HOME | DD

Description
Fire blazed in his black eyes.  Its angry reflection on the buildings below the rocky outcropping on the mountainside above the once quaint town seemed a fitting tribute to the dark goddess he served.  Tarhanniel would be pleased with this offering.  He smiled grimly as the screams of torment echoing up from the burning city, which had once held so many enemies of his order.
And yet, regret gnawed at his mind.  He did not regret the sacrifice in the least, only the method.  Live offerings to the flame may be highly pleasing to his goddess – and this, in turn, pleased him – but he much preferred blood sacrifices in which he could glide in and slaughter at will, feeding his wanton bloodlust.  Somehow, the odor of scorched flesh did not appeal to his tastes so much as did the lovely, metallic aroma of various bloods spilled to release their energies to the sky.
Blood was becoming his life.  He obsessed over it, being ever drawn to the thought of bloodletting at his hands.  He had learned to be able to tell things about a carrier just by the blood shed.  He had become adept at discerning the species of a victim simply by the bouquet of their spilt blood, be it fresh or up to a week old.  He was beginning to discern differences stemming from gender and age, as well.  Younger blood, he had decided, was more free and less constrained and spent than that of older blood.
His cravings were stronger, now, but he refused to succumb to addiction.  He had promised the priest a large live burnt offering, and he meant to carry out just that.  Those few who tried to escape were struck down, magical flaming arrows exploding to engulf the target in moments.  He enjoyed the power of the new magics flowing through him, though he knew himself less than equal to any true mage.  Everything had gone by perfectly as planned.  Soon, he would be satisfied that the sacrifice would reach fulfillment without any more of his nurturing.
His black armor gleamed from the moonbeams above and shimmered from the flame tongues below; the innocent white glaze retreating from the lashes of the bloody tendrils, falling prey to the touch, and finally succumbing completely to the flames’ red-orange shade.
He watched the flames for a few moments longer, then, as a last action before leaving the valley, more for ceremony and release than from necessity, he drew his boot dagger and slid it across his right palm, starting from the thumb webbing and parallel to the wrist, slowly.  Licking the fresh blood off of the blade, he sheathed it while cupping his other hand to gather a small pool of his life-essence.  This he then flung into the air above him in a wide arc proclaiming, “Take this offering, my Lady Tarhanniel, from your devoted servant, Morelunain.”
Turning away from the inferno, Morelunain began his long trek back to the temple of his dark lady.
* * * * *
Across the valley, another set of eyes oversaw the carnage below.  These reflected the flames as well.  But these eyes did not view the town as a single unit.  They saw each and every life as an independent spirit.  The flames in these eyes shadowed the pain of each individual sufferer and, to their own capacity, mourned each heart-flame as it fell to the more intense physical blaze.
The face carrying these eyes seemed not to notice the atrocity beheld by its charges, or forced indifference.  Nothing could be done.  He had not been told to act, and so he stood at attention, allowing the carnage to go on unabated.  He must wait until a sign was given.
“You hate it, don’t you?” a voice drifted into his ears from behind him.  The noise was pleasant.  A woman’s voice: soft, caressing, promising an enrapturing beauty.  Indeed, into the circle of light from the moon and the flames drifted a woman of unsurpassable beauty.  Long, platinum hair cascaded down her back.  She moved forward in a black wrap that clung tightly to her slender figure, accentuating the many perfect curves of her female body.  Coming up behind the stone-still figure in the burnt-orange robes, she wrapped her arms around his taller frame, pressing her ample bosom seductively against his back.
“It must be killing you to have to watch this while unable to do anything but watch,” she goaded him.  “Not even able to run down and help like a normal person, let alone aid with the formidable magics at your disposal.  What can your lord be thinking?” she purred.  Under her grip, she felt a shift that would have been visibly indiscernible, stiffening, as from stone to steel in his muscles.
The response came calmly, though in a clipped manner.  “Madam, you hold no sway over me.  Why then must you torment me?”
Her tinkling laugh answered the question.  A beautiful, though condescending sound.  “My dear Caidarite!  What do you mean, torment?  Surely my appearance cannot be an eyesore to even one so pious as yourself?”
“Madam, a mask of beauty covering an evil face may look beautiful.  But its loathsome task makes those who know its secret find it appalling despite its appealing visage.”
“Yes, Caladnos.  You have studied your old proverbs well.  But why hate me?  At least I am available to my servants when they call on me for aid.  They need not wait for orders telling them specifically what to do.  They do as they please.”
“That, Lady Tarhanniel, is because all that your plans require of your servants is for them to destroy.  And with that in mind, you grant them power according to merit and qualities appreciated by their lady,” he nearly spat.  She saw that his stony figure was cracking, she was causing him to show his loathing.  She smiled, this promised to be entertaining.
“But have you ever met your lord truly?  Not just felt the push to do what he wills you to, but actually felt a connection with him?  Have you seen him?  Spoken with him, as you now speak with me?”
He bristled under these attacks against his beliefs.  “I do not need to meet my lord.  He has vast, incomprehensible designs which he alone sets into motion.  Were he to see fit to speak personally with myself, his humble vessel, I would be honored.  But I would rather rely on my faith of his existence and follow his orders accurately to fulfill his designs than risk ruining those plans to meet him face to face.”
“Ah, your innocence is a delicious thing.  It smacks of foolish trust founded on shadows.  I am here with solid proof that I am here.  You can feel me against you.  Is it not a better feeling than that which you have standing aside waiting for a signal from someone who may or may not even care that you wait?  I offer you power, strength, wealth.  Your lord offers you nothing but uncertainty.  I can make you like a god among men!”
“Aye, Lady.  I believe you could.  But I will not be swayed.  I serve my Lord Caidar faithfully and unquestioningly.  I never will bow before your altars.”  He moved to slip away from the loose hold of his temptress, only to find the hold stronger than he had expected.
“And when you find that your lord cares nothing for you?”
“Then I will be no worse off than your own servants.”
“A touch, truly.  And a well thrust point, at that.  It seems you have won this round, Caladnos, but I will be back, rest assured.  Until that time, my love…” she kissed his neck enticingly and pulled away from him.  Her laughter echoed around his still frame as she vanished into the night, her enticing perfume lingering on his clothing, his neck damp from her ephemeral kiss.
“Very well, Lady,” he replied to the air.  “Very well.  And I, I will be prepared for your return.”
Turning from the now smoldering ashes that only a few hours before had been the homes of – and indeed, the – innocent people, unexpecting of an attack of any sort, let alone one of the magical ferocity of the onslaught witnessed by only two surviving mortals, he began to leave.  His eyes glinted in the moonlight as those of a feline tend to, but while a feline’s eyes shimmered of gold, his showed a pure orange shine covering his otherwise black eyes.
In his own sense, he mourned the loss of life.  He resented not acting in their defense, and in being called out on this fact did nothing to ease this resentment.  Yet he did not regret his actions.  He believed, zealously, that his lord would tell him when to act and when not to.  Though, he admitted, inaction in and of itself is an action.  His hand rose to the symbol on his arm, the one acknowledging him as a shaman of his order.
His god, Caidar, had been silent for millennia.  The people no longer even remembered his name; save the small order devoted to him.  Of this handful, none had seen or heard from him directly in generations, only feeling the gentle, internal nudges that steered them on.  Caladnos’ faith was based on these feelings and, he found, had been bolstered by the encounter he had had with the dark goddess.  The touch of her voice on his mind was not unlike the nudgings of his lord’s commands.  His hand dropped from the symbol, the pool of blood mixing with tears.  The two elements mingled but never truly merged.
He walked into the shadows and was engulfed by their darkness.

Description
Fire blazed in his black eyes.  Its angry reflection on the buildings below the rocky outcropping on the mountainside above the once quaint town seemed a fitting tribute to the dark goddess he served.  Tarhanniel would be pleased with this offering.  He smiled grimly as the screams of torment echoing up from the burning city, which had once held so many enemies of his order.
And yet, regret gnawed at his mind.  He did not regret the sacrifice in the least, only the method.  Live offerings to the flame may be highly pleasing to his goddess – and this, in turn, pleased him – but he much preferred blood sacrifices in which he could glide in and slaughter at will, feeding his wanton bloodlust.  Somehow, the odor of scorched flesh did not appeal to his tastes so much as did the lovely, metallic aroma of various bloods spilled to release their energies to the sky.
Blood was becoming his life.  He obsessed over it, being ever drawn to the thought of bloodletting at his hands.  He had learned to be able to tell things about a carrier just by the blood shed.  He had become adept at discerning the species of a victim simply by the bouquet of their spilt blood, be it fresh or up to a week old.  He was beginning to discern differences stemming from gender and age, as well.  Younger blood, he had decided, was more free and less constrained and spent than that of older blood.
His cravings were stronger, now, but he refused to succumb to addiction.  He had promised the priest a large live burnt offering, and he meant to carry out just that.  Those few who tried to escape were struck down, magical flaming arrows exploding to engulf the target in moments.  He enjoyed the power of the new magics flowing through him, though he knew himself less than equal to any true mage.  Everything had gone by perfectly as planned.  Soon, he would be satisfied that the sacrifice would reach fulfillment without any more of his nurturing.
His black armor gleamed from the moonbeams above and shimmered from the flame tongues below; the innocent white glaze retreating from the lashes of the bloody tendrils, falling prey to the touch, and finally succumbing completely to the flames’ red-orange shade.
He watched the flames for a few moments longer, then, as a last action before leaving the valley, more for ceremony and release than from necessity, he drew his boot dagger and slid it across his right palm, starting from the thumb webbing and parallel to the wrist, slowly.  Licking the fresh blood off of the blade, he sheathed it while cupping his other hand to gather a small pool of his life-essence.  This he then flung into the air above him in a wide arc proclaiming, “Take this offering, my Lady Tarhanniel, from your devoted servant, Morelunain.”
Turning away from the inferno, Morelunain began his long trek back to the temple of his dark lady.
* * * * *
Across the valley, another set of eyes oversaw the carnage below.  These reflected the flames as well.  But these eyes did not view the town as a single unit.  They saw each and every life as an independent spirit.  The flames in these eyes shadowed the pain of each individual sufferer and, to their own capacity, mourned each heart-flame as it fell to the more intense physical blaze.
The face carrying these eyes seemed not to notice the atrocity beheld by its charges, or forced indifference.  Nothing could be done.  He had not been told to act, and so he stood at attention, allowing the carnage to go on unabated.  He must wait until a sign was given.
“You hate it, don’t you?” a voice drifted into his ears from behind him.  The noise was pleasant.  A woman’s voice: soft, caressing, promising an enrapturing beauty.  Indeed, into the circle of light from the moon and the flames drifted a woman of unsurpassable beauty.  Long, platinum hair cascaded down her back.  She moved forward in a black wrap that clung tightly to her slender figure, accentuating the many perfect curves of her female body.  Coming up behind the stone-still figure in the burnt-orange robes, she wrapped her arms around his taller frame, pressing her ample bosom seductively against his back.
“It must be killing you to have to watch this while unable to do anything but watch,” she goaded him.  “Not even able to run down and help like a normal person, let alone aid with the formidable magics at your disposal.  What can your lord be thinking?” she purred.  Under her grip, she felt a shift that would have been visibly indiscernible, stiffening, as from stone to steel in his muscles.
The response came calmly, though in a clipped manner.  “Madam, you hold no sway over me.  Why then must you torment me?”
Her tinkling laugh answered the question.  A beautiful, though condescending sound.  “My dear Caidarite!  What do you mean, torment?  Surely my appearance cannot be an eyesore to even one so pious as yourself?”
“Madam, a mask of beauty covering an evil face may look beautiful.  But its loathsome task makes those who know its secret find it appalling despite its appealing visage.”
“Yes, Caladnos.  You have studied your old proverbs well.  But why hate me?  At least I am available to my servants when they call on me for aid.  They need not wait for orders telling them specifically what to do.  They do as they please.”
“That, Lady Tarhanniel, is because all that your plans require of your servants is for them to destroy.  And with that in mind, you grant them power according to merit and qualities appreciated by their lady,” he nearly spat.  She saw that his stony figure was cracking, she was causing him to show his loathing.  She smiled, this promised to be entertaining.
“But have you ever met your lord truly?  Not just felt the push to do what he wills you to, but actually felt a connection with him?  Have you seen him?  Spoken with him, as you now speak with me?”
He bristled under these attacks against his beliefs.  “I do not need to meet my lord.  He has vast, incomprehensible designs which he alone sets into motion.  Were he to see fit to speak personally with myself, his humble vessel, I would be honored.  But I would rather rely on my faith of his existence and follow his orders accurately to fulfill his designs than risk ruining those plans to meet him face to face.”
“Ah, your innocence is a delicious thing.  It smacks of foolish trust founded on shadows.  I am here with solid proof that I am here.  You can feel me against you.  Is it not a better feeling than that which you have standing aside waiting for a signal from someone who may or may not even care that you wait?  I offer you power, strength, wealth.  Your lord offers you nothing but uncertainty.  I can make you like a god among men!”
“Aye, Lady.  I believe you could.  But I will not be swayed.  I serve my Lord Caidar faithfully and unquestioningly.  I never will bow before your altars.”  He moved to slip away from the loose hold of his temptress, only to find the hold stronger than he had expected.
“And when you find that your lord cares nothing for you?”
“Then I will be no worse off than your own servants.”
“A touch, truly.  And a well thrust point, at that.  It seems you have won this round, Caladnos, but I will be back, rest assured.  Until that time, my love…” she kissed his neck enticingly and pulled away from him.  Her laughter echoed around his still frame as she vanished into the night, her enticing perfume lingering on his clothing, his neck damp from her ephemeral kiss.
“Very well, Lady,” he replied to the air.  “Very well.  And I, I will be prepared for your return.”
Turning from the now smoldering ashes that only a few hours before had been the homes of – and indeed, the – innocent people, unexpecting of an attack of any sort, let alone one of the magical ferocity of the onslaught witnessed by only two surviving mortals, he began to leave.  His eyes glinted in the moonlight as those of a feline tend to, but while a feline’s eyes shimmered of gold, his showed a pure orange shine covering his otherwise black eyes.
In his own sense, he mourned the loss of life.  He resented not acting in their defense, and in being called out on this fact did nothing to ease this resentment.  Yet he did not regret his actions.  He believed, zealously, that his lord would tell him when to act and when not to.  Though, he admitted, inaction in and of itself is an action.  His hand rose to the symbol on his arm, the one acknowledging him as a shaman of his order.
His god, Caidar, had been silent for millennia.  The people no longer even remembered his name; save the small order devoted to him.  Of this handful, none had seen or heard from him directly in generations, only feeling the gentle, internal nudges that steered them on.  Caladnos’ faith was based on these feelings and, he found, had been bolstered by the encounter he had had with the dark goddess.  The touch of her voice on his mind was not unlike the nudgings of his lord’s commands.  His hand dropped from the symbol, the pool of blood mixing with tears.  The two elements mingled but never truly merged.
He walked into the shadows and was engulfed by their darkness.