.

Inside if the house was once homey, a nice, cozy place to live in. Now, it was a ruin, broken and tainted. The young woman that fled found no safety there and was now lain on the table, dress ripped open, bloodied at places where her assailants nicked her in their haste, her legs spread wide, her breaths shallow and gaze broken, staring into the ceiling even as tears streamed down her face.

Her antagonist, young man who was heir to the mighty Stillwater family, which held some of the lands around Claypool drew his blade, even if his pants were still around his knees. Wanderer gave him no importance, flicking his hand slightly as he walked towards the woman. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the noble flew back as gust of air exploded towards him, hitting him harder than a sledge hammer. He fell against a wall, his arms twisted at odd angles, his neck lolling, broken. He crumpled on the floor like a broken doll.

˝Oh master... there is no cure for this land.˝ Wanderer muttered as he watched over the woman. There was a slim chance she still might live, a life of broken misery and shame after what she has been through. He lain his hand on her, softly, as if to calm her down. ˝There remains no choice but to purge the malice and the taint these people bring. Master... How you would weep to see your beloved country now...˝

White, blinding flames burst forth all around as he left, consuming the wooden structure and all that remained inside, its purging flames eradicating all traces of its barely alive occupant.

Wanderer paused as he exited, for only one remained, the young boy from before.

˝Y-you killed them all...˝ the boy muttered, sitting down, his face drawn in shock. Mud caked his fine clothes. ˝Were you not to save the girl?˝

˝She was broken and tainted. Better she die now, than live on.˝ Wanderer answered, kneeling before the boy to look at him better, his eyes still cold, with a flicker of inner fire to them.

˝I did not d-do anything... I j-just followed, I never...˝ the boy cried as the wanderer set his gloved hand upon his cheek.

˝There is no innocence boy. Only degrees of guilt.˝ was all the answer the boy heard before he died, flames bursting out from his insides, melting his face as if it was made of wax, smoke erupting from his mouth and eye sockets. Even so, the answer was uttered in tone that was almost kind.

Almost wearily, the wanderer stood up, glancing back at the flaming wreck of the once home, fire consuming it now back to its usual hue. The rain did not lessen its downpour, but it could do nothing to stop the fire now.

The wanderer turned, returning the way he came, thunderstorm above obscuring the sound of the cackling flame, just as it had obscured the sounds of the brief massacre.

˝Master... I... Zamiel Sternrichter, swear to purge this taint from your beloved land...˝

GAAAAAAH O.O
IT'S-AWESOME!

Seriously! This is like a freaking awesome story from a Fantasy Horror book :O

Awesome work

Thanks

Here´s the second one. These go from oldest to newest, so I think it´ll be a little while longer until I get to stories reflecting on Brotherhood.
As always, comments and critique are welcome.
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Whispers of Gods

Lone wanderer passed through the gates of Divinity's Reach, the last real bastion of humanity, as the dusk fell down on Queensdale. Usual bustle of the city was now just a murmur of it, most people returning to their homes or going about in groups, to taverns or whorehouses, depending on who is asked. The Seraph, their armor gleaming in the last of the sunlight, stood proudly at their posts, faces either set in stone or looking incredibly bored.

To them, the hooded man cloaked in dusty, dark cloak that hid away his rather elegant black-crimson attire, riddled with dark blue lines, was just another weary traveler entering the city of Men. The staff on his shoulder seemed rather ordinary, almost its length equal to that of a spear, the metal head oddly shaped, three small holes within it, forming a makeshift triangle at the bottom of it, while the tip is more akin to a drill than the usual, leaf shaped ending a spear has. The haft of good, polished wood, if it is to be judged by the end of it, is tightly wrapped in dirty white cloth, obscuring it from prying eyes.

Worn leather gloves have some sort of bluish crystals embedded in them, while the boots are made of hard, sturdy leather, caked in days old mud.

Wanderer walked down the length of the main street, watching with pride at the growing size of the palace where queen resides, right in the centre of the city. The enormous structure dwarfed everything else in the city, which said much, as many of the buildings were as tall, if not even taller than the city walls. Stone paved roads stretched out around the palace, one of which the wanderer walked down, glancing occasionally at the small groups of people milling around.

He found it slightly bittersweet that people lived their lives to the best of their ability, regardless of the circumstances bearing down on their lives. They live their lives inside the safety of these huge walls, secure in knowledge that men and women in shining armor stand atop them, ensuring their safety. Circumstances of the outside world must seem so distant, harshness, despair and struggles of it appearing to be from some distant land, too far to touch them, becoming just another thing to discuss and talk about in taverns, homes and streets.

Zamiel Sternrichter paused before the gates of Ruriktown, recalling that it is the place most nobles gather, outside of their elaborate homes. His master spoke of Houses there at times, mentioning that some held great influence and power. As the last scion of the Sternrichter House, Zamiel made a mental note to visit at least some of the Lords and offer his greetings. Making acquaintances and allies should be useful in the long run, as his goals might require help, unwitting or not.

He however, walked away from the inviting doors of Ruriktown, making his way north, to the place where Grenth's seat of power is.

When he arrived to the statue, nobody was to be seen around, which worked to his favor. Standing before it, he kneeled, bowing his head respectfully, one hand on his chest. There were still traces of power there, lingering whispers of magic faintly swirling around the carved likeness of the death god, even if the God himself was silent for these past two hundred years.

Zamiel stood up, a hooded shade inside the shadow of the statue. Everything else aside himself and that feeling of faint magic disappeared, the link becoming all that he needed. Raising his right hand with palm up, the trickle of magic changed its course, swirling around him, turning into a pulsating torrent. He stood in the center of it, his tattered cloak shifting slightly as if on wind, even if there was no wind, cobblestones under his feet shaking, the plaster holding them together fracturing, loosening them.

Then, in a single instant, all the lingering traces of magic swirled into a single spot, condensing. A small orb of sickly dark green and black energy lingered before his outstretched arm for a brief moment, illuminating the empty street around him, vanishing in the next moment, taking the light and whatever trace of magic that was there with it. Slowly, man cloaked in darkness lowered his hand, letting out the breath he held, shuddering slightly in the cold he felt, gnawing at his bones. Still, a faint trace of a smile lingered on his hood shadowed face.

Zamiel turned on his heel just as someone approached down the street with haste, robe betraying the woman as priestess of Grenth. She stopped a few feet from him, chest rising as her labored breaths came in and yet, her gaze held a glimmer of elated hope as her eyes sought the statue.

˝Have you felt it?˝ she asked, looking back at him, taking another step closer. Zamiel paused for a brief moment, watching her. Then he nodded, a gesture which elated her hope higher, judging from the smile that graced her full lips. ˝Ah... such a miracle, that I have witnessed then! It was not my imagination, after all.˝

˝A miracle?˝ came the question from within the shadow of the hood, voice betraying no emotion.

˝The magical pulse that washed over the district... it was of Grenth´s making, there is no doubt in it.˝ Priestess explained, watching him with something akin to kindness, as if she were teaching a child. ˝Such a cold, dark presence of magic always beckoned the words of Grenth. We have all been thought so.˝

˝Truly? You felt this... whisper of power and think it is enough to herald power that of a God?˝

There was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a hint of doubt gnawing her hastily brought belief. Nonetheless, she started ˝We are taught...˝

˝That Grenth oversees death and passing, giving his favor to assassins, necromancers and those who use ice to bring about suffering of their enemies. He is amongst the mightiest of Gods, his domain one that rivals that of Dwayna.˝ he took a step closer, watching her elation crumble at the realization of the meaning that came with his words. She feel to her knees, each his word like a stone cast upon her, bringing her down. ˝Silent whispers of Gods are just that. Were they to return truly, heralds of their power would send such a massive pulse of magic that all of Tyria would have felt it, not just you and I, here in these faint shadows, amongst the empty streets of this city.˝

˝Why..? Why must you be so cruel?˝ she looked up at him, her voice trembling.

˝Truth is never kind. It is never sweet, nor comforting.˝ he kneeled, bringing their eyes to level. ˝Just a mere moment ago, you were so elated that you would have claimed that Gods have returned. Are you that hungry for miracles that you would call petty tricks such?˝

Her lip had stopped trembling and a flicker of new strength showed in her eyes as she gazed upon the statue of Grenth, God of Death and Ice.

Zamiel stood up again, walking past her, his last words echoing in her mind long after he had disappeared from the street, the sound of his footsteps lost in the bustle of the night city.

˝Your unwavering faith is praise worthy. Don´t blemish it with belief in petty miracles.˝

I´ll keep posting what I wrote before at an even pace. Just this and another one left now. After those, the new stuff will come along. As always, comment and criticise, if you´d like.
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Touch of Grenth


A lone boy sat apart from the group of other children that were playing in the street. He appeared smaller than the others, frail and maybe a bit sickly, judging from the gaunt, worn out look he gave off. Yet, his form appeared much clearer to the dreamer, much more so than the other boys, who were malevolent gray shades scurrying about, slowly, but surely surrounding the lone boy, invading the safe little bubble he had created for himself.

Zamiel impassively watched the scene, just like he had done so before, leaning slightly on the familiar doorway. Once more, he incarnated the other boys, ghostly shades in his dream, when the wailing cries of the lonesome boy became annoyingly hard to bear.

The boy looked up at him, even as his arm was twisted at an odd angle, his lip split and face swollen. There was no fear in the gaze, but pure awe, one that Zamiel had never seen like before. He appeared to be a savior sent by Gods to save the boy, a force of nature held within a human. That gaze seared itself in Zamiel´s memory.

Zamiel´s face remained a well kept mask of neutrality as he reached out to the boy, but this time the boy shimmered as their hands touched, disappearing before his eyes. Darkness enveloped the scene, shattering the grayness into empty void, leaving the white haired man staring at another, painfully familiar sight. Zamiel´s eyes widened a fraction, betraying his surprise.

˝Zami...˝ voice asked, resolute and calm. ˝...kill me.˝


Zamiel Sternrichter woke up in the next moment, his eyes staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. It took him a moment to organize his thoughts, memories of last few days jittery and split, due to magic induced fever took him the morning after his success.

So... taking in magic inherently belonging to a God, no matter how inconsequential its size, does take a toll on the body. To think that even I could not nullify it completely... such a frightening power.

He pushed himself off the bed, feeling the strength return to his limbs and his mind clear again. Even with his knowledge of water element, he had not managed to snuff out this fire that lingering magic of Grenth had ignited within him, his body violently trying to reject it. At best, he shortened it, at the expense of time... and indulging himself in these jittery memories.

Still... he could feel that his body accepted this addition to his magic flow within his body, a faint, nearly invisible mark appearing on the outside of his right palm.

Zamiel smiled faintly. He took the first step on a long and windy road. Now he was bound to see it to the end, lest he betrayed the principles that were as part of him as his very soul.

There is work to be done.

Here is a short Zami thing concerning the event I did a while back, with Crimson Ashes. Zami´s first experience as their direct antagonist.
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Matters of Faith


Zamiel entered the two storey home set in Rurikton with a shadow of a smile on his hooded features, closing the door shut behind him. Today´s venture proved quite amusing, for number of reasons.

After he changed into some clean, bearable clothes, white and blue which contrasted with the black and crimson he wore before, he sat down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the small fireplace. The statuette was standing on the shelf, its power now dormant after having finally reaching its peak. Use for it will appear, given time.

Bride of Abaddon, it was called. He did not know if the fallen God ever did have a bride or not, but the name stuck, as it showed delicate, feminine features, hidden away by the grotesque cowl, robe and helm. Her power was unmistakeable, radiating even now, when it had finally turned dormant, having had its fill of the young sylvari who bore it a prolonged period of time. No doubt the blood spilled for it, blood of faithful late Lord Mirewater and his believers, was a fitting sacrifice. Zamiel was quietly impressed by the little cult, even if they were nothing more than temporary pawns.

His thoughts went to the sylvari and threats the pale barked child spouted, the greed pushing him to keep the statuette that never did belong to him. It corrupted the person carrying it, twisting their personality. Cults that have been worshiping it have been torn asunder by inner conflict because of it, time and time again. What sylvari did not understand was that it never chose him, but it just guided him to situations it wanted to see. For a fragment of dead God´s power, it was made to be rather bloodthirsty.

If anything, young sylvari should be extending his thanks. Now that he is rid of her, he might even live normally again.

Scion of the Sternrichter House stood up, walking over to another shelf where he kept a few very rare alcoholic drinks for his own enjoyment. On the table to his right, a chess board has been set, pieces neatly arranged.

He picked up the black knight, watching the figure thoughtfully. All had gone well, but for the interference of that guild. While they saved him the trouble of disposing of the cult, thus rooting out its possible spread and danger to Kryta, they might prove troublesome in the long run.

With a faint smile on his lips, he set the piece down.

For now, he will wait and see. With time, all the pieces will fall in his hands, one way or another.

This one closes an arc of Naamah´s storyline, mostly from Zami´s pov. Enjoy and rate and comment, if you so desire.
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Of worth and power


Zamiel stopped at the ramp, glancing back at the place where he erected earthen walls that Darick should have no trouble shattering once he and Simone gather their power back. He made a grimace. The area is was still horribly full of mixed magical flows from all the magic that Darick and Lucien had thrown around, shattering the area further.

He walked up the ramp, up to the bridge, where he stopped, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. It was a long while since he focused so. It was slow at first, a trickle of traces at first, only to overwhelm him with their number after a few moments. He waded though the magical flows in the surrounding area, until he found the one that he had wanted.

He opened his eyes, half turning and looking across the bay, to the cliffs north-east of the city. It was unmistakable. The man had fled there, no doubt to recover his strength for the second fight. A notion Zamiel didn´t care to indulge in, as he made his way down the road, intent on ending the battle on this day, as what he will be doing in next few days might leave him at severe disadvantage.

It took him half an hour, but he made his way around the bay. Without much trouble, he flashed up, to the small entrance to a dark crevice which reeked of necromancy and the dark energies involved in it. Zamiel paused before the cave, three bright little orbs of flame coming into life around him, spinning lazily about him. He ventured forth without fear, his face set in stone, sky blue eyes coldly regarding his surroundings. Rustle of his clothes, sound of his staff moving slightly in its loop as he strode and the gravel cracking under his boots were only sounds he could hear for a while, the darkness enveloping everything but his immediate vicinity, any sounds from outside drowned out.

It wasn´t long until he arrived in a wide cavern with a high ceiling, the left side of the cavern riddled with number of holes though which faint sunlight fell upon the throne of cold, gleaming metal adorned with number of skulls of different variety. He could see asuran skulls fitted on the arm rests, while char's skulls adorned the front legs. Crown of the throne was made out of two sylvari skulls, nearly withered away, placed upon outer spikes and two human ones in the inner spikes. Only the long, central barbed spike was unadorned.

On the throne sat a man in dark robes, his face half obscured by the hood. The man was draped in shadows and darkness, aura of malice filling the cave. Even from where Zamiel stood, he could see those thin, lifeless lips quirk in a smile sharper than a dagger. The man clapped slowly, the eerie sound of it following Zamiel as he approached.

˝The boy arrives before me.˝ he tipped his head, his cruel smile still at his lips.

˝I am no boy...˝ Zamiel remarked calmly, extending his hand. Little wisps of flames disappeared into nothing, a brilliant single edged sword wreathed in flames appearing in his hand. ˝...and time for talk is long past.˝

Without warning, he stepped forward, disappearing in a flash of lightning that forced shadows away for a moment, only to reappear seconds later before the throne with a thunderclap of displaced air, his blade falling in a deadly arc.

Lucien moved immediately, slipping away to the side and out of sight for the moment, his form flickering away to the right, blade missing him narrowly, now only destroying the seat of the throne, sending metal shrapnel all around. Zamiel immediately wheeled to the right, slashing apart a weak blast of darkness that came at him.

He was left open, as Lucien followed immediately up, both hands raised as a concentrated blast of dark energy poured forth, shredding the earth in its path. Left with no alternative, Zamiel disappeared once more with a thunderclap of displaced air, reappearing few meters away in a roll, coming up steady on his feet just in time to see a create of darkness, a demon much like an overgrown dog whose form is unstable bringing down it´s long maw down on him.
Without a movement from him, earth beneath erupted in several spikes that skewered the beast, pinning up to the ceiling of the cavern with bone shattering force. It wailed horribly before losing its form, disappeared completely.

Zamiel did not stand around to see it. He charged Lucien, creating another blade of flame in his left hand as he ran, several lances of light flashing into being, flying with admirable speed at the dark cloaked man, only to be destroyed by a concentrated surge of foul energy. Still, it gave him enough time to close the distance.

He brought up his right sword at Lucien´s head, but the man was good, twisting to the side, his dagger in his right hand flashing out. Zamiel deflected it narrowly away from his face with this other blade. Lucien´s other hand flashed from the side; palm up and coated in greenish dark energy. Zamiel took a step back, slashing at the hand as he went. He missed, narrowly avoiding the deadly energies.

Now he was put on defensive, deflecting blasts of dark energy and the vicious curved dagger as best as he could, losing ground before the dark man. By some detached, rational part of his mind, he realized that he was actually losing, though he could still not understand the reason why. All he knew that his attacks lacked the usual speed and fluidity. He was slower, if only by a fraction, but that fraction was enough. Lucien fired off a short blast of energy, shattering his left sword and pushing him off balance. Zamiel turned his right blade on the man as he came in, but again he was too slow, only tearing though the darkness that followed the man like a cape draped over his shoulders. He felt a flash of brief pain on the side of his chest, only to realize that he had been cut.

Surprise briefly showing on his face, he took a step back, pointing the blade at the man. The staff hanging on his back was proving to be cumbersome, but by this point, he decided he didn´t have the time to move it. Then he felt a sudden flare of pain hit him, engulfing him from within, in every inch of his body. He buckled, falling down on his right knee, his blade dissipating from his grasp.

It took him only a few moments to realize that what happened, his assumption proven correct when he saw the vicious leer on the face of his opponent, whose hood had been torn apart by Zamiel´s last strike, revealing the pale, sharp lined face of a cold eyed man. Those cold light green eyes locked onto his with a victorious look in them.

Then they widened in surprise.

Lucien released his dagger like it was on fire, grabbing his hand with a pained hiss. He looked angrily at Zamiel, almost losing his composure. ˝What did you do? ˝

˝Nothing.˝ Zamiel replied, standing up. He did not want to do this, but he had no choice in the matter, not when fighting in what was obviously
Lucien´s domain. He took the staff wrapped up in dark purple cloth lined with little runes from the loop though which it was strung on his back.

˝What did you do?˝ Lucien repeated slowly, his voice oddly contorted, coming not only from the man, but seemingly from all around in the cavern. He stood tall again, glaring at Zamiel.

˝What I did is no concern of yours.˝ Zamiel held out his staff in one hand. The cloth unwrapped itself, burning out with arcane energy. ˝I did not want to use this. You are not worthy of it, but I will make an exception since you are Naamah´s father.˝

˝What..?˝ Lucien watched as last of the cloth disappeared.

There was a sudden increase in pressure around the room, Zamiel´s aura coming free like a deep, overwhelming ocean of unfathomable, deadly cold. Before Lucien´s eyes, young face of the ashen haired man before him grew older, not changing by much, the lines of the face becoming slightly more pronounced. The sky blue eyes burned with inner light as Zamiel made a practice swing with the spear in his hand, for it was truly a spear now, the wide, pointed head engulfed in lazy white flame with sickly green edges and the staff piece crackling with faint lighting.

The shadows surrounding Zamiel receded back to Lucien, coating him in layers upon layers of darkness, in stark contrast to Zamiel, who was surrounded by light, almost cloaked in it, as the energy released formed upon his body, covering his form in coat like flame.

There was a tense moment between them as they eyed each other, Lucien standing ready, his eyes glowing slightly, shadows coating his arms so that his hands looked claw like.

˝That is good. Keep that stance.˝ Zamiel spoke, setting a step forward. The ground under his boot turned to glass. ˝Do not break it. If you do...˝

A bright flash followed his words, as a lance of arcane energy flashed forward. Lucien, or rather, the thing that he had inside his body twisted aside, smirking as it did, following the passing of the lance. It passed him by, shattering the stone wall on the far side of the cave.

Fast, but if that´s all, I can still... was the demon´s thought, cut short when he realized that Zamiel was already upon him, the tip of the gleaming spear coming right at his head. It released a horrifying howl at the audacity of the human, a blast of dark energy engulfing them both, tearing out another chunk of the cave, further destabilizing it.

The demon fell back, away from the thick dust cloud filled with debris and static electricity, no longer sensing the presence of the human that had come so nearly to killing its host. It laughed, cruel echo in the cave, only to gasp in pain moments later when something, far too fast for its eyes to follow streaked out of the smoke. It was not a wide blast or particularly flashy. A single beam of concentrated energy, maybe as wide as its host´s fist, yet it was faster than almost all the spells it had seen in its lifetime.

It fell down to its knees, realizing that the hole in the chest cavity where its heart used to be would not heal. Even if it could heal such a deadly injury, something was there, in its magic flow, interfering with it. An odd sensation, one akin to the realm it came from. It swayed slightly, looking over at the man who walked calmly towards it.

Zamiel was no longer wreathed in energy. His coat and shirt beneath it were shredded on his right side, hanging in tatters off his bloodied chest. The damage he suffered was not horrible, the cut he received earlier more troublesome to heal than his newer wounds, but still, any healing was draining on him. His right hand still gripped the spear like staff, even though blood slowly dripped down his arm from number of minor cuts.

He stopped before Lucien, whose eyes were still glowing.

With a single swoop, he severed the head from the shoulders, sudden spurt of arterial blood dousing what was left of his clothes unstained in crimson specks. As the headless body toppled over, he sighed, bringing the power he released under control properly again. The staff lost its light and he shredded what was left of his coat, wrapping it up in it.

Had he not been surprised as he was by my sudden rise in power, this could have been a much harder battle. Luck played its part this time, I suppose...

With a slight limp, he went over and picked up the head from where it lay, recalling that Darick had a penchant for collecting skulls. He glanced back at the place where the demon had released that final blast, which had nearly overpowered him. There was nothing in that part of the cave now, just over ten meter wide hole. He could feel that the veil between realms was weakened there. Undoubtably, it will draw more of demon ilk.

Zamiel turned and left the cave the same way as he came, limping slightly.

Right. Zamiel is in jail, which is a perfect time for some quiet thinking. Might even post a few memories of his old exploits, once upon a time. Like always, enjoy the read and comment
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Jail blues

Lord Zamiel Sternrichter, last of the House Sternrichter, bane of the Ostenbrand cult, finder of the Emerald Eye and the owner of a small seaside manor in Wizard's Fief released a tired sigh, his back resting idly against the wall of the cold, dark cell he was assigned.

It was a dreary place.

He had seen his share of cells, even if those were better furnished, but this one, deep under Seraph HQ was a dreary, tired place. The walls of his cells were at least twice his size, thick slabs of gray stone covered in thin lines and cracks, with moss growing out of those cracks at few of them. It was an old, very old place. He knew that.

The history lessons were still there, after all, buried away in his mind.

High ceiling was a tangle of webs, old and new, its inhabitants lurking in far corners of it. The sturdy, interlocking iron bars, set apart enough so that he may push his arm through the small squares, were bitten by age and rust, runes that marked them still faintly shining. The door creaked ominously when it was opened, shuddering and twisting slowly, like an old, dying man, as he had the chance to see when he was locked up.

Underneath him, the floor was not that cold as it should be, even though it was made of stone as almost everything else. There was some warmth in it. Perhaps a pipe of heated water passed under it, going towards one of the districts? Or mayhap something else? It was not worth pondering in the end, only worth giving silent gratitude for.

The blanket he was provided lay neatly folded under him, providing a makeshift cushion for him as he sat, one leg raised and bent in the knee, other outstretched. He set his right arm over his knee, watching the pale moonlight illuminating the centre of the cell block, particles of dust swimming in the air, almost flickering like little grains of diamonds under the light.

Zamiel ran his fingers though his ashen, almost snow white hair, pushing stray locks away from his face. Even though he had no mirror to check, he knew his face was no longer that of a younger man, the simple manipulation he usually did to keep up the youthful appearance gone, thanks to the null magic circle that this cell excluded. It was of no concern, in the end, but he felt a bit at odds with that realisation, as he had grown used to giving a fraction of his attention daily to keep up the simplest of cell regeneration.

Quietly, he was grateful that what he carried within his magic flow was so abstract that the null magic field he was stuck in did not even register it. Had it gone out of control, here in the middle of Reach, many would have died.

His companion remained in the cell nearby, sleeping blissfully. Darick was brash and quick to anger, but Zamiel liked the youth. It was refreshing to have such a companion, both outside and now within these accommodations. It has been years since he had a friend, as odd as it may sound.

Most people did not appreciate such things enough, in his opinion, taking bonds made with others far too lightly. It is quite simple to establish it and simpler still to break it, but orders of magnitude harder to keep it.

His thoughts briefly went to Naamah, young and powerful, somewhere out in Kryta. He was fairly certain she was fine, doing whatever it was that she did in her free time.

Often he wondered what came over him to accept her love. He cared for her deeply, yes, but his path would grant her no happiness should she stay by his side, as it will end prematurely, just like he was told all those years ago.

Yes... almost every individual believes that they make their own fate, but I already know where I shall meet my end.

Zamiel Sternrichter smiled in the half-light of his cell, a curious and barely noticeable little smile. He closed his sky blue eyes, hoping that he may yet dream of something out of his own life, instead of things that happened ages past.

Perhaps he may dream of end of his road, alone and set against mighty enemies, not long after his purpose was fulfilled. He was sure that he will fall there.

Alone... on a lonely hill littered with blades and white blossoms...