Halos Made of Hellfire

[Tshael]

{{Conditionally open, PM to get permission to join.These events transpire after The Sacrifice (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=6441)}}

The full moon rose above the countryside, setting fields and the winding road awash in pale blue light. Near the edge of the forest, where the brush was thickest, the flickering beryl of dancing fireflies whirled aimlessly through the night. The air was warm, the scent of honeysuckle sweet upon the mid-night breeze. A dark, glittering figure had been standing just off the road, staring at the forest for some time now. The cold stillness with which she stood belied the picturesque night. Encased in the cocoon of her Delyn armor, Tshael felt safe. It was as if the black metal had the power to turn the celestially lit world into a place as dark as her thoughts.

Amber eyes darkened as her brows knitted themselves into an angry scowl. Somewhere, within the gnarled trees and twisted paths, she would find where the Dranak had come from. Somehow, she had never imagined the exodus back to where the incubi mage had pulled her race from the bond of earth and magic would be under these circumstances. She had always had an image in her head of taking her son there, to tell him of how half his blood came to be, and reveling in the wilds of the Old Blood with him. Instead, the infant had been ripped from life while still at her breast, and each step of her heavy hooves that moved her closer to the forest felt so… wrong.

Three steps forward, and she began to shake. Falling to her knees, her lips quivering as the edges of the plate mail against her shins bruised the flesh beneath the chocolate hair of her legs. It was as if her entire body was threatening to fall apart, after all the lengths she’d gone to. Tears sprang to her golden eyes, and she covered her face to sob, crimson curls washing over her shoulders to cover her face while she cried. Self-disgust was rising in her, mixing with anger at this weakness, but these fits of womanly vulnerability had been coming just the same. She allowed herself to cry quietly, the grass around which she knelt withering away.

Deep within Concordia, eight hands all moved of their own accord, spinning and knotting spider silk into fabric. A voice sighed in the darkness, diligent fingers never pausing in their work, and a soft murmur barely escaped over the sound of scurrying legs moving through the thick foliage. “There is no more time for your tears, child. War is coming.”

[Tshael]

It seemed to take days for her to enter the forest. However, the moon never moved from where it hung far above her in the sky. The trees gaped open like a lifeless corpse, exposing their organs to her. Twisting vines were the veins, lifeblood running cold in them as the chill, bare wind just managed to rattle the leaves on the boughs. The sound was the shake and roar of the grave, and each overturned stone that she passed was a crumbled headstone. Never had Concordia felt so dead to her, the nettles cracking with an immaterial echo around her as her hooves came down hard. Branches grabbed and pulled at her arms, only to be turned aside to slide off her armor. She was the dark spirit, a flame of vengeance that only gained strength as she moved. Here, in the darkness of her home, her vulnerability was stripped away. There was no more time for tears. The forest was silent, pulling at the darkness within her, and spiraling her feelings back out to light the path in her mind. She needed no compass in this place. Tshael Nito was Concordia, a maiden shaped of the loam underfoot, her bones the bark of the aged trees around her.

Concordia grew more cold and angry, as the foliage above thickened to shut out the silver glow of heaven’s light. Only Hell lay before her. The brush whispered around her as all things small and dark scurried away from her steps. She heard, but couldn’t comprehend, shrieks as her presence pulled the darkness out. Vines were catching on fur, thorns spotted with blood. Predators lurked in the darkness, but no growl nor snarl could tear her mind from it’s single purpose.

Ahead, she saw her goal. The trees began to thin and clear, letting in shifting spotlights of dancing glimmers. The moonlight sparkled on the waters of a brook, rushing and furling through a long-carved path through the forest. As she stepped into the moonlight, Tshael lifted her sandy eyes to the heavens. Had the moon really stayed in place all this time? She thought she’d walked at least a mile through the trees, had time stopped? Were the gods holding the celestial vault ajar, waiting with their eyes on her and their breaths bated? She narrowed her gaze, parting her lips to take a deep breath as she glared back. Oh, how they would pay. She had given a gift of blood and pain upon their altar in Radasanth, and they had still taken both the soul and body of her child. Her fists, clenched through her walk, came up to lay on her chest. The lump in her throat was hard to swallow, but she did, calming herself as she unfurled her aching fingers. There, in the palm of her right hand, a small treasure lay. She could barely see it, glinting with the moon’s glow. A tiny hourglass, emptied of sand, sitting so innocently on a silver chain.

“When there is no more time left in this world, we must create new ones.” She recited quietly. Somehow the words, stolen from the letters of an ancestor, felt comforting here. It was the first time in weeks that she had felt relaxed, and when she stood up, her face contorted into the empty reflection of a wry smile. In the brook, a light was beginning to shimmer just below the surface. It was different than the blue luminescence that kissed down from the moon above. Instead, the light was strangely red, a crimson blush that dared not break the surface of the stream. Here the child stood, at the very dawning of the Dranak

[Turncoat]

It had been a night much like this, many years ago, that the story of the Dranak children had begun. Here in these woods, under the same moon, a man had fled. He ran through the brush, his feet tripping and stumbling over twisting vines concealed in the tall grass. Nettles stung his heels, the burrs whipped at his legs. Still, he pressed on, moving ever faster. It wasn’t until he fell once more, landing on already bloodied knees and forearms, that he finally stopped his movements. Before him was a brook, babbling and lapping at a rocky shore. In the water, leaves shed from the autumn trees above flowed along, bumping and catching along the breaks in the water. The Harvest was upon them, a time of bounty and beauty. Yet, he felt only cold and alone as he knelt there. The blood running down his back was chilled by now, the absence of his wings throwing off his balance and senses. Magus had a spine made of fire now, and he felt it would soon consume him, taking him to an impromptu funeral.

Through his panting and the sounds of the wind-swept forest around him, he did not hear the approaching steps behind him. When a voice politely cleared it’s throat, he tensed. On shaking arms, his entire being sweating with both exertion and fear, the fallen Moontae turned to face his guest. Standing triumphant, his hands still stained with the mage’s blood, Zephiel calmly stood. Behind him, their ancient weapons glistening in the moonlight, his enforcers were on hold. However, the King was powerful, and in the entire attack that night, they had never lifted a hand. Their gaze, however, was just as brutal as their weaponry.

“Your time has come to an end, Atreil.” Zephiel’s voice was a mixture of sweet honey and deep gravel. He was the offering upon the altar, sweets and bread mixing and absorbing the blood of innocent fools. As he gasped, the scent of what made Zephiel a Moontae overtook Magus. His soul was dying he knew, but the aphrodisiacs helped to lessen the pain. Almond and cherry, with a hint of leather on a crisp winter morning, the King’s smell was intoxicating. Magus closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath as his mind started spinning with a new strength. In desperation he reached deep inside, beyond the shooting pain to the core of his magic.

“When there is no more time left in this world, we must create new ones.” He said. Standing on wobbly legs, the mage presented his body, his sweat and his blood to his King.

[Tshael]

She was halfway into the brook, the light dancing up her body. Scarlet splayed across her armor, casting blushing shadows on her cheek. Her eyes were awash with ruby and gold, precious in their fear and anticipation. Would she sink forever into the water? Or would this light go beyond just red and into the hematic hues of her own blood? Her fear of drowning was strong, having died beneath the waters twice in the Citadel. How far Concordia seemed from the city that held the Pantheon of Battle! Here, if she were to never emerge from under the waves that were lapping at her belly, then there would be no awakening to the caring hands of monks who had guided her back into life to battle again.

As she clenched her fists, the hourglass dug into the flesh of her palms. Her fear subsided as she thought of her son. He had his father's brown eyes, as determined as she'd ever seen the warlord's. Her grin was feral, her lips pulling back as she chuckled. A demon had been released in Tshael, and without thinking she plunged forward into the middle of the stream, where the depth dropped suddenly and the sanguine light embraced her. She was falling, and the rush against her face was less water now.

Heat came bursting forward, against her tightly closed eyes and as she opened her mouth to scream, the fall stopped. Slamming against the ground, the edge of her armor smashed against her shoulder, pain erupted within her body. Her knee hit rock, her arms reflexively protecting her head as she rolled along a rocky floor. Momentum had taken her, and she crashed into a pile of scree. When she had stopped trembling, opening her eyes, she was stunned.

Face to face, nose to nose, was a skull, cleaned by time and bleached by the red light that radiated around them. Her breath caught in her throat, and as she told herself that it was just a relic of the dead, something latched against her arm. She let her eyes roll down, looking at what was clutching her, pressing the warm plate of her armor against her skin. A skeletal hand was gripping her, and when she looked back to the face that was so close to hers, the jaw began to move.

The dead may have spoken, too, if in reflex she hadn't slammed her elbow into the face, the bottom jaw scattering across the floor as the skull flew backwards.