Jason Dante vs. Darkness vs. Rob Dat Van - 411Fed/ECF Friction - 18/08/05

In this feud, Darkness begins the 'Redemption' story arc as, faced with the prospect of proving himself in the fed on his own merits, he voices a challenge on a live webcast to none other than Lucifer himself. Thus Darkness finally reveals his reasons for joining the 411fed: he seeks to gain Hell's attention and his redemption for a reason not yet revealed.

Jason Dante, affronted at this presumption, adds a new title to his repertoire, declaring himself "Lucifer's Champion", an acolade that meshes nicely with his now revealed albinism.

In a final flashback, we learn that Darkness has no fear of Dante, for three years ago, he engaged in single combat with the arch-demon Abbadon, banishing him back to Hades.

[Originally posted 08/26/05 by Thommy H]

"Shadow Slayer": Epilogue

The Vatican, Vatican City, Rome 1996

It was unseasonably cold on this September day as Benedict Ahab made his way through the crowds in Saint Peter's square. He clutched the strongbox against his chest protectively and tried to think straight.

The trial was a whirlwind in Ben's mind...so much shouting, so many accusations. It had taken a lot of string-pulling from the Order to prevent everything coming out. He could admit it though, they had been very indiscreet during the jailbreak. Jack had nearly ruined everything with his bravado and, frankly, insane temperament.

And then she had stepped up...this mysterious woman from Darkness's past that made everything all right. Her testimony had saved Darkness from prison and the Order of Shadow Slayers from ignominious exposure. But there was a price to pay...

He clutched the strongbox tighter. It was all he had left now, and it was his duty to present the contents to the First and bear the brunt of his wrath. He hoped he would be allowed to keep them now that his ‘brother' had told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted no aspect of his former occupation interfering in his new life with her.

He couldn't begrudge her Darkness, of course, she was there first, albeit it nearly ten years ago now. But the Order would suffer for his betrayal - Darkness was a warrior of incomparable might, who had bested a Duke of Hell and slain a Firstborn vampire. Uncounted Shadowspawn had fallen to his deadly weapons and terrible disasters had been averted at his will. Yes, the Order would be impoverished by this loss...and so would Benedict himself.

He entered the Vatican and followed the secret route to the vaults known only to the Order and its servants - of which he was one of the most senior. These ancient catacombs had been the lair of the Order of Shadow Slayers for more than seven hundred years - since the first of all the Shadow Slayers had been given a seat on the Council of Demonology in fact.

The story of the original First of the Order was now a legend known only to a precious few. Tyrus Angelus had dedicated himself to the fight against Shadowspawn since his two sons had been killed by the creature known only as the Red Knight. The events surrounding the death of his eldest son - Aterius Angelus - were shrouded in mystery but dark rumours had ever circulated of the birth of the Destroyer Hive on that fateful day and the involvement of the arch-demon Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies.

Dark tales, now only half-remembered and best left in the shadows were all that was left of those terrible times. It was when the Order was first created that it was decided to suppress all knowledge of the Shadow Slayers themselves and the creatures they hunted. No beast, no matter how terrible, can thrive when it exists only as a bedtime story.

The Shadow Slayers turned fact into fiction, reality in myth. Without their influence, the world would be a much darker and more terrible place.

A cough to his left broke him from his reverie and he turned, startled, to see one half of the famous Dane brothers walking alongside him.

"Jack!"

Jack Dane flashed his characteristic manic grin at his diminutive friend and nodded to Benedict's right. John flanked him as well, sporting a smile of his own, "We hear Darkness got off without any charges," the more even of the two brothers said. John and Jack made an interesting contrast; Jack was lean, toned and sported a braid that fell down past his waist while John's stocky frame and rough demeanour was not softened by his closely shaved head. Facially, they were near identical and, not unusually, Jack was left-handed while his twin was not.

"We heard it was some ex-girlfriend or something," Jack chimed in, still grinning wolfishly, "Must be nice to have contacts like that to bail you out, huh?"

"Well, forget what you heard," Benedict said, frowning, "I've no time for the two of you and your incessant questions!"

Ignoring the frustrated man, Jack continued with his line of inquiry, "What's in the box, Ben?"

"Something for the First..."

"You know Kahn doesn't like to be disturbed this early in the morning, Ben," John reminded him, "Do you even have an appointment?"

Ben stopped abruptly, and eyed each of the Dane brothers in turn, "I don't need an appointment to show him this," he said, his voice lowered. He held out the strongbox and flipped the catch. As he pulled open the lid, he raised it slightly so the two taller men could see.

"Whoa..." Jack was, possibly for the first time in his life, shocked into silence.

"Are those what I think they are?" John asked, eyeing Benedict suspiciously.

"Of course," Benedict replied, snapping the box shut, "And I'll thank you two to keep quiet about it until I see the First."

John threw a guilty glance at Jack, "Actually, that's why we're here - Kahn sent us to escort you to his chamber."

"I've not time for your elaborate depictions and pantomime either!" Ben cried, nearly dropping the box as he threw his hands up reflexively.

Jack grinned and patted Benedict on the head, "Just hop on my back, Ben - I'll give you a lift there."

"No thank you - you're not my type," Benedict replied haughtily, rubbing his balding head self-consciously.

* * *

The audience with the First was a sharp contrast to the witty banter of the Dane brothers in the silent corridors of the Vatican's lowest vaults. The First was a position of great authority and his chamber had a Spartan sense of grandeur. Candles flickered across bare walls that bore images of Shadow Slayers of the past made out in relief.

Ghunan Kahn - universally known as Tiger Kahn, for that was the Mongolian translation of his forename - sat in his chair at the end of the room looking pensive and far older than his years. His dark face was creased with worry lines and his east-Asian complexion made a sharp contrast to the dazzling white hair that hung straight down his back and pooled on his shoulders.

"Honoured First," Benedict said, bowing his head.

Kahn nodded his head in return and stood slowly. He was over eighty years old and, while still powerful, the years had taken their toll on him. The life of a Shadow Slayer was often short and violent; those that survive long enough to see old age bear many scars and old hurts.

The First would die in battle had he the choice, and then his successor would be chosen from those who numbered themselves in the Second Circle of the Order. Darkness would have been the natural choice, but who was to say who would replace the aging Tiger now?

Kahn took his Slayer Weapon from its position resting at the foot of his chair. It was a katana of improbably ancient heritage - he had received it at the end of his years of training in Japan many years ago. It was an unspoken tradition that the First of the Shadow Slayers should carry a sword of some description, though there were many examples that defied this. The symbol of their Order, of course, was a winged sword that was in turn the symbol of House Angelus all those centuries ago.

The sword it represented was said to have been wielded by Tyrus's son, Aterius. It had been lost when he died. Legend had it that the weapon would resurface someday.

"Benedict," Kahn began, his voice rattling in his throat, "I know what you have come here to tell me."

"First, I bring the Slayer Weapons of the one known to us as Darkness of the Second Circle."

He opened the strongbox and held it up for Kahn to observe. There, nestling in dark velvet were two pistols of unique design. No one knew who had built them or where they came from - only their name was recorded: "The Eyes of God".

"Is there any ammunition remaining?"

"Three bullets only," Benedict replied.

"Keep them there. He'll need them someday."

Benedict met the piercing blue eyes of the First for long enough to understand that Tiger Kahn saw something far beyond the ken of morals at that moment.

A timeless hotel lobby and a dark figure standing between two marble columns:

"DO YOU WANT TO FIND HELL WITH ME, DEMONS?"

Two thunderous explosions echo across the lobby and twin bolts of fury fly from the figure's hands to meet their destinies.

Death by Degrees at ECF and 411 present Endgame - 09/23/05

In this most chaotic of feuds, most of the action revolved around Dante's attempts to imprison his opponents in his club. However, in terms of the War in Hell, this feud is most significant because it is the first time Dante encounters Seth. He presents the albino with the head of recently decesed Shadow Slayer John Dane, killed by wargs in an abandoned missile silo in the Airzona desert. Dante nods thoughtfully and places the gruesome object in storage.

This is also the feud in which Dante first encounters Natalie Portman, Seilena's eventual host.

Rachel Hunter, Shaun Bisley and The Hammer vs. Darkness, John Doe and 'Acid' Misfit at 411 and ECF presents Friction 11/13/05

In this feud, Darkness first encountered Rachel and telepathically imprinted her with a vision of the night which drove him to become the man he is today:

She sees him with his daughter, when a knock at the door of his comfortable home rouses him. When he answers, he finds an Incubus waiting for him, which carves the two livid scars across Darkness's eyes with its swords. As Darkness falls to his knees in agony, he screams at his daughter Krissy to run away but, to his horror, she runs towards him.

Darkness vs. Rachel Hunter for the 411fed and ECF Unified World's Heavyweight Championship at Breakdown 11/28/05

It is revealed that Rachel's visions are not in fact what happened to Darkness, but rather just one possible alternate reality in which Darkness chose to help him family rather than fight Lucifer and his Incubus army. She realises the full horror of his crime and his reasons for seeking his redemption: he holds himself responsible for the death of his family, even though he would have died a humiliating and ignominious death had he not fought.

This feud also marks Benedict's reappearnce in Darkness's life, as he returns and tells him of John Dane's fate and that Nathan Bolas, the current First of the Shadow Slayers, is inept and possibly corrupted. As a result, he, Marta Hayes and Jack Dane have left the Order and now fight alone against a mysterious new threat. He asks Darkness to join him, telling him to abandon the foolish world of wrestling, but Darkness refuses and explains his reasons for being there before they part ways again.

[Originally posted 11/28/05 by Thommy H]

Meanwhile, in Hell...

Hell's Suburbs

Lynx wandered discontentedly through the rubble and ruin of what had once been this region's major population centre. He was part of a long procession of imps, lesser fiends and minor demons that were sluggishly emerging from the gates of the baroque mass of a factory that was now the only building standing for several miles in any direction.

Despite being the chieftain of this area of Hell, Lynx too had been pressed into manufacturing ammunition for Lucifer's gargantuan war machines that even now could be heard in the distance bombarding the fortified lairs of the renegades and invaders. It was a testament to the titanic scale of the creations that the destruction wrought by them was audible despite the fact that they were nearly a hundred miles away.

Well away from the front lines, the destruction was evident even here. Much of these buildings had been cannibalised to produce the huge factory that reared like a cathedral to war above Lynx's head but there were also the scars of some of the earliest surprise attacks from the Abysmal forces - rents in the ground where ballistae that vomited forth great arcs of green lightning had hit. As ruler here, Lynx's home was heavily fortified and so he was fortunate to be spared much of the damage - doubtless the enchantments cast by the house's former occupant, the enigmatic Bleeder, had also played a part.

Many of his subjects were not so lucky. Crude lean-tos and tents were erected against shattered walls and the denizens of Hell's Suburbs cast fearful glances at the sky, grimacing at the distant and rhythmic flaring on the unnatural horizon where huge munitions were detonated. What terrible times where even demons knew fear...

Sighing heavily, Lynx entered his home, shutting the door on his the outside world and the troubles that came with it. Tomorrow he would return to the factory and slave away like a common demon but tonight...tonight he had plans...

Running one scaled hand over a similarly afflicted brow, Lynx sat himself down on a leather recliner - an acquisition from some soul or other - in front of his television set - an arcane device of corroded metal that sported a number of pipes pumping a viscous liquid into the main body of the machine when Lynx activated the remote control. Rusted cogs ground noisily somewhere in the back of the TV as the screen, a strangely concave piece of flawed crystal that gave the images shown on it the appearance of being refracted through a fish-eye lens, flickered into life.

On that alien screen the words "411 and ECF present ‘Breakdown'!" appeared and, with a contended smile, Lynx reached across and poured himself a bowl of Froot Loops. No milk...fluids were scarce in Hell, especially now. With all the work he'd had to do, Lynx hadn't had chance to catch up on the fed's goings on and neither had any of his co-workers, it seemed. Unbeknownst to those on Earth, the 411ed's biggest share of viewers came from the billions of demons in Hell.

Of course, with a war on, who could find time for pro wrestling? That's why Lynx made time for the pay-per-views. As he spooned the cereal between his serrated teeth he realised he had no idea who the champion even was at the moment. Didn't Misfit have it a while ago? Oh no, wait, he'd heard Rachel Hunter beat him and unified the titles. Better than that bastard Nemesis laying claim to that sole honour it in the dirtsheets, Lynx reflected.

"I wonder who's challenging for the belts then?" Lynx asked himself, his reptilian brow furrowing, "Probably no one..."

Three hours later, a bile fiend sheltering from the acidic rain that had begun to pour down from Hell's broken sky saw the figure of Lynx burst from his door and run at full pelt down the road towards Hell's Western Plains. The bile demon snarled at the self-appointed King of Hell's Suburbs and burped loudly.

Hades, City of Destruction

At the uttermost height of the iron city stood a quartet the like of which had never been assembled. As the unnatural clouds churned overhead and a faint acidic drizzle began to fall, Lucifer turned to his companions, letting his infernal gaze pass over each of them.

In an iron throne that merged into the surface of the rusting tower sat Baal, lord in name only of the city and the Legio Incubi. His bloated body seeped bilious fluid that left corrosion in its wake on the metal of his seat. Faded blue eyes beneath his once-terrifying Incubus-mask cracked open slightly as Lucifer's stare passed over him but closed again after a few seconds as one of Hell's Locusts crawled from the mouth of his mask and fed on the corruption that scaled his ruined form.

Beside Baal stood two figures at odds with their surroundings, great wings swept behind each of them and not the membranous creations of Lucifer but pinions made in the form of birds of Earth. The foremost angel's wings were white and unblemished like the wings of a swan, reflected perfectly in the armour the being wore which shone silver like the light of a star. He rested on a long spear, his brilliant blue eyes casting around him suspiciously. Allies they might be, but Michael, the Angel of Light had no love of his predecessor.

His comrade and brother, the angel Raphael, stood easier. His wings, made in the form of falcons', seemed in a state of agitation as the angel stared with his golden eyes across the blasted plain far below them while his fingers fidgeted on the hilt of his own spear, this one tipped with bronze that matched his armour.

The final member of the group was perched on the battlements, his own bat-like wings firmly folded. Like Raphael, Abbadon was agitated and impatient to be in battle. Below his deformed brow that sprouted two twisted horns, dully glowing eyes glowered out at the distant horizon where the hulking shapes of Hell's artillery could be seen, soldiers swarming like ants at their bases. His clawed fingers rested on the pommel of his weapon, the Sword of Heroes. The blade glowed with a sickly green light as a faint miasma swirled around its edge. Agonised faces could be seen in the tormented cloud...the souls of ancient heroes condemned to serve the master of all damned warriors for eternity. Odysseus, Achilles, Augustus...those who had murdered and maimed for the sake of power.

"Patience, Abbadon," Lucifer counselled, "This bombardment will soften them for a second assault."

"What honour is there in destroying a foe at distance? How shall I take skulls when all their bones are shattered before I arrive?"

"What else do you suggest?" Michael interjected, one eyebrow arched.

"That I lead as is my duty," Abbadon sneered, rounding on the angel, "As commander of the forces of Hell, I should..."

"You are no commander," Michael continued, "It was your leadership that cost us the first assault. Had you held back and waited for our order..."

"I don't take orders from God-spawn!" Abbadon roared, his wings spreading to encompass the whole tower-top. Raphael's grip tightened on his spear, his face now grim.

"Enough." Lucifer's voice, though quiet, carried the weight of authority, "With our enemy demoralised and damaged, you will have no excuse for failure a second time."

"I did not fail!"

Infernal light rose in the Fallen One's eyes as he turned to his general, "You failed. Only Michael's rearguard assured that the Legio survived."

Abbadon moved closer to his master, his eyes narrowing, "Who else would you have command the armies of Hell? My worthless brother?"

Lucifer snorted at the suggestion, "Would that I could find him. He is one of many who have fled into the hinterlands...cowards..."

"Then there are no others."

"So it would seem...."

A sudden commotion drew the attention of the four generals as a figure flanked by two Incubi burst onto the tower top. Lucifer's eyes narrowed at the strange newcomer and recognition stirred in him.

"Lynx...?"

"Lucifer...I need to speak with you..."

"So informal...your little kingdom has given you a taste of arrogance I see. Hasn't slaving in my factory taught you any humility?"

"You don't understand...I...I was watching the TV..."

"The TV?"

"411...the fed..." Lynx seemed to be out of breath. He placed a scaled hand on his chest and rested one hand on the battlements for a few moments.

Lucifer frowned. He had forgotten the little wrestling league in which he had invested so much with the Bleeder so long ago, "What's happened, Lynx?"

"The new champion...it's...it's him..."

Lucifer's eyes widened, "Who?" he demanded of his servant, already knowing the answer.

[Originally posted 11/29/05 by Azathoth]

THE CONGRESS HOTEL, CHICAGO

Jason Dante strides through the hotel lobby, somewhat annoyed by the sudden summons to meet his mysterious ally before leaving town. The match at Breakdown did not end favorably for Dante, and as a result he's quite eager to put it and the city of Chicago far behind him. Now this, delaying his departure.

The desk clerk tries to smile, but a half-step back and a nervous tick betray her discomfort with the deathly pale man in front of her.

Dante: "I'm here to see Sutter Caine."

Dante finds out that "Caine" has a whole floor of the hotel all to himself. He peels off a hundred-dollar bill and tosses it toward the clerk before proceeding to the elevators. During the ride up to his associate's floor, Dante wonders why he's been asked here in the first place. The message was terse and entirely absent of details, but if he had to guess it probably has something to do with the newly crowned world champion.

The elevator door slides open on a dimly lit hallway. Almost immediately, an oversized, hairy hand clamps down on Dante's shoulder. Two unibrow-sporting gorillas in expensive suits close in around Dante.

Bodyguard: "State your business."

From the inhuman strength of the man's grip and the bulge under his jacket, Dante can deduce that witty banter would be wasted on the thugs.

Dante: "Jason Dante here for Seth Drake. I have an appointment."

The bodyguard releases his death grip on Dante.

Bodyguard: "Down the hall and to your left. He's eating lunch."

Dante walks down the corridor and into Seth's dining room. Outside it's midday, but all the windows are covered by heavy curtains, leaving the entire floor in an artificial twilight. The room is illuminated by a few table lamps and the candles arrayed in several candelabras on the dining table. At the far end of the table, Seth is cutting into a bloody piece of meat.

Seth: "Ah, Jason, come in, sit, eat. There's plenty to go around."

Dante surveys the dishes laid out, including chicken livers, pate de foie gras, sweetbreads, chitterlings, calf fries and a bloody roast impaled by a stainless steel carving knife.

Dante: "Not much ruffage."

Seth: "What can I say, I'm a carnivore."

Dante: "What's that on your plate now?"

Seth: "A rather symbolic entree -- lamb chops, extra rare."

Dante sits opposite Seth and pours himself a glass of wine.

Dante: "Why have you asked me here?"

Seth: "A mutual problem that's only getting worse, namely Darkness. Unbeaten hero, now world champion."

Dante: "Definitely a problem for me, but I don't see how it concerns you."

Seth: "A Shadow Slayer who continues to draw breath concerns me greatly, especially one who has achieved such notoriety. You know about the Slayers, don't you?"

Dante: "Of course. A man of my means has quite a few sources."

Seth: "Indeed. Once upon a time, as I'm sure you already knew, the Shadow Slayers were humanity's first line of defense against things that go bump in the night. These days, though, they're a spent force. Almost all the Slayers who could make any real trouble are wormfood -- me and mine have seen to that, Mr. Dante. Those that remain are weak or corrupted."

Dante: "Except Darkness."

Seth chews a piece of his lamb chop, a trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth.

Seth: "You hit the nail on the head. The Slayers are blind, deaf and dumb, but not Darkness. In fact, I'd say he's about the only one left who could pull off a Hail Mary pass and lead the old home team to a big comeback. And that, my friend, would be very bad news for both of us."

Dante: "What did you have in mind?"

Seth: "You're Lucifer's champion, aren't you, Mr. Dante? What better way to prove your worth to His Satanic Majesty than laying low one of the Almighty's greatest human warriors? I'd dare say that if you want to live up to your title, you have an obligation to stop Darkness' meddling by any means necessary."

Dante: "Do you mean killing?"

Seth laughs.

Seth: "Oh, don't tell me you'd balk at murder, Mr. Dante. After all, it's only human nature, has been from the very beginning. All the artificial 'moralities' imposed on us are shackles for the weak-willed sheep of the world. Lucifer's example is one of ambition without constraints, without petty rules, and especially without commandments from a sadistic creator who would punish us eternally for following the desires he placed in our hearts to begin with."

Dante: "You didn't answer my question. Are you saying you want Darkness dead?"

Seth: "If I wanted him dead, I'd sick the wolves on him. No, a move like that would attract far too much attention, especially now that he's your company's top champion. What I really want is for you to stymie him, block him, disrupt his plans, take what is precious to him and finally crush his spirit. Break him, and you'll win a great victory for Lucifer."

Dante: "I presume you'll help me do this?"

Seth: "Of course. To start with, I'll offer you a name. Have you ever heard of Augustin Laurent Baptiste?"

Dante: "It's vaguely familiar."

Seth: "He's an old creole houngan with a lot of juice, been a power broker in the American South for decades, not to mention one of Lucifer's most loyal servants. People say he's even conjured Lucifer in the flesh. Baptiste has a lot of friends with a lot of power, and he knows ways of hurting people without ever laying a hand on them. Since the two of you serve the same master, Baptiste may just be able to help you attain your heart's desires and take care of Darkness at the same time."

A smile plays across Dante's face.

Dante: "Are you saying he's more powerful than you?"

Seth: "Merely that he's someone sympathetic to your aims who could help you get an advantage over Darkness."

Dante: "What's his price?"

Seth: "Not money, Mr. Dante. He does favors for favors -- but Baptiste works some powerful favors, so it's well worth the asking."

Dante: "Should I mention your name?"

Seth (chuckling): "Afraid it won't get you a discount."

Dante: "Where can I find this Baptiste?"

Seth: "Louisiana. He owns an old plantation house, that's where he holds court. Approach him with the proper respect, and you'll have an ally who can help you lay Darkness low."

Dante: "What will you be doing in the meantime?"

Seth: "Oh, there's still plenty to do. I have my own plans for Darkness and his friends ... but I'm not quite ready to tip my hand yet. Suffice it to say that I'll also be doing my part to make his life as unpleasant as possible."

Dante: "Will we be meeting again anytime soon?"

Seth: "I have some business outside the country, but I'm sure it won't take long. Next time I'll come to you. I trust you can find your way out again. Good day, Mr. Dante, and good luck with your next match."

Dante shakes his head and takes his leave of Seth, who is in the process of spearing a calf fry with his fork.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ISTANBUL

"He actually had a gun to your head?"

The old man's tone is much too accusatory for Seth's taste.

Seth: "That's what I said, Mr. Torre."

Torre: "What if he had fired!?"

Seth (sighing): "I was well protected. You of all people should know that the police arriving at that very moment was more than a happy coincidence. Sorcery isn't always a bolt from the blue. If it hadn't been the local cops, it might have been an inexplicable misfire or some other seemingly random phenomenon."

Torre: "You still haven't explained why you confronted this Shadow Slayer in the first place."

Seth is rapidly becoming annoyed with the old man, but the others in the inner circle of the Elect of Apophis arrayed around the table are equally curious.

Seth: "I'd hoped it might distract him from that wrestling match of his, derail destiny by preventing him from reaching the next step."

Torre: "Except now he's more of a threat to us than ever!"

Seth locks his eyes, now completely black, on the elderly wizard.

Seth: "Hold your tongue, kraut! You're addressing the herald of Apophis!"

The old man sinks into his seat, lowering his head.

Torre: "Apologies, archmagus."

The middle-aged Chinese man leans forward.

Seth: "Yes, General Zheng?"

Zheng: "What of Dante and Baptiste? Is there not a danger of sending one you hope to use for our ends into the arms of one of Lucifer's human bondsmen?"

An older American woman motions to be heard.

Seth: "Senator Windham?"

Windham: "You've actually met Baptiste before, haven't you? Might Dante tell him about you and reveal our intentions to the enemy?"

Seth: "That's hardly anything to worry about. The last time I met Monsieur Baptiste, there was a Depression on and he was still a wet-behind-the-ears kid. Besides, I was using a different name in those days."

That seems to calm down the others.

Seth: "Darkness will be dealt with, either by Dante or by us. Our allies are gaining an upper hand in the war in Hell, and we've all but eliminated the opposition here. Soon we can begin the final phase, begin the rituals to allow the return of the Abysmal Ones. Until then, we simply need to keep our enemies divided and distracted from our real purpose. By the time they realize what's happening, it will be too late. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you all know what to do. May the hand of Apophis guide you."

All: "Praise be to the herald of the Abysmal Ones."

[Originally posted 12/10/05 by Thommy H]

The Nevada Desert, some 40 miles north of Winnemucca

As the sun hung low on the horizon and the darkness grew in the east, he flexed the muscles of his neck rhythmically and felt the scents moving through the air around him.

This close to human civilisation, he could sense their presence everywhere. He irritably shook droplets of saliva from his maw as the hunger began to gnaw at him. So close to fresh meat...and yet unable to reach out and tear it from their still living bodies.

His eyes narrowed as a gust of wind stirred up the sand ahead of him, bringing to him ancient, dry odours of the earth . Like all of his kind, his eyesight was poor - he didn't understand colour in the way a human would, for instance, though it wasn't correct to describe his vision as "black and white"...such a concept was entirely alien to him. No, his primary sense harkened back to his canine forefathers. The world was a great swirling mêlée of scents to his people, just as the human world was an explosion of colour and light.

As the sun sank below the distant stone columns worn into grotesque shapes by millennia of fast desert winds, he began to arch his back. Around him, his clan was stirring as night began. It was a moonless night, but it mattered not to the waking creatures - their kind had ended their moon worship many generations ago. He stretched the huge muscles in his arms, tendons like steel cabling pulled taunt stood out beneath the layer of fur that covered his hulking form.

While his clan, an extended family of brothers, sons, nephews and breeders, began to rise, his clawed fist - an appendage that sat somewhere between hand and paw - closed around the hilt of his great curved blade. The weapon, once a finely made implement of death was now encrusted with dried filth and blood, its formerly honed edge now chipped in many places. He had no interest in maintaining his sword by sharpening it, so in preference simply chipped away at the blade when it became dull to create a crude, jagged edge. It suited him well enough. He preferred his fangs and claws as weapons in truth, but the scimitar was as much a status symbol as anything else.

His grip tightened as he lifted the weapon into the air and an expectant hush fell across the camp. As the edge of the sun finally dropped over the horizon and the night closed in around them, he raised his head to the wandering stars that glittered in the firmament above.

The howl of Goth the Warglord echoed across the desert, carrying for miles over the flat terrain. His clan, dozens of lupine monstrosities just like himself, joined in with his bestial warcry, their warning to their distant prey becoming so loud that it reverberated through the earth below their feet.

As the howl died away Goth looked to his eldest son, a rangy warg wielding a flint-tipped spear and sporting a mass of knotted dreadlocks that hung down his back, "The hunt is on, Ureth," he growled, the words not quite forming in his slavering jaws. Wargs had no language of their own, being inherently incapable of any act of creation, so they mutilated what tongues they heard for their own purposes. Combined with their functional system of pheromonal communication it served them well enough.

At their patriarchs request, the clan began moving towards the west, a great tide of rippling muscle coated in matted, greasy fur. It was with reluctance that they avoided human settlements, for it would not do for more reports of their activities to begin spreading - Seth had warned them against a repeat of their careless slaughter of John Dane. Nonetheless, several of the younger wargs preyed upon the livestock of a ranch they passed in an attempt to sate the hunger that constantly gnawed away at the gut of every warg.

Seth had promised them release from the hunger - a hunger the Herald of the Abysmal Ones understood all too well, Goth knew - and because of that, they had willingly joined him. It was this that led them to their prey now.

As Goth crested a rise ahead of his monstrous pack, he let out another howl that the clan echoed a hundred-fold. The concept of ‘ambush' was another idea lost upon the wargs.

Not that the element of surprise would have served them at all against foes such as these; just as Goth's clan had scented them across the leagues that separated them before sunset, so they had been scented.

This night, warg hunted warg.

In the valley below, Dar'kath spun his twin blades deftly into his hands and growled beneath his pointed death-mask. Luminescent green eyes shone in the firelight of his own clan's camp. Unlike their enemies, those wargs still loyal to their creators did not shun the light...had not the Morningstar himself once wielded such light before the Fall?

Dar'kath reared up to his full height, some twelve feet in all, and flexed the lacerated muscles of his disturbingly human chest. The finely crafted scale armour that coated his arms moved easily with his ritualistic movements as he prepared for battle. Each of his blades scored a deep wound across his chest as his dark, half-demon blood spilled onto the parched desert earth.

"Prepare," he growled softly, though not in any tongue a human would have understood.

His own clan, a ragged but proud group of perhaps a score, readied their weapons as Goth's clan began pouring down the hillside to meet them. Wargs - no matter what entity to which they owed their loyalty - were without fear. It was only regret that accompanied the expert swings of Dar'kath's blades as he crouched low in preparation to meet his enemy.

Regret that this should happen while he lived.

Regret that his proud and honourable race should be reduced to howling, bestial monsters.

Regret that his clan, the last of the ancient line of Ul'tath the Wargsire, the first of all the demon-wolf hybrids to stalk the Earth, should perish at the hands of their own kin.

Goth and his kind had exchanged their heritage, their future, for the promise of freedom from the very thing which made them strong. It was the Hunger, the lust for raw flesh and warm blood, that drove the wargs. The all-encompassing want that could never be fulfilled made the discipline of Dar'kath a necessity. Without it they were nothing more than beasts.

The blood of Hell itself ran through their veins...but Goth had forgotten that and pledged himself to powers that were anathema to that great legacy. His creatures epitomised all that Dar'kath despised.

Around him, the few remaining wargs that still owed loyalty to Hell tensed to absorb the charge of their dark kin. The fires reflected in the burnished armour of the lithe and powerful lupine warriors as glaives, halberds and scimitars levelled.

"Throw!" Dar'kath roared suddenly, and in response half a dozen triangular shapes of wrought iron flew from the ranks of his soldiers. Each of the bladed boomerangs found targets amongst their charging foes and described wide parabolas that left more warg corpses in their wake before returning to the hands of those that had thrown them.

Their enemy was numerous however, and the attack did not slow their wild charge. Ordinary tactical doctrine would have advised against a second throw for fear of losing the boomerangs once the foe closed with them, but Dar'kath knew his clan would have no further use of them once this battle was done. Better to kill while they still could.

"THROW!" he roared a second time.

Boomerangs left warg hands and, a split second later, the space between the two clans had closed. Dar'kath never saw how many of the renegades his clan's weapons slew, for his attention was diverted by the ragged shapes that assailed him. His blades found muscular flesh beneath filthy fur and he buried his weapons up to their hilts in body after body.

"DAR'KATH!" a barely intelligible voice roared at him from a great knot of brawling forms to his left. He turned and saw Goth, surely the largest warg that had ever lived, hurl the broken forms of his family away like broken toys. Dar'kath straightened himself and prepared to meet his enemy's challenge.

He knew that his clan would not survive this night and any that did would live on only as slaves. His breeders, the proud mothers of his children, would be subject to the cruel and violent attentions of Goth's festering beasts; those of his sons that lived would be tortured and mutilated for their amusement.

Dar'kath knew that it would be worth it if only he could end the lives of as many of these monsters as possible before his end. He slammed one of his weapons into the eye socket of one of the traitor wargs, twisting it with satisfaction as the creature's blood spattered across his death-mask.

"DAR'KATH!" Goth roared a second time.

Dar'kath, last of the line of Ul'tath, the only loyal Warglord that now lived, the Champion of the Werekind, stood tall and bared his muscular torso to his foe in the manner of the traditional challenge of his people. At his sides, his heavy, curved blades dripped fresh blood.

"COME AND GET ME, GOTH," he called, "AND BY LUCIFER I SHALL END YOU!"

* * *

Far above the battle, three figures observed the violence and heard the bestial cries.

"We should leave," Jack Dane noted with the cold detachment that had become the normal tone for him.

"They are no threat to us," Benedict assured him, "The victors will be too concerned with picking clean the bones of the vanquished."

On his other side, Marta Hayes levelled her crossbow experimentally, squinting with her good eye down the sight. She shook her head, moving the fringe that usually hung over the badly scarred left-side of her face to reveal the white orb of her blinded eye, "They move too fast," she explained bitterly.

"Your bolts would do little against the ones that will be left standing," Benedict reflected sadly, "They are protected by some power which is proof against our weapons.

Jack Dane shook his head slowly, "Wargs fighting wargs...Slayers fighting Slayers. What times are these?"

"Dark ones," Benedict replied, still looking at the fighting which was now drawing to a close below them. The last pockets of the Infernal clan were being slaughtered by the renegades now.

As Ben and Marta turned from the scene, Jack stared down at the huge creature that had just decapitated the leader of the other clan and nodded at it, "One day," he vowed to himself, "I'll make you pay..." Fingering the hilt of his rapier slowly, he stood and followed his companions to their vehicle.

Darkness, John Doe, Obsidian and Ultima vs. Jason Dante, MacAvoy, Supreme and Stown at ECF and 411 presents How Few Remain 01/13/06

Dante at last realises what he must do to reach an equal footing with his nemesis. Injecting himself with the essence of the succubus Selinia that once inhabited his body, he reverts to his demonic form. Now prepared to do what he must, he kidnaps Darkness and injects with the essence of another creature. Initially, this serum simply disorientates Darkness but, after Dante goads him into a murderous rage on a rooftop, Darkness nearly kills him and the entity in the serum combines with the Mark of the Destroyer given to Darkness by Abbadon and a terrible transformation is triggered.

This begins the 'Shadowman' story arc.

Jason Dante vs. 'Acid' Misfit vs. Plausible Deniability vs. Highone for the ECF and 411fed Transcontinental Championship at 411/ECF Bedlam 03/17/05

It is revealed that PD has become inhabited by a mysterious being known only as 'Stan DeVille' who has a very special interest in Dante and Darkness. Also in this feud, Dante transfers Selenia into the body of Natalie Portman but, to his suprise, he actually retains his semi-demonic abilities.

Darkness vs. Bruce 666

In the future, the hideousy scarred B.R.U.C.E. 775 visits Director Albrihn of Mega City One and gives him a set of time gauntlets, giving him the opportunity to change history and prevent his nightmare future from happening. His assistant - Sebastian - convinces the director to send him in his stead.

In their second meeting, Bruce 666 reveals that he knew about Darkness all along - that The Bleeder had actually prepared him for his coming. As they argue, a mysterious stranger calling himself Sebastian and wearing his own set of time gauntlets appears with a futuristic gun. Panicking, Darkness activates Bruce's gauntlets and they engage on a picaresque journey through Darkness's past as the former Shadow Slayer attempts to ensure that his family do not die this time.

Eventually, Darkness's realises that he has no choice but to go to the night of the attack itself. Seeing himself cut down by the Incubus, he finally understands the meaning of Rachel's visions and that the choice was made not by the Darkness of 2002, but by the future version of himself. He picks up his own shattered past-self and carries him out to Lucifer's feet, thus completing the cycle and fulfilling a prophecy. This ends the 'Redemption' story arc.

He returns to his home while his past-self fights against the Incubi and Lucifer to find that Bruce has allowed Seth to kidnap his daughter. Though he explains that the demonic hand Bleeder gave him held him back, Darkness is unconvinced but realises that he cannot return to his own time (and save his daughter) without Bruce's help.

They are about to leave when Sebastian reappears and nearly kills Bruce, however, Darkness is able to use the time gauntlets to gain the advantage. At that moment, a second B.R.U.C.E. 775 appears and wrestles Darkness to the ground. Bruce manages to grab one of Darkness's guns and aims it at the aparently renegade STD agent but at the last second turns to shoot Sebastian who is creeping up on him instead, realising that he is B.R.U.C.E. 775 from the past. 775 could not simply perform Sebastian's task himself as he is too weakend from time travel as his hideous 'chroniton scars' demonstrate. As Sebastian dies, 775 disappears.

Darkness approaches his now badly beaten former self and shows him Sebastain's face. "This is Seth" he tells him, revealing that, in Bruce's future, the Abysmal Ones won the War and Seth was left behind, powerless, in a godless future.

In a final flash-forward to the future, we see that the Chief Justice of the STD is actually coordinating the War in Hell from the future, sending agents to aid the Shadow Slayers through time. He observes the monitors with his eyes that look like shattered glass and smiles as the latest events unfold.

Darkness vs. The Hammer for the World's Championship at 411/ECF Road to Glory 03/17/06

Furious at his loss to Bruce, Darkness is overcome with rage and becomes possessed by The Shadowman. While Hammer pursues the voodoo demon across a state, Azrael fights a battle in his own mind for possession of Darkness - finally realising that the only safe haven is "Doe's Place", represented by a brightly lit bar in the desolate city of Darkness's mind.

As John Doe and Hammer try to take down The Shadowman, Azrael finally frees himself with Doe's help and normality is restored.

The northern Nevada Desert, 54 miles from the nearest human settlement.

A half-moon hung low in the sky, pushing all the various colours of the baked desert landscape into the monochrome scale: harsh contrasts of dark and light gave the world a washed-out, bleak countenance.

Goth did not notice, or did not care. The earth was not made up of colour to him and his kind, but evocative explosions of scent that carried far more information to the warg's nostrils than the primitive visual spectrum of primates.

He leant close to the ground and inhaled deeply. "Close," he growled.

Ureth padded closer, his dreadlocks stirring gently in the cold wind that stirred the sparse vegetation to their east and kicked up small columns of dust here and there. "What?" he asked, not sparing words on explanation that his pheromones could translate so much better.

"Three." He glanced back at Ureth and bared his multitude of serrated, stained teeth, "Slayers..." he clarified.

Ureth nodded. Wargs knew all too well the stink of silver and holy water that marked the passing of a Shadow Slayer. They did not understand fear as a man would, but the abilities and equipment possessed by their most dangerous human foes were enough to make even the werekind wary.

Goth straightened as much as his lupine physique would allow; a kind of predatory hunch and gestured his clan forward. The wargs followed his lead, rallying around their leader in a huge, chaotic mass of monstrous forms. Goth surveyed his charges with something approaching pride. Their numbers had swelled as they had incorporated the remnants of the loyal warg clans that had slaughtered.

First as slaves, and later as warriors, the surviving wargs who had once run with packs that served Lucifer had now sworn their loyalty to the Abyss that had welcomed Goth into its cold, unfeeling bosom.

It was the uncaring nature of the Abysmal Ones and their servants that had led Goth down this path.

Ever since Ul'tath, the Wargsire - who men call Lycaon - was transformed into the first warg for his sin of cannibalism, the werekind had been cursed by the Hunger. The great gaping maw of a warg's stomach endlessly craves the satiating caress of human flesh.

The Hunger makes you strong, they had been told.

The Hunger makes you what you are.

Only two things could end the Hunger: to slaughter humans like cattle and consume their raw, soft flesh would provide temporary relief, but eventually their fragile bones would be picked clean and the Hunger would return as soon as it had passed.

Then, there was the hope not for yourself, but for those you birthed.

All wargs feel the Hunger, but if a warg takes a human to mate, their child - a creature that men call a werewolf - would have all the benefits of both species: the strength and vitality of the warg, but the appearance and intelligence of a human. And, best of all, no Hunger.

Lucifer charged the wargs with sacrificing themselves to spread their seed through all the races of men. Let the Hunger consume you so that you can destroy mankind from within.

The doctrine had served them well for six millennia.

"No more," Goth growled, his bestial voice rumbling deep within his muscular chest, "Bring him!" he ordered.

Ureth smiled beside him, his scarred face twisting his savage grin into something even more disturbing and unnatural than it already was. "You mean to draw them out," he guessed.

Goth nodded as the bedraggled figure of a man was brought before him. No bonds were necessary, for he had neither the strength to escape the grip of even the least of his captors nor the speed to outrun them if he did.

His eyes were glazed over, for the continued presence of monsters from some nightmare in his life had broken him. He murmured to himself quietly, apparently willing himself to wake up, though Goth had never paid much attention to the mewlings of humans.

Two wargs shoved him forward, and he fell to his knees in the dust. Goth padded closer, sniffing the man's fear. It was a fear that had become constant, and so familiar and comfortable.

"Are you scared, ape?"

The man looked up. His uniform - that Goth would have seen bore the insignia of the United States army had he been able to read and cared to try - was in tatters, but he still moved with pride. His eyes seemed to clear as he looked into the yellowed gaze of his tormentor.

"Do your worst...I'm not scared of you," the soldier spat.

Goth pushed his muzzle closer. The man recoiled at the carrion stink of the warg's breath as the clan's leader let his tongue loll out, sticky, foul-smelling saliva coating it and dripping great pools on the desert earth.

"How little you know," Goth told him in a low voice.

His pheromones let Ureth know that that was the signal to strike. The rangy warg's filthy, calloused hand grabbed the man's matted hair and lifted him clear off his feet. The soldier wriggled in his grip, yelling in pain, but Ureth simply flung him down on the ground, retaining a handful of hair in his paw.

The man screamed as blood poured down his face, but the clan had no concept of mercy. In one smooth motion, Goth drew his curved blade with its rusted, broken edge and placed it at the base of the man's spine, drawing blood. He tried to roll free, but Goth's foot pinned him to the ground by his head.

Slowly, he drew the blade up the man's back, cutting deeply into his spinal column. He screamed into the dirt and convulsed as Goth's weapon dug in and cut off his motor functions as well as liberating skin from muscle.

"Meat is so much better when it's fresh, no?"

Ureth smiled again and reached toward the paralysed soldier, digging one filthy claw into the flesh on his back and pulling free a bloody morsel that he threw up and caught in his mouth.

"Let it begin!" Goth bellowed as Ureth nodded his satisfaction at the man's flesh.

The soldier's screams stopped some hours later once he wore his vocal cords ragged though the expertise of Goth's clan ensured that he lived for over a week.

* * *

Marta approached the camp with damp eyes. Jack Dane growled over the stew he was eating and placed the bowl down.

"Well? Are you convinced yet?" he asked with a bleak look.

"No. It's not the time."

"You watched him die?"

She nodded.

"And it's still not the time?"

Marta shook her head and moved towards the tent. She crouched down at the opening and spoke softly to its lone occupant, "Ben?"

A grunt came from inside and, a few moments later, the short man crawled out.

"How's it going?" she asked him.

He shrugged and sat down outside the tent heavily, "All I know is that the time isn't now."

Jack turned to him, "But not when the time is?"

Ben shook his head and sighed, "The signs aren't right. I've used every method of divination I know, but all I can find out is that attacking now would be a huge mistake. There are still things we do not understand."

"So what do we wait for?" Jack asked him.

Benedict shrugged, "The sign...whatever that might be..."

"We're out of our league," Marta murmured, "Three Slayers against a world that's tearing itself apart is insane."

Ben patted her on the shoulder, "Have faith, Marta," he reassured her, "We still have friends out there..."

Jack turned around again and stared at Benedict, "Like who?"

Ben met Jack's eyes. Once, Jack Dane had been a very different man. He and his brother John were the legendary Dane Brothers, heroes of a thousand battles in the last decade and a half. As a team, the two Shadow Slayers had been effectively invincible and only their devotion to one another had held them back from greater things.

But, since John's death at the hands of the very same wargs they were trying desperately to stay ahead of, Jack's easygoing and somewhat manic attitude had been replaced by a grim resolve. Unfortunately, his first aim had been scuppered a few months before.

"Darkness doesn't care about us," Jack said when Ben found no answer.

Now he only sought death and revenge.

"I told you...he has his own concerns..."

Jack snorted a laugh as he turned away from his companions and picked up his rapidly cooling meal again, "His concerns seem a little bit irrelevant when you're being chased by a pack of hairy fuckers who get their kicks out of paralysing and eating decent people."

"Nonetheless, he still has them," Benedict said softly enough that only he could hear it.

* * *

A few hours before dawn, Darkness's eyes flicked open. Enough light from the half moon in the Nashville sky filtered through for him to make out the details of his room. Spartan, mass-produced furniture sat against the walls, robbing the suite of any homeliness it might once have possessed.

Despite his success, Darkness had no interest in making use of his newfound wealth. Being champion paid well, but he had no use for money.

Money...

He frowned and glanced down at his chest. A cold, metallic disc nestled on his muscular torso, reflecting the moonlight. He reached for it and held it before his eyes, bringing the mysterious object into focus.

His own face looked back at him, etched in silver and nickel. He turned the coin over and frowned. Dante's features, represented in the same fashion, stared out.

Curious.

He tilted the Dante side slightly and noticed the face change. As he moved it in one direction, the features softened, became feminine and, after a moment's confusion, he realised that it resembled Selenia. He titled the coin in the opposite direction and nearly dropped it as Dante's features morphed into the nondescript but horribly familiar ones of Seth.

His heart beating fast in his chest, Darkness flipped the coin over and observed the same effect on his own side, but with two entirely different faces. One he didn't recognise, though it resembled his own, the scars across his eyes replaced with lightning bolts and a hideous rune etched into its forehead which he did recognise.

The other really did make him drop the coin with a start. Eyes he had looked into twice, both three years before and just a month earlier...yet in fact on the same night...had looked back at him...

As the coin fell from Darkness's hands, it landed on the soft carpet and bounced slightly, landing, against all physical probability, balanced on one edge.

* * *

Dante smiled at his own reflection in the gold surface of the object he held before him. Five red lines at irregular angles framed his face as his fingers traced "Jason C. Dante" on the nameplate.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"Yes you are," Selenia agreed from one side.

He glanced at her and smiled, the hard lines of his face not softened by the expression, but made all the more menacing instead. He had discarded his eye patch now that the cut Darkness's had left him with had healed. Looking back at his reflection, he had to admit that the scar's effect was quite striking.

"Darkness won't know what's hit him," he vowed, as he placed his new possession down on the desk and closed his eyes, letting the inferno consume him.

Interview with a Succubus: Part 1.

From the cradle to an unmarked grave

Some say that history is cyclical, and that what goes around comes around, I know enough and have been through enough to know this to be true.

I was born in a small village by the Mediterranean, I can't honestly remember the name of the village, in fact all I remember is that it was a fishing village. My parents owned a restaurant in the village, every day fishermen would eat their breakfast there before heading out to sea to make their living. Those were happy days of sunshine and laughter. I spent my time doing what I loved, drawing.

Soon school came into my life and while it took away the long lazy days of fun, it actually gave me more opportunities to draw and now to paint. I spent my youth in that village, did all the things girls all over the world take for granted, got my first boyfriend, did all the normal things.

Sadly the times were far from normal. Many miles down the coast, things were brewing in the capitol. The world was changing and my home country was no exception. Men in black shirts took power; they wanted to bring on a return to the old days of imperial glory to my home land. I was about 20 when this happened. Our village was small enough to ensure that the events were only felt in small ways there, but in hindsight we were all fooling ourselves, the black shirts would come one day and our days of reckless freedom would be over.

Not that this troubled me at that time, I was happy to spend my time with a pen or brush in hand painting or drawing the spectacular landscape. I spent countless happy days in the mountains that surrounded our village.

The day my world started changing, was no different from any other, I was in the hills with my paper and my brushes. As I went home for dinner, I saw a commotion in the town square, men that I didn't recognize were there, they were screaming and gesturing, I recognized the parents of one of my classmates as I got closer, I saw them arguing with the black shirted men, I saw one the black shirts reach into his pocket and pull out an object, the there was a bang, and my friends father lay on the ground bleeding.

The terror of the black shirts had arrived in my home town.

The following days were dreadful, I spent my time indoor because the local "party" had declared a curfew. That curfew lasted for about 4 days, but when it lifted, it was as if the town had died with my friend's father in the town square. The laughter was gone, the smiles had left. Now I used my hikes into the hills not as a way to find inspiring scenery, but to escape the dark cloud that seemed to hang over everyone at home.

It was on one of these futile attempts at escaping reality, when the son of the murdered man came looking for me. We were the same age and had known each other our entire lives; he had been a kind boy with wild black hair and a smile that always made me laugh. Now, all that was gone. His father's death had in ways killed him too. He told me that he and a few friends of ours were organizing a resistance movement to oppose the black shirt butchers as he called them. He wanted me to join, my skills as an artiste made me an ideal scout he said.

His desperate pleas combined with the image of his dead father in the town square made me relent and I spent the following years making my hikes to draw installations and make maps of the supply stores belonging to the local black shirt party. Years went by and my friend's group executed a number of small scale raids that were more nuisances then anything more serious to the black shirts.

While my town was in the grip of the black shirts, the world was set aflame by a man most sane people consider the most evil man to ever live, and if his punishment in hell is anything to go by, both Heaven and hell agreed with the people of the world. The years passed and I painted maps and made sketches. And then the tide started to turn. The black shirts' fortune of war turned and so did their brown shirted allies'. Slowly the people of my home country were liberated form the evil oppressor that had ruled us. But the Brown Shirts' leader still had plenty of power to wield, and he helped his black shirt ally to establish a new black shirt nation. The nation was the cruellest imaginable, people died by their hundreds and persecutions of people with differing opinions were relentless.

During this time, I went from a scout and a spy to taking part in raids against the new black shirt regime's installations. I hated this new life; every day was a new dose of terror and fire, a new helping of paranoia and fear.

And of course it all went wrong. We were trying to bomb an ammo dump when we came across troops that were better equipped and well trained then the normal black shirt militia. These men wore black uniforms with skulls as their emblem, they spoke a language I didn't understand and were more cruel and ruthless then the black shirts we were used to.

My friend, I and the rest of the group were caught and sent to a military base just outside town, for three days I heard the screams of my friends as they were interrogated. On the fourth day, it was my turn. They strapped my into a chair and a man speaking in an accented voice that his name was Mr. Braun and laid down the law for me. I had been caught as a saboteur and he made no secret of the fate that awaited me. I was going to face the same sentence as my friends...Torture and then if I was lucky, death. They had somehow found out about my love of painting and after some initial beatings and cuts, they strapped me in even harder and Mr. Braun walked up to me with a saw in his hand, he told me that he would give me one more chance at talking, and if I didn't he would cut my hands off.

To my eternal shame, at the threat of losing my beloved artiste's hands. I relented, I told them everything, I told them about our supply dumps, about who was part of the group. Apart from the beatings and the mental torture, I was left alive, alive with all my shame alive with all my guilt.

Sadly, my friends weren't that lucky. They were all executed and their homes were burned to the ground. To save my own hide I had betrayed everyone I loved. For my love of painting and drawing, I had drenched my home town in blood. To save my beloved passion for painting, I ahd become the worst kind of traitor imaginable, a traitor to my own kin.

The following weeks were horrible, my information lead to the deaths and torture of not only my friends and their families, but to the death of my whole home town. The Black shirts and their allies wanted to set an example so they butchered everyone. I think my parents died during these days too. I'm not sure, let's just say that my fate after death was a lot different from my parents'. These horrible weeks turned into months and then finally I was fetched from my gilded cage and thrown into a truck.

There must have been 25 people in that truck. On bad roads they took us up into the mountains. I was told by a man with the strangest eyes I have ever seen that we were all going to die, an invasion had pushed into the new black shirt nation and was gaining ground. The Black shirts and their death's head allies were burning all the bridges and making sure the evidence of their crimes was wiped out. He also told me that all of us on the truck would face the fire of hell as traitor to our own kin, but he also told me something that I haven't been able to make sense of until now. In fact it wasn't until later I understood why he was so calm in the face of certain death and being sent to hell.

He said that there would come a day when my crimes would be forgiven and another being would be able to trust me again, but that my road would be long and painful.

Then the truck stopped and they ordered us out. We were placed by the edge of a pit and a man barking in that rough foreign tongue shouted orders. I remember asking my parents for forgiveness for what I had done and asked that I may suffer for my crimes until the end of time.

Then the staccato of machine guns ended my life. As life was draining from me, I saw the ghosts of my parents, they looked at me and they mouthed a final "we love you" to me, they said my name, a name I have long since forgotten and then my world went black.

[OOC - Originally posted 03/24/06 by Thommy H as part of Darkness, John Doe, Hammer and Stoner vs. Dante, Acolyte, Badboy and Stown at ECF and 411fed presents Havoc]

Interview with a Succubus: Part 2

Torment

She blinked. Her eyes felt sore, like she'd been jerked out of an already fitful sleep.

"W...where am I...?"

Her voice was hoarse. She was so thirsty, but had no idea why. She reached out, trying to explore her surroundings but pulled her hand back sharply in pain. As her vision cleared, she held up her hand to her face, seeing droplets of bright blood form on her fingertips. She looked at the floor, tiled and filthy.

Glittering like a thousand stars in some nightmare sky, shards of glass blinked at her.

She pulled herself back against the wall, scratching her bare feet on the razor-sharp fragments that surrounded her.

Bare feet?

She looked down at herself, realising for the first time that she was naked against the filth of the cold tiles.

"What's going on?" she croaked to her herself, her head spinning like she was drunk.

She reached up to her neck and found the iron collar there that fastened her to the wall behind her on a short length of heavy chain. She screamed.

Dirty light failed to properly illuminate the squalid room which, she finally saw was coated in smears of some dark substance, long dried. The glass stretched all the way from her position to the door, which was iron and bolted shut.

"H...hello?" she called out. "Anybody? W...where am I? Anyone?"

"Are you hungry?"

A voice like a thousand needles grating against one another invaded her mind and then he was standing there...

She screamed again.

* * *

She didn't know how much time had passed when she next awoke. Everything was silent and her tormentor had vanished. She reached back, tried to tug at the place the chain entered the tiled wall behind her, but to no avail.

"Oh god..." she whispered.

She looked around. There must be something she could use to escape, some tool she could hack apart her bonds with. She reached for a large piece of glass, but it crumbled in her hand, embedding thousands of painful slivers in her flesh. She yelped.

"Are you hungry?"

She screamed as he reappeared. This time further away, so she could take him in. His boots crunched on the glass as he stepped towards her. He reared over her like a giant, his face hidden by a low hood.

"Where am I?!" she screamed, anger swallowing up her fear.

"Here."

Tears ran down her cheeks, cutting clear trails through the grime on her cheeks, "Who are you?!" she demanded, her voice going hoarse.

"I am the one who can take away your hunger."

"I'm not fucking hungry!" she screamed again, "Who are you, you sick fuck?!"

"I am the one who can take away your hunger."

She put her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. She tried to wipe away her tears, but the glass on her hands stung her eyes and she blinked through blood.

"Are you hungry?" came his question again, carving its way into her mind.

She looked at him through tear-stained hate. "NOOOOOOOO!!!!" she screamed at him, lunging forward and collapsing onto the glass and into sobbing coughs.

"You will be," the figure said simply.

* * *

She looked around her at the dank cell. That her situation was hopeless was just beginning to dawn on her. There was no way to escape and she had no idea why she had been brought here.

Her last memory was...

Shit...this place was fucking with her mind. She shook her head to try and clear it, but it only made her more nauseous. She tried to lie down, but there was nowhere to do so that was not littered with the broken glass. Futilely, she tried to brush it way and clear some room, but she only succeeded in embedding more shards in her skin. She sobbed as blood dripped from her arms and into dark pools on the stained floor.

"Where am I...?" she sobbed again.

He returned, asking the same question. This time he crouched down, close to her. He stank like a corpse.

"I can take away your hunger," he said, almost gently.

"Fuck you!" she spat in his face.

He stood up slowly and turned from her. She watched him go, somehow not registering the fact that he didn't leave by the only door in or out of the room.

* * *

She clawed at the walls. She had no idea how long she'd been here now. Her nails, which she dimly remembered had once been beautiful, were now cracked and filthy. The smooth tiles provided no purchase and she slumped down in exhaustion.

Her eyes, red from weeping and from minute lacerations she had inflicted on herself while she tried to brush her tears away, could no longer focus. She ran her hands over her body, somehow sweating in the freezing cold and left more scratches in her wake.

There was nothing left in her mind but the broken glass. All she could remember was sharp, needling pain.

"Are you hungry?"

Needles...like his voice. His huge, shadowed form stood before her again, his corpse stink filling her uncaring nostrils.

"No..." she whispered.

"You will be," he promised again.

She tried to shake her head, but it disorientated her. Abruptly she vomited, spilling sickly, viscous puke over the already disgusting floor. She scrabbled at the mess, desperate to retain what she could of herself.

"You look hungry to me."

"No..." she repeated, sinking down onto the floor, heedless of the glass that dug into her flesh.

* * *

The dull ache in the pit of her stomach soon began. She knew she was getting hungry now. It had been so long since she'd arrived...it seemed like forever...

When did she last eat?

No memories were left to her but the ones she had found in this room. The pain of the glass digging into her, the chafing of the collar around her neck, the constant cold sweat and the filth, grime and stink which she had inherited from the bleak cell.

She did not know who she was, or where she had come from. She no longer had a frame of reference in which to place her thoughts.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes..." she croaked, her voice now less than a whisper.

"I can make your hunger go away."

She rolled up her sore, ruined eyes to look at him. She nodded imperceptibly.

"There is a price."

"W...what?" she tried to rise, but had no strength.

"If you wish to eat, you must give me something in return," he explained.

She tried to speak, to protest that she had nothing, couldn't he see that? It came out only as a low rasp, but he seemed to take her meaning.

"This." He pointed at her. She followed his gaze, down to her hand. Instinctively, she clutched the appendage to her.

"Or this." He pointed at her other hand.

She shook her head rapidly, tears welling anew where she thought no tears were left to form. Glass scratched her face as she moved her head.

"No..." she whispered.

"You must choose if you want to eat."

"NOOOOO!!!!" she screamed again, her hate rediscovered. She tried to lift herself, but had no strength, and her hands slipped on the tiles, dropping her down onto the shards again. Tears and blood pooled around her.

"You must choose."

An object dropped from his fist and landed before her, shards bouncing up as it landed on the floor. Grimly, she brought it into focus and perceived the rusty, jagged razor blade in front of her.

"Choose, and you can eat."

She began to cry again, descending into sobs. She curled into a ball on her side and willed everything to end.

* * *

Her eyes were red and raw, her olive skin covered with scars that refused to heal in the unsanitary conditions of the room. Bleakly, she regarded the razor blade, dull eyes simply staring at it, not contemplating anything but the ugly thing that had become the focus of all her fear, her hate, her anger.

She wasn't hungry, she told herself. Not yet.

* * *

She lay on the tiles, still staring at the blade. Her breath came in raking gasps now. Her hands probed her body, leaving scratches as always, and found her ribs protruding through paper-thin skin. She was emaciated. She reached for the wall, still trying vainly for escape, knowing there was none.

* * *

She saw nothing. Even the room was forgotten, the glass a distant thing. All she knew, all she felt, was the agony in her stomach, the pain, the suffering. She reached out...but she had no strength to grasp the handle of the blade...

"Here."

The voice was a parody of sympathy, the gentleness so at odds with the manner in which it spoke. As if doing her a favour, his rotting corpse-hand placed the razor blade in hers.

Tears came as she set her left hand down on the tiles, letting the glass penetrate her soft palm. Relishing that sensation.

She stopped as the blade touched her skin.

"I can't..." she said, voicelessly.

"Then you are not hungry enough."

He moved to take the blade from her. Tears filled her eyes, dripped onto the dirty tiles.

"No...please...why are you doing this...?"

"I am doing nothing. If you wish to eat, you will pay the price."

What was one hand?

When a human being lets itself think such a thought, the mind shatters. Through tears and blood, she pushed down on the blade, digging it into her wrist.

Her screams rattled the millions of shards as she tried to cut with the rusty, blunt blade. She pushed down with what strength she had, through skin and muscle, down into bone.

Agony ripped through her, but the price would be paid.

She sawed through her cries of pain, her torment. Bone gave way to flesh again and the hand came free, leaving her bloody stump pumping pints of dark blood onto the floor.

She collapsed, her chest heaving in relief and horror in equal measure.

"You have paid the price. Now you may eat."

She looked at him, into the pits of darkness that were his eyes. The long silence brought only more tears.

She screamed at him, her anger at his betrayal overcoming her pain. "You said I could eat!" she pleaded, her voice shrieking in her starved chest.

"You can."

"Eat what?!" Everything she said was delivered in agonised screams.

He pointed to her severed hand.

"I am doing nothing," he repeated.

She collapsed into a heap of gibbering tears, cries and moans. Why was this happening? What had she done to anger this tormentor?

Her horror at his explanation of what she must do was nothing compared to the horror she experienced when, seconds later, she finally gave in and ravenously fell on her own hand, devouring the still-warm flesh.

The creature laughed, throwing back his hood and revealing a face of rotted flesh, pulled taut by dozens of needles digging into his skin. Through his rictus of iron spikes he spoke once more, "Now you are ready Selenia," he told her.

Through the blood smeared across her face she began to laugh.

The high-vaulted ceiling far above the heads of the council was lost in shadow. It was something of a cliché for a group such as this to be seated in perpetual gloom, but they had long since discovered that there was a reason for some stereotypes.

The gloom was a shield, and a weapon. There were those in their number who could use the shadows to devastating effect.

Seth tapped his fingers irritably on the arm of his elaborately carved chair while his fellow members of the Elect of Apophis argued. Mistakenly, they believed events were spiralling out of control.

"The succubus should have been destroyed years ago," Zheng insisted, motioning rapidly with his hands at a Latin American man who was shaking his head slowly.

Seth raised a single hand and silence fell across the chamber. "Enough," he said softly, letting his black eyes wander across every shadowed face, "Everything is going according to plan."

Torre looked at Seth sharply, "And yet, even now the Shadow Slayer overcomes the affliction we were at such pains to subject him to."

"He has not yet defeated The Shadowman," Seth replied coldly, "And Azrael will die. We shall see to that."

It was now Zheng's turn to lean forward and voice his objections. "Your master plan seems to consist of nothing more than random disturbances that merely delay the actions of our enemies and amount to nothing." He paused as he met Seth's bottomless gaze and quickly added, "...honoured archmagus."

Seth smiled, but without humour, "You are short-sighted, general. Even now, our forces in the underworld are destroying the fragile alliance between Heaven and Hell while, here on Earth, their respective champions are clawing at each other's throats as we speak. With the succubus indisposed, it is a simple matter to crush what spirit the albino has left."

"And the Slayer," Torre pressed.

"We have his daughter. He will not die before he finds her and, by that time, Azrael and The Shadowman will have annihilated each other, leaving Darkness a powerless husk."

"Why not kill her to be sure?"

Seth shook his head as if pitying the simple-mindedness of his colleague, "You think the Angel of Death would not sense the death of his only child?"

"Well...I..."

"No. She will remain alive and well cared for. For all Azrael's might, Darkness is still a man, and he is still subject to the human failings of love and empathy. She may make a useful bargaining chip someday."

The council members nodded as one as Seth rose and moved to stand behind his chair, "Despite what you may believe, all that has happened thus far has been has been driving towards our ultimate aim: the destruction of those that would appose us. Jason Dante, now severed from the lifeline of his demonic ally, will begin to gradually wane in power while Darkness, afflicted by the serum that runs through his veins, will begin to experience similar symptoms. Eventually the allies that we have placed around Dante will begin his undoing and Darkness will die the ignominious death as prophecy dictates."

Torre moved to speak again and Seth nodded, allowing the aged man to speak. He coughed, as if unwilling to raise his objection. His gaze moved furtively to the shadow that lurked behind Seth, "Archmagus...this talk of allies. We allowed you to use Dragon..."

The vampire stepped out and stood beside Seth letting his gaze penetrate the old man. Torre paled, but forged on, "...and all it has gained us is an ignorant young man at Dante's side. Your choice of companions for such a dangerous individual appears...random...at best..."

"Cordazer will serve his purpose," Seth assured Torre, "But your concern is noted. The removal of Selenia was my primary purpose once she revealed herself but now I must work to keep the albino away from her, as well as...strengthen him...with new friends of our choosing."

"I hope you have someone more powerful than the wrestler in mind," Zheng murmured.

"Fear not, general. I have just the men for the job. In addition, they will serve as a security measure should things not go to plan."

Followed by Dragon, Seth moved towards the exit of the chamber. As he passed, Senator Windham halted his progress with a raised finger. "Should things not go to plan?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, "Do you anticipate Darkness and Dante overcoming their enmity?"

"Not at all," Seth replied, "But it pays to keep a close watch on such an unstable element."

"Nonetheless, such precautions imply doubt..." the Senator insisted.

"Senator," Seth smiled, "Nothing short of a Biblical miracle could bring these two together now."

He nodded at the council in the silence that followed his assurance. "I must leave and ensure everything goes as planned. May the hand of Apophis guide you."

"Praise be to the herald of the Abysmal Ones," they intoned as one.

* * *

"If you don't do it, Jason, she'll never be free and you'll be stuck with the weights that keep you from ascending to my side."

Dante looked up at Seth and, for a split second, a doubt crossed the man's twisted mind. He dismissed such thoughts. His encounters with Dante had confused him at first. He had been able to detect the mysterious void in the albino's mind and had been relieved to discover its source when Selenia probed too far.

It also explained the disturbing reality of Dante's new abilities.

Now that the succubus was removed and about to meet her end, Dante's star would begin to fade and the prophecies that concerned him would be allowed to wither and die like every other false branch of foretelling.

"Jason, you must trust me."

"I...she means...so much..."

Seth nodded, feigning the empathy that he had long since lost the ability to feel, "I understand," he lied. "It is difficult to take this necessary step, but do not fear for your protection in her absence."

Dante looked up sharply, shocked at the implication that that was all Selenia meant to him. Seth realised he had missteped and correct himself quickly, "Against Darkness, I mean."

Dante nodded dumbly.

"With that in mind...I'd like to introduce two associates of mine."

Dante frowned at Seth, "Associates...?" he murmured in confusion.

"For your protection. They are a...uh...proven commodity, if you like, against your particular foe."

Dante continued to frown as two hulking shapes stepped from the shadows either side of Seth. One wore blue and the other red.

"Jason, meet Malthus and Murmur. They'll be looking after you for the time being."

Interview with a Succubus: Part 3

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Honesty is not a trait my kind is known for, but I have to be honest with you and say that I remember only bits and pieces of the time following my torture and "ascension". I can only assume that my mind still rejected the events that had taken place in that chamber because I only remember wandering aimlessly around the bleak, infernal realm clutching the arm that now ended in a bloody stump to my chest. In hindsight I realize that the events that lead up to my "ascension" and the act itself broke my mind, and in a realm where the mind and the body are one and the same, that was a horrible fate.

I have been told that the period following the acceptance of your fate is the most difficult and dangerous, all souls go mad during that time, but only those who learn to understand their fate return from madness. The others continue to wander the bleaks wastes of hell as nothing more then spectres howling in agony that never ceases.

To this day, I don't know if I was lucky or unfortunate to escape the desolated lands, I still don't know if the worst punishment is eternal madness or eternal sanity and clarity in a mad world.

Slowly, I began to gather my wits about me, and as I walked back towards the place I had come from, I grew aware that someone was watching me, gauging my strength by every step I took. I saw him a few times, a shadow, a silhouette, nothing more....But his eyes would haunt me for the remainder of my time in the wastes.

The City of lost souls

Time doesn't exist in the lands of hell, so I have no idea how long it took me to reach the place that seemed to draw me towards it. But with numb feet I reached a gate made of rusted iron. I looked up at the gates, expecting another cruel joke, but to my surprise, the gates opened, and I entered. Beyond the gates was a city, here creatures that were of my own kind walked. The city is unlike anyone on earth; it's vast and claustrophobic at the same time, the very definition of a gothic city, where the buildings seem to lean over you as they reach towards the tortured sky, the city itself seems intent on devouring you. Once there, in what I now know is the city of Dis, I found myself once more forced to endure a maddening time, I lived on the streets of this infernal metropolis, slowly, I began to find my way around the city.

I spent what seemed like a torturous eternity on the streets of the city. I can honestly not tell you how I survived in this the worst of all slums. I can only imagine the depths of depravity I sank to in order to endure this hellish existence on the absolute bottom of the society of the lost and the damned. I was reduced to no more then a base animal, reacting to anyone or anything coming close to me the way a beaten dog reacts to people approaching. I can honestly say that once more I lost my mind, today, I'm thankful for the mad ignorant bliss I was living during those times. I know that I wouldn't be able to face some of the things I must have done. Then, one day I saw him again, the man or the entity that had watched me as I made my way through the desolated lands, he simply looked at me with contempt with his cold, black eyes that looked like shattered glass. After a few moments where I remember trying to avoid his disgusted gaze, he spoke, but only one simple and cold sentence.

"Come with me"

I followed him through the streets of the city of Dis, to a mansion at the centre of the city.
The doors opened and we entered. I found myself in a place I didn't expect to find myself in. The room was clean, clean like I had not seen any space be since my death. But the cleanliness of the room was no relief, far from it. The room was covered from wall to wall in mirrors, every where was a reflecting surface, the walls, the floor and even the ceiling was covered in mirrors. No matter where I looked I was met by the image of what had become of me. The face that once had made boys at my school blush was not covered in filth and scars. My hair hang in tatters from my head, my eyes, that had once been brown, proud and defiant were now bloodshot, tired and blurry. My body was covered in rags that no one, not even a street kid in Calcutta would call clothes, and where ever the skin was visible, there were scars. I had once walked with pride and confidence, but now I looked like I was buckling under an enormous weight. I staggered horrified around the room trying to find shelter from the image of the pitiful being I had become. I screamed, hoping my voice would somehow shatter the mirrors and leaves me without having to see the sad, pathetic remains of a once proud human...of course it was all in vain.

I collapsed in a heap and sobbing for the first time in what felt like years, I raised my hands to my face I realized that what I had in a way dismissed as a bad dream, was actually real, only one hand reached my face to wipe the tears away, the other arm ended in a horrid and jagged stump. Again, I raised my voice to let out a cry of desperation and agony. Shame and disgust surged through my mind and soul as I banged my remaining hand on the shiny reflective floor hoping it would break. Again I found no relief.

Again, time passed in ways I can only guess and ever so slowly, I not only found myself able to look at myself in the mirrors, but able to investigate what the endless days in the torture chamber had done to me. After what appeared to be weeks, I was finally able to meet my own gaze in the mirrored surface. What I saw surprised me. The eyes were not like they had been when I had been pushed into that reflective cell, where there had only been pain, there was now resolve, where there had been no hope, was now strength, the gaze wasn't only strong and powerful, it was seductive. The rest of my body looked the same as before, rags covered my body, scars were all over me, my black hair still was filthy and tattered, but the eyes...the eyes shone with an inner wickedness and malice all their own.

Slowly, as the strength in my eyes invigorated the rest of my broken body, I stood up. It wasn't until now I realized that ever since the horrible event in the torture chamber; I had been clutching the arm that was now missing a hand to my chest all this time. Now, I let the arm drop and hang by my side like the other. I stood there transfixed by my own eyes, the blur was gone, and now the brown eyes were almost beaming with inner strength. I have no idea how long I stood there staring into my own eyes. But slowly I became aware of being watched; I turned to find the source. I turned around and found myself looking into the black eyes of the man who had been watching me in the wastes, the same man who had taken me from the filth and squalor of the streets of the city of Dis. For the first time since my arrival in hell, I saw the man who had watched me, for the first time I could take in everything about him. This was the first time I truly and in the true meaning of the word met the man I would come to know and later hate...Bleeder.

"The Revenant" - Part I

"You can call me Revenant."

"Not much of a name..."

His watery gaze was directed straight at her, unwavering. She held it, not flinching away. Her sunglasses prevented him from seeing her own eyes, but she knew that if he did he wouldn't have smirked the way he did.

After a few seconds the man's stare dropped away and he looked back down at the papers in front of him. "So...no social security number, no address, no ID of any kind and you won't even tell me your real name?"

Her features hardened. "I told you. It's Revenant."

"Uh huh."

He looked back up and folded his arms. He was overweight, kind of self-important and he stank of fast food. The way his eyes roved over her made her shudder in revulsion, but she needed this.

"Can you give me a job or not?"

The man looked dubious. "How old are you anyway?" he asked suddenly.

She looked hard at him and prepared to lie, but waited just a heartbeat too long to answer and he sighed heavily before she could spit out the word ‘eighteen'.

"Too young, in other words," he said over her abortive attempt at deception.

"You don't get it, I really need this and I..."

"Stop wasting my time, honey," the man interrupted, "I ain't gonna employ anyone with no documents who just walks into my office - you could be a wanted criminal for all I know."

"A fifteen year old fugitive?" she protested incredulously and then snapped her mouth shut as he realised what she'd just said.

The man chuckled. "Fifteen, is it? Let me guess...mommy and daddy won't let you see that boy with the motorbike you like so you just had to run away from home and come up with a cool name for yourself," he leant toward her with a condescending look on his face, "Well here's some advice, sugar - run along home and stop trying to make it in the real world before you're even out of your training bra. There's some bad people around and trying to make money is going to be the least of your problems."

"It's not like that..." she tried to say, but the words caught in her throat.

The fat restaurant owner leant back again, this time with a smile on his face that made bile rise up in Revenant's throat again. "You know, if you want to make some real money..."

There was no mistaking the look in his eyes as he stared at her again. Obviously he liked his women young and skinny, though Revenant had once been told she had a certain austere beauty about her. She had never taken compliments well though.

Still, she saw that there was a way to get what she wanted.

The man glanced out of the window as Revenant took a step closer, trying to make herself look alluring. She wasn't very good at it, but he hardly cared. It was nearly nine in the evening, he'd been working late when she called, trying to balance the books for another month.

This night was going to be more profitable than he thought though.

Slowly, she slipped off her heavy jacket, and let it fall to the floor. The man smiled and pawed out his wallet. He placed twenty dollars on his desk and turned his chair towards her as she approached.

He smiled, but she didn't return it. Again, he didn't care.

"You're too pretty for this," he murmured, but she knew that he had no intention of stopping her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered in reply

He looked up in confusion and saw her take off her shades. He paled as he looked into her eyes. "Nice...contacts..."

Revenant opened her mouth wide, showing her fangs. Her voice was hoarse as she told him the last thing he'd ever hear, "Guess again."

He screamed as she plunged down towards him and punctured his neck, stealing his very essence in one agonising instant.

Deep inside her heart that still beat blood around her living body, Revenant wept for him. This would be the last time, she vowed, but knew she could never mean it.

* * *

Baltic's head shot up. He turned to his companion who stood not far away, looking out into the night for any sign of their prey.

"Did you feel that?"

The other figure turned lethargically to Baltic and looked blankly at him. "Feel what?"

Baltic bared his fangs as he grinned. "She's feeding again...we're very close..."