OOC Thread


All streets were deserted; no human or animal could be found. People remained silent in their houses, peeking out through the curtains that covered their windows. Anxiety and suspicion were shown in their eyes every time they caught sight of any living creature that dared to walk outside.

Now they all had their eyes fixed on a certain white-haired young man wearing a black uniform. The silky green sash on his shoulders flowed gracefully behind him as he walked. The cross on his brooch glittered softly as it caught the feeble morning light.

Hiron Dellesky knew that he was being the object of anger and hatred of the townspeople who were secretly watching him. The appearance of a Black Organization Sorcerer was told to bring bad luck; therefore, it was never appreciated. Still he had to be here. He just wished the people could be logical at least, to realize that he came here after the accident had occurred to examine it and to fix it, and that he couldn’t possibly be the one who had caused it.

Hiron sped up, heading towards the end of the street where a black smoke rose. The nearer he got, the more devastated his surroundings appeared, and the more people he found. They stayed in tents made of half-burned curtains or blankets, sticking together fearfully, chattering in an incoherent manner. Some nurses wearing white aprons over black uniforms walked around, carrying medical supplies and helping the injured people. They bowed to Hiron when he walked by and he responded with an automatic smile.

“Bring some more bandages over there, too.”

Hiron recognized the voice. He walked towards the blonde woman and greeted, “Matron.”

The head nurse – the Sorceress who went by the name Jillian Lucrecia – turned around. “Oh, Hiron. Back from your patrol already? Did you find anything at all?”

“Of course. There are traces of magic. It appears that this fire wasn’t an accident.”

“I figure. There is no way a normal fire can cause this much damage. There are far too many injured people, too. Is this the doing of an Avenger?”

“I’m not sure, but we’ll find out. Thank you for your hard work, Matron.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you to stop it already?” Jillian shook her head. “I just hope we’ll finish this quickly. Our presence here will only cause more troubles to these people.”

“That is true.” Hiron looked up at the gray sky. “The Church and the Legion are bound to show up soon.”

A small laugh fell from red lips as Nahia looked towards the subject of her attentions. A golden chain was wrapped around his hands, it held him in place while Nahia worked her magic on him. Dark walls surrounded her. She was in a holding cell in the back of the church. This was usually the place of exorcisms but was sometimes used for the development of powers. There was a lovely ornate cross hanging on one wall and a solid steel door on the opposite side.

A church member sat in the chair. He had black hair and bright green eyes, Nahia's only weakness. She herself looked like Alice in wonderland. If Alice had a much shorter dress and was armed with a look of pure desire. Her eyes were burning like Sapphires as she moved to run her fingers along the chain. It gave her a breath of power and she breathed it in, closing her eyes and focussing.

She found that place inside everyone that held their desire's; that held what they lusted after and she grabbed it. She twisted and pulled until it formed into something living, something that could bend to her will. With another brush of the chain she let it drop into her hands. At the same time she shoved the man's lust back inside of him.

His green eyes glazed over as he turned to look at her with an animal noise that portrayed everything for the feel of flesh. He moved quickly but Nahia was still quicker. She danced out of his way like it was a game, a small girlish giggle falling from lips that were twisted into a cruel smile. For at least ten minutes this dance took place until a crash on the door told her it was time to stop.

With a pout Nahia wrapped the chain around the guys neck and broke the lusts hold on him. She pushed it down and took the essence of it's life away. Leaving a perfectly normal person standing in front of her, blinking those green eyes. She opened the door and he rushed out quickly. A priest was standing there watching her, with eyes that could have seen into any soul. All they met were eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"You have to be careful." The priest lectured her.

"I'm always careful," came the purring reply as she left in a cloud of bubbling laughter. Her fingers deftly wrapping the chain around her wrist until it formed a single gold chain that looked so delicate, as if one touch would break it.

At the edge of London's crowded metropolis rose the shadow of the Church headquarters, a magnificent cathedral that could be considered among the grandest achievements of mortal man; its spires rising effortlessly toward the heavens, high enough even to pierce the choking black cloud of soot and ash that belched forth from the uncountable hearths of the city's inhabitants. In the light of early morning, the gold leaf that traced the exterior of these spires was said to burn with the righteous light of heaven...Indeed, as the sun began to rise low in the East, the pale fire of approaching dawn cast its light on the face of the megalith, reflecting sumptuously upon the highly polished white marble of its facade, seeming alight with the glory of God. To an onlooker, it must have seemed staggeringly beautiful. Truly a glimpse into the realm of fantasy, a dream unimaginable for the poor inhabitants of the capital that scurried about their lives with no ambition greater than to survive another night...

In the opposite direction, one could barely distinguish the figure of a young man lingering within the thick evening fog that still clung stubbornly to the surface of the city like an ethereal blanket. In the silence of the not yet awakened capital, the rhythmic "click clack" of the approaching figure's footsteps echoed dully off the red-bricked faces of the homes and shops that lined the poorly cobbled street. Seconds turned to minutes, and the young man drew closer still to the Cathedral's "back door," the purifying warmth of the sun burning away the last few gloomy vestiges of the early morning mist to reveal the mysterious man's appearance. It was now apparent that he wore the white robes of a warrior-monk, a thick riding hood casting shadowy anonymity on his features. Perhaps the most striking aspect of his appearance was the state of his robes, which were thoroughly tattered and torn, caked in various places with dirt and mud, the sleeves sticky with thick syrupy ropes of blackened blood that was in the process of congealing. The figure slowed down, eventually halting his advance at the absolute edge of the long shadow cast by the Majestic basilica. With a languid movement that betrayed the young man's fatigue, his right hand rose to remove the hood from his head; the sunlight sparkling against the silver rosary that hung from his wrist. Pensive gray eyes widened at the sight splayed out before him.

From this privileged vantage point, the young man named Julian could see many things clearly. For example: In many ways, the Cathedral in front of him was always intended to be a symbol of the Church as a collective body; though the architect could never have imagined just how deeply the similarities would run. For despite its appearance, the imposing structure that appeared so unearthly in its beauty was in dire straits.

As the sun climbed even higher, the light of day revealed the ugly truth of the Church's earthly struggle. The rude angular silhouettes of a ghetto began to materialize from the periphery of his vision, dusky brown stains chipping from the walls like so many scales from a rotting fish. No picturesque mirrored sheen appointed the haphazard congregation of tenement buildings that choked both sides of the domed basilica. In these shabby apartments, the displaced victims of the ongoing "Holy War" against supernatural enemies were allowed sanctuary, though at a competitive price. The sagging tenements shamelessly flaunted their state of disrepair, like a brazen prostitute in the throes of leprosy. Their eroded foundations had long given way to age and negligence, on the verge of collapse yet grasping desperately to life. The dangerous lurch by the supports had sent the upper most floors listing drunkenly against the Cathedral, heads figuratively bowed in reverence.

It was a poignant image, Julian thought to himself in the quiet of these early hours: the regal splendor of Father Religion contrasting sharply against the blackened, rotting exteriors of his obedient children. And despite the injustice visited upon them, they still seemed to cower in fear and worship before the looming shadow of their abusive patriarch. The imagery caused the young monk's stomach to turn. But then again, it was common knowledge--even among the clergy--that corruption grew daily; for a man was still prone to human weakness and vice, regardless of the holiness of his profession.

Julian bowed his head in impotent silence, knowing that the world moved of its own accord, without prejudice; equally bringing pain and misfortune to all. He was but a cog in a machine that was complex beyond all reckoning; and in the service of his faith--and for the love of humanity--he could only obey his directive and hope his efforts could help to end this "War of Extermination" as it should be rightly known, before any more innocent men, women and children could suffer at the hands of either side.

He glanced to his left, keenly picking out the smudged face of a young boy peering cautiously through the ratty drape that covered the exposed window of an apartment. The child could not have been more than 5 years old. Julian's lips began to form a solemn sort of smile, though he would never complete the expression. Triggered by the human boy’s expression, a storm of memories came unbidden from the dark recesses of the warrior's consciousness. He saw then, with a clarity lost in the rush of battle, the impersonal slaughter of a village of dark elves. The images were disordered, confused, but powerful beyond measure. Despite the wavering nature of such a recollection, in the end only a single scene stood in perfect focus. Among the dead and dying, there was the huddled form of a child clutching the bloodied figure of an Elvin woman, screaming out with a frenzied voice. When the woman had finally ceased her ragged, hacking breaths, the child turned with a look of absolute horror and despair where innocence should have been. And then, Julian came to understand the true meaning of the vision, as a pair of ghostly hands released their grip on a taut bowstring. The child wailed no longer, and someone ripped a white-feathered arrow from the boy's chest. A young monk stood atop the now lifeless form of the dead Elvin child, readjusting the silver rosary that had come loose from his white hand.

The young man forcibly broke from the trance-like reverie, as if awakening from a night terror in childhood. He was surprised to feel moisture on his cheek, a small part of him weeping for the sorrow he had caused. In a state of momentary confusion, he once again regarded the young human boy lurking behind the makeshift curtain. It was then that he remembered why he had to do these unspeakable things.


"Us or them....right?" His voice quavered as he spoke in a solemn whisper. But there would be no one to validate his choice. It was he alone who had chosen to be the holy avenger, the righteous hand of heaven that would cleanse the evil from this world. For if he did not protect his people, then who would? He wiped away the nearly evaporated tear with a snort of disgust.

With a coldly detached intensity in his slate-gray eyes, Julian marched forward and up to the heavy oaken doors of his home--his sanctuary. With a mournful groan, the steel-banded slabs shifted on their hinges and the young man faded into the shifting black nether of the darkened cathedral with each step forward. Julian knew, now, what he was: an instrument of the Holy Church, the unsung champion of mankind. And he would be stained with blood so that others could live free. He took one last moment to look outward at the shining purity of the new day, before the heavy doors closed for the last time. He turned his back, then; an expression of mingled rage and sadness barely restrained. With that same sorrowful chorus of enormous hinges, the Church swallowed the young man; alone with the darkness that surrounded him and the whispered screams of the murdered Elvin child crawling within his mind.

This was the aftermath of his first extermination, or 'cleansing' as the Church referred to it.

And there would be many more to come.

The black smoke was no longer visible in the air, but its scent, which was a mixture the smell of human bodies and burned materials, still lingered in the area. The smell was so intense that Hiron felt the need to evade. He found it much more comfortable to look down at the whole scenery from his perch on a lamppost than to be walking in that suffocating area. He secretly admired the Matron to be able to be actually working down there; not to mention she had been doing far more than he did. But then again, being the head nurse of the Black Organization, Jillian must have gotten used to this atmosphere. She had once been a subject of the experiments, and then had been taking care of the other subjects. If there was someone who could keep their cold while walking among a sea of bleeding, writhing, dying people, it had to be Jillian.

In any case, she had done enough. So had he. There was no reason for them to remain here.


With one fluid moment, Hiron flung himself away from the lamppost and landed on the street with a soft “thud”. The people moved out of his way when he walked, so he moved through the crowd without a difficulty. Jillian turned around to meet his eyes, and with a nod he answered her questioning look. The other nurses also understood the unspoken order.

Soon Hiron and Jillian found themselves inside the Organization’s carriage, heading back to the Headquarters. The young man made no movement, but the nurse occasionally pulled back the curtains to glance outside. When she spotted the enormous cathedral, the Church’s Headquarters, at the end of the street, she made a soft gasping sound. Thankfully, the driver had no intention to venture further into the enemies’ territory. He took a turn. The carriage dived into a small, dark alley; the metal frames of the vehicle made sparks when they came in contact with the mossy stone wall. Jillian casted another glance behind as the cathedral disappeared from her vision.

The night air was peaceful. It was dark and surreal. The night wasn't tainted with the fear, despair, and hatred that was known so well to the people below. The sky was welcoming and wrapped Zarai in a loving embrace. A gentle wind blew through his feathers as he glided high over everything and everyone. He had just been out on his own personal mission and for a time, he felt at ease. He knew it wouldn't last. That anger and hatred would boil again and he would seek out more of the pathetic humans to exterminate.

He longed for the day when humans would be no more. They deserved nothing less and nothing more. They were just ants that were given airs. He took a deep breath to clear his mind. He didn't want to ruin the night with his thoughts. He coasted through the air and saw the church. He glared at it. Ha! Church in deed. He saw nothing holly about them. They were just like everyone else. Killing to gain something. He flapped at the air hard and returned to the Legion headquarters. Once he reached the building, he landed gracefully and tucked his wings.

He walked through the dark halls pleased. He wondered if there would be another mission soon. He would welcome it gratefully and with open wings. Meanwhile however, he was looking for Testament. He had gone out on his mission only thanks to her and he wanted to thank her. Out of everyone else at the Legion, he held the highest respect for her. They were both loners and their last of their own races. He wondered what had brought her to be an Avenger, but he was glad she was on their side.

A small walk down the church hallway and she was coming closer to the quarters that all of the warrior's shared. Her eyes glanced along the fading walls, such a sad thing to happen. The church used to be beautiful, but these days everything was in a worse state of disrepair. Small fingers trailed along the walls as she made her slow steady step to the room she occupied. A room where she was at the beck and call of any priest that needed her particular services.

A quick brush of the chain and a few movements and the urge to do unspeakable things were dulled to something much more withstanding. Blue eyes lowered to the ground, watching her moving feet. Surprisingly the leather made no noise against the tiles as her steps drew her closer to the wooden door that gave no indication as to who lived inside of it.

The small golden chain around Nahia's wrist still felt warm from its use. It was a pleasurable feeling to say the least. It had taken her a long time to perfect what she could already do. Many years of awakening lusts that no one wanted to share. Lusts that nearly killed her on more than one occasion. With a smile Nahia turned around to look towards the sound of footsteps, someone was home. Just coming home in the early hours of the morning? It must have been Julian coming back from another extermination.

How she hated those. The screaming. It was always the screaming that struck a cord inside of her. Shaking her head, golden ringlets went flying as she tried to get rid of the memories. Just as her fingers were about to close around the handle to her room a priest in robes came rushing through the passageway. His eyes were set on Nahia and she let out a small puff of breath like a sigh.

"We need your help." His voice was breathless like he had been running for miles. "A new warrior lost control of a demon... Please Nahia... Please."

"You let a new warrior in with a demon?" Burning eyes glowered at the man as she rested back against the stone wall.

"Well..." The priest had to take a few steps back, as if Nahia's eyes had physically pierced through him. Avoiding her gaze, he explained, "The new warrior comes from a powerful background, so the Seniors thought it would only honored him to be given a chance to achieve something that no newcomer had succeeded at... Unfortunately," he had to swallow before continuing, "it went out of control. It appears the demon-- the vampire-- had been there for too long, and his thirst was---"

He pondered over his words once more, and then continued, "The Priests are trying to exorcise the demon, but he was way too wild for their power. Please Nahia, we need you to fix this error." He stepped to the side, and gestured towards a certain hallway. "The dungeon, please."

Nahia glared at the man once more and shook her head. She muttered a few words that a priest should not hear. "Why do you think no newcomer has ever managed to exorcise one? Because they are too untrained." With a noise of disgust she had the temptation to make some sick joke out of the situation, but decided she may as well get the job over and done with. A heavy sigh and a shove, from her foot, later she was following the priest down the hallway until they came to a room. There were noises coming from it that no creature should ever make.

She peered in through the glass to see another warrior dancing around, trying to avoid the teeth of the monster. Sharp eyes fell on a huddled human by the door. 'Must be the new one,' she thought her eyes staring him down. Timid brown eyes met hers and she turned her head. Let the kid find out himself what it was like to be a real warrior.

Another sigh followed by a deep breath calmed Nahia. She was focussed and ready to walk through the door. A yank of the heavy steel and a slam of it behind her and she was in the room with a crazed beast. The other warrior looked at her with relief as he rushed out to leave her too it. It was a pain to be able to control lusts, it always made you a target for the ones that couldn't control their own. Fingers rubbed the gold chain and it fell from her wrist, growing in length like a spider spinning a web.

A snarl from the beast and Nahia's eyes were drawn to it. Blood was dripping from its mouth already. It had taken a chunk out of someone. The chain felt warm in her hand as she moved stood still. The creature was just watching her, eyes staring like some crazed animal. A noise from outside startled it and it rushed. Moving quickly towards her she had only seconds to react.

Steady hands wound the chain around her fists, leaving barely enough to wrap around one of the creatures hands. With a twist of her body and the chain she pulled its arm up and behind. Eyes closing as she focussed on the energy of the thing in front of her. Invisible hands reached in to find a blood-lust so strong that it almost overwhelmed her. A small shiver of extra energy rose through her body to try and help form this thing.

Metaphysical fingers pushed and pulled the lust. Meanwhile the beast was squirming and trying to reach behind with his other hand. It took all of Nahia's control to do this bit of power. She could have moved outside into the other room to do this. Once the chain had touched someone she could control that person's lusts until it touched a new person. But it was a lot easier while it was touching the subject as well as her.

Finally her power found a weakness and pulled it outwards, covering the rest with the same weakness. She was then able to pull the lust from the beast. She had no idea what to do with it but she squashed it down until it was the same size as a baby's fingernail. With a smile she shoved it back and the monster blinked empty eyes at her. She removed the chain and stepped out of the room quickly.

"It will not hold for long. You will have to do it quickly." She grumbled softly, the chain in her hand snaking back up her wrist until it looked like nothing more than a very simple bracelet. Without a backwards glance she headed back towards her room. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

For all the aesthetic beauty of the Church's headquarters, it had always seemed to Julian that there was something...off-putting about the place. In the deathly quiet of the darkened entry hall, he casually observed the row of lifelike statues that lined the path before him. Each marble figure was a warrior of the faith, a warrior ‘heroically’ killed in service to the Church. An uneasy smile formed on the young man’s face as he silently recalled the many creatures he had 'cleansed' during the last weeks. Could you call such a thing heroic? He wondered if these saints would have so readily martyred themselves if only they could see the distorted mockery that their beloved Church had become: the very same incarnation that Julian had pledged himself to serve until his own eventual demise.

As he took the all-too-familiar path toward the dungeons, a likewise familiar chill crept up his spine. As always, the marbled faces of the men and women sacrificed in the eternal ‘Holy War’ unnerved him. Julian had never understood the point of venerating the dead, for in his mind death meant the end of everything; and what would his honor be worth long after his bones had turned to dust? If only the war would be finished there needn't be any more need to enlarge the gallery of sacrifices. Their marble perfection seemed to come alive in the eerie flickering candlelight as the pale stone reflected the ruddy, orange glow.The masterfully sculpted expressions of the saints did have a macabre realism, and their unseeing eyes seemed to follow the young man as he passed each one in succession such that he could practically feel each blank stare weighing down his steps. Julian averted his eyes in discomfort and hurried around the next turn, unable to shake the feeling that the statues were silently passing judgment on his sins. Yet what right had they to judge him? Was he not obeying the will of heaven? His conscience weighed heavily upon him, yet his pride denied him even the luxury of self-doubt.

As he contemplated the statues, it occurred to him that there was a sense of unnatural life to almost every facet of the mammoth basilica. For long before any mortal man yet living had drawn his first breath, the Cathedral had stood; a constantly evolving beast forever under construction. Even now one could hear the distant clanging of hammer on chisel as the stonemasons went about their work, yet sadly, those men would likely die of old age before they would see its completion. Indeed, the Cathedral had devoured entire generations of craftsmen and laborers; in this respect, the cathedral was much like the gaping maw of a demon ripped from the dusty pages of scripture. For each day the basilica grew larger, stone by stone, mortared with the metaphorical blood and tears of such men; gaining life as theirs was slowly siphoned away. Those men, too, were martyrs yet there would never be a gallery of monuments to praise them. This was the injustice of the Church, the preachers of peace that praised those who destroy others even as they discard those who seek to create.

His pace quickened and he felt a breeze brush past him, coming from the darker depths of the catacombs below; almost as if the building was breathing. Though the Cathedral itself was enormous in its scope, being constantly enlarged for centuries, the catacombs that lay beneath it were even larger; and no single man would dare try to explore them alone. Apart from his usual route, even a member of the warrior order could easily get lost in the maze of twisting passages, and who knew what fiendish mysteries were concealed among those ancient bones.

The splendidly smooth white marble of the upper Cathedral had gradually shifted to a rough textured, sickly gray as Julian entered the dungeon anteroom. The atmosphere of the windowless corridor that had led him to this far had been stifling and hot, but the main floor was unusually cold all year round. “A miserable place to end up…”Julian gave voice to his thoughts, and as if to punctuate the point there came a horrible scream from down a nearby hallway followed by the terrified form of a priest rushing toward him.

“Master Julian! P-please! It’s going to get out! I c-c-can’t…y-you have to stop it!” The priest’s shrill voice was full of terror, and his wild bloodshot eyes were jumping at every shadow. Apparently the clergyman had seen something horrible and it had broken him mentally. As there was nothing so futile as trying to get useful information out of a gibbering idiot, Julian simply pushed the frightened man aside; yet the priest clung to him with an infantile whimper.

“Y-you can’t! NO! Don’t leave me here to die!” The priest pleaded, before eventually releasing the young warrior-monk and descending into a fit of uncontrolled sobbing. Julian turned towards the murky hall that the now nearly catatonic priest had come scurrying out of, and was just about to enter it when he heard someone…or something moving from within.

His knees bent in a low crouch, anticipating a sudden rush to come at any time. Steely-gray eyes narrowed as Julian’s left hand tightened around the leathery grip of his bow. There was a feeling of uncertainty building within the young man; it would be difficult to fight while trying to protect the clearly defenseless priest curled up behind him. Nevertheless, if it came to that he would have no choice.

The warrior reached to his back, fingers closing delicately around one of the many feathered shafts that protruded from his quiver. He drew out the arrow; even the silken whisper of the missile scraping against its leather container seeming unbearably loud to him amid the deafening silence of anticipation. A slight tremor of adrenaline caused his hand to shudder as he carefully went about setting the shaft into place against the bowstring. He heard the noise again, as footsteps began to echo from the darkened corridor. Julian could feel his heart beginning to race, each beat coming faster than the last, the tempo building to a terrifying crescendo; the thunderous pounding ringing in his ears as the shadowy figure moved closer.

The air practically steamed with the electrifying heat of fear and expectation, and the holy warrior could hear nothing but his own erratic heartbeat and the steady footsteps from the hall. Whatever that creature was, it would be upon him in the next seconds. He drew back the bowstring, the sinewy muscle of his arms and back mimicking the tension of the drawn arrow. He shifted his weight, leaning forward as he judiciously took aim at his target. Julian’s eyes seemed to sharpen, pupils dilating and constricting wildly to accommodate his extreme focus; hands moving with adjustments so subtle as to be nearly imperceptible.

His aim was flawless, the smoothness of his form perfectly polished by countless hours of practice. There was no way he could miss, or so he hoped. His fingers tightened around the tightly wrapped leather of the bow’s grip involuntarily. Other possible combat strategies swirled in his mind, complex computations factoring in the opponent’s probable attack patterns should the first arrow miss followed by Julian's own available options for defense and counterattack.

His jaw tightened, teeth clenching together hard enough to cause himself pain. He had run through every scenario he could imagine, and the results were not surprising. Should Julian’s first shot fail, there was an impossibly low chance that he and the priest would both survive…

“There’s no way around it. I’ll have to kill you in one shot, ugly.” His voice was one of confidence, a clean and charismatic tenor that masked his dire desperation well.

The light of the antechamber draped the mysterious antagonist suddenly, and the primal instinct to kill or be killed sent a scream of ‘fire!’ jolting from his mind to his hands before he could process what he saw. Just as he had crossed the point of no return, his eyes flared with the dawn of understanding, causing his aiming hand to jerk in a sudden upward movement. Julian’s face distorted in a wince of pain as the shaft of the arrow scraped against the surface of his aiming hand, the friction of the accelerated wooden grain ripping through the thin layer of his skin.

Though the already released arrow was unstoppable, his last desperate movement had shifted the course of the missile; which whipped past Nahia’s face and buried itself into a wooden support beam with a heavy ‘thunk.’ Apparently she had already dealt with the problem and he had caught her on the return trip to her room.

His breath was ragged and the roaring sound of his beating heart still blotted out all thought, yet he felt a colossal wave of relief begin to dampen the rushing flow of adrenaline. What seemed like an eternity passed before he was able to stand and speak.

“…What are you trying to do, woman? Scare me to death?” He sighed in feigned exasperation. Hopefully his mask of false annoyance would make her forget that little spat of near murder as well as the "ugly" comment...

Zarai had searched a few of the rooms he passed, hoping to find Testament. He began wondering if she was out somewhere relaxing or on a killing spree herself. That idea excited him all over again. It wasn't that he loved killing. It was just that it was his redemption for all the lives lost. The humans deserved it and much, much more. He began imagining the humans bowing before him and begging mercy from the Legion. Of course he wouldn't give it to them. They were worms. No, not even worms. They were dirt. Only good to be walked on.

When he turned a corner he saw the maiden and a small smile spread on his face. He walked toward her, but he did not dare get to close. A good distance away, he bowed and knelt down onto his knees. He kept his head low to show his respect for her. Not wanting to disturb her, he kept quite, waiting for her to allow him speech.

Nahia had been walking quiet quickly along the corridor. The small pit of anger that had started to build inside of her was already seeping out. Nahia was far from an angry person, sure she could get angry like most other people but it wasn't her choice in feelings. With a shake of her head and a bounce of curls she moved a little quicker down the hallway. Her eyes were focussed on the ground. Just as her fingers were focussed on brushing along the slightly warn stone.

A whistling noise caught her focus, strange a whistling noise at this time of day. Was there a beast somewhere in the hall that could cause that noise? Her eyes moved upwards just as the arrow came screaming past her and struck into a support beam. Her eyes only widened for half a second until they fell on Julian. Nahia didn't know whether to make the poor guy feel bad, or to just laugh it off. His clothes were tattered and he still had the remnants of someone else's blood on him.

"I'm not sure someone as small and harmless as me could scare you to death." Words spilling out in a mix of a sultry purr and an innocent voice so perfected you would not think that the words came from the same mouth. Blue eyes opened a little wider and a small pout formed on red lips.

Her eyes were drawn to the priest huddled on the floor. Of course, someone had run off. That's what happens when you put a new person in with a demon and no back-up. The leather of her shoes made no noise as she turned and manoeuvred herself until fingers wrapped around the arrow. A sharp tug and a few twists and the arrow came out almost unscathed. With a harmless smile and a quick step she held the arrow out to Julian. "Besides, I'm not the one armed with a deadly weapon."

Once she had passed him, Zarai straightened himself to his full height. Like any soldier that the human's prided, his back was straight, his gait was graceful, his lean muscles showed he was a fighter, and his eyes took in everything and anything. More so since he wasn't human. As she walked, he clasped his hands behind him and followed her, his head held high and proud. No human could achieve his level of disipline or his claim at grace. The humans called them demons, monsters, spawns of evil. He didn't see it that way at all.

It wasn't his kind, or any of the magical creatures to start wars. They were fine going about their buisness. It was the humans who were greedy and envious. They wanted to be like said 'creatures' so now they were being modified. He thought the image was horrifying. He quickly wrentched his mind from his wondering and focused at the task at hand. He had a report to deliver and it was best he didn't keep her waiting. He saw her wrath on the humans and didn't want that turned on him. It was true, he respected, awed, and feared the woman before him.

He cleared his throat and began to speak, "I arrived at the center of the village where the human officals were gathered at 5:30 PM, as I was told to do. I hid within shadows until my target had left his office. Since my goal was to wipe him out along with his family, I followed behind me. There was no other human on his road at first. He had taken short cuts through the city and stopped to speak to a little boy. He was blond, rough dirty face. He was wearing grey rags which I assume to have been white at one time. His eyes were green and he had freckles.

"My target beant low over the boy and started speaking. I did not hear all of his words, but he did murmer something about the Black Organization and funding. I have reason to believe he was enorsing them. He gave the boy a gold coin and he scampered off at a run. I watched him but he disapeared through sewers. My target reached his home where he was having guests over. They were two more men. They were wearing suits and seemed to be of my target's status. I do not know who they are or what the were in charge off. They had dinner and didn't speak about anyting regarding the organizations or creatures. Once the guests and the family was asleep, I slipt in and executed my orders. The guests, and the entire family are dead. I did find this, however, on his desk."

From his pocket, Zarai pulled out a letter from the Black Organization. It was a thank you card for the money he had donated. There was also a silver chain that had been in the letter. "If you touch the chain, you can feel a small spark of power eminating from it. He was either hoping to be part of the organization, or he was a human hybrid." He offered his findings to Testament with a pleased sense of accomplishment.

A sharp breeze took a biting attack at a lone figure standing near the edge of the city. Closing the small opening the figure had allowed with his unbuttoned trench coat; he slowly looped each button to where they had been rightly made for.

"London.." The man said as his face turned skyward to the darkened clouds that always seemed to cover the city. Every time Zachary came to this city he always say those clouds. They almost seemed as if the black soul, that infested the citizens and the buildings, was just seeping out into the world. Maybe, it was just slowly burning itself into oblivion. "... Truly a damned place."

Closing his left hand over the fedora he always wore seemed to compel him in to his grueling march.

As he passed through the main streets and alleys; his eyes seemed to be drawn to the horrid living conditions that victims of the 'Holy War' were being situated in. He couldn't look one way without seeing more pestilence, famine, or death. They all stood there mounted on they horses ready to strike another down. Maybe his eyes weren't drawn to them. Maybe, it was just everywhere.

"Or maybe..." He muttered to himself. "I am just romanticizing the situation." He said with a bit more conviction as a wispy smile settled on his face. That was the thing about whips though, they didn't last long.

Zachary rounded a street corner, one he had traveled many times, and came into view of the large structure known as the Cathedral. His small smile was torn away by the vicious frown that followed. It was proclaimed to be the center were God came down upon us. it just is a testament to mankind's hubris, that we allways walk the straight, narrow, and just path.

"And I said last time I left I wouldn't return." He sighed pulling out a slip of parchment with the holy symbol. You are to return to the Cathedral at once, to reinstate yourself as one of our elite few. Was what the letter said, to summarize. "They must be getting desperate." He said as his feet began to carry him forward into the dank pits of the city.

Soon he came upon the Cathedral's main doors. A quick inspection of any guard could tell them exactly who he was: the badge told them he was a priest and there were not too many people around that wore a rusted over bracelet. "Hello?" he called out as he entered the main chapel area, which seemed oddly deserted. "Anyone wish to see me?" he added

The room was small and empty; there was nothing to cover the cold, cracked stone wall, nothing to warm up the atmosphere, nothing to soften the prison cell-like appearance of this naked stone cage. The only decorations were four lavishly designed silver candlesticks, on top of which stood the only sources of the feeble light that illuminated the room. Four hooded figures stood guard in four corners; their lines of vision met exactly at the center of the closed space that seemed to be completely separated from the world outside.

Separated, so it seemed. However, it was the owner of this room who was the best informed of every single occurrences happening inside the gigantic Cathedral. The user of the Bells of Wisdom could “see” further than anyone else could. There he was sitting on the hard cold surface; platinum hair flowed down his back to the floor and scattered all around him. Even though he had his eyes closed, his “vision” had reached beyond imagination, into every hallway, every room, every single crack on the walls. In his mind the events were replaying, while he cautiously and patiently went through them, looking for the smallest error.

White, slender fingers caressed a large spherical orb around the size of an egg, which shone a mysterious shade of purple light and made soft, delicious clinking noises that seemed to chime to eternity. The holder of the Bells reacted to every rise and fall of the melody, tilting his head from one side to another, causing the Bells in his hair to take their part in this delightful symphony.

A scream seeped in the room; major commotion followed. The four guards exchanged a look, and then fixed their now questioning look on the young Priest. “Glöckchen…” One tried to have his attention.

“Nnn-“ The young man made a soft whimpering sound, shaking his head. He understood the query and tried to answer. “Dungeon…” He gestured with a sweep of his arm. “Demon- Vampire… Free. Ceremony… New Warrior…” The guards once again exchanged a look. One made an attempt to rush for the door, but Glöckchen stopped him. “A-Already… taken care of. Desire…” He whispered her name with a shudder. He then shook his head and opened his eyes. Listened to his Bells, he added, “Tempus…”

The guards relaxed. Whatever the problem was, if it was those two who took care of it, it should be more than all right. They looked at Glöckchen again; he was now looking up at the ceiling. “Holy Thunder… Home.”

The chimes of the Bells rose in volume; soon the whole building was graced by the song of a million Bells – a melody too bright for the stone Cathedral itself. Glöckchen closed his eyes again and let his magical power flowed out, soaring through every corridor like a bird. It was his joy: A traveling Priest have returned home.

---

“Well now… Isn’t this a shame?”

With little effort, Hiron managed to seal any disgusted feeling behind a smile before it had the chance to creep to his facial expression. He glared at the pictures that have been carelessly tossed on the table; fire, blood, corpses—they appeared to describe the last moments of a Black Organization supporter. If a supporter’s death was described as “a shame” in such carefree tone, the death of normal people wouldn’t make little impact on the other Sorcerers of the Black Organization.

“This is definitely the doing of Testament. Her grip has reached further than we expected…”

“Oh, please, that woman?” A Sorceress interrupted, “She really should stop pocking her nose in our business, she and her subordinates… Hasn’t we agreed that she must be taken care of?”

“Let we hear the Green Swallow.” A calm voice gently brushed her off.

Jillian glanced at Hiron from across the table. He was made the target of the blames once again.

“What do you need to hear from me, fellow Sorcerers?” The young man’s smile never wavered. “I hope you didn’t expect me to just rush in the Crystal Dorm to hunt down Testament? I apologize if my performance disappointed you, but hunting for the Avengers is a tedious process. With these activities,” he gestured towards the pictures, “she is slowly exposing herself. In the near future, I will get to her.” He stood up. “Now, I beg your pardon…”

“Green Swallow, where are you thinking you’re going? Don’t disgrace us in front of the Elders—“

“I’m leaving. My part in this meeting had ended. Apparently, I have an assignment I need to complete.” He replied coldly. “While you’re here, Elders, I suggest that you do something about the supporters and informants. If you keep accepting any donation offer despise its nature, giving out the Chains of Trust like charity and using random street children to communicate with your so-called supporters, the downfall of this Organization will be inevitable.”

Hiron turned on his heels, and left.

“Our apologies, Most Honorable Elders…” The Sorcerer who had spoken first said with false contention. “The Green Swallow has had… quite a temper.”

“Leave him be,” replied the person with the calm voice. “As long as he’s doing his work…”

“Meeting over. You are dismissed.”

Zoe was completing a reconnaissance mission, of sorts. Though her principle use within the church was her ability to heal, she was occasionally called upon to enter places and gather information that others had no access to. The townspeople that resided in the area near the Cathedral had been spreading rumors of a heretic in the vicinity. Other rumors compounded these, rumors of the Black Organization recruiting loyalty from the townspeople, and rumors of a recent murder. The church was uncertain about these rumors, and they had sent Zoe to glean further information, because only she was on good terms with the most knowledgeable of the locals: the street children.

The mission brought her to an area that she would have visited that day anyways. In fact, she frequented the forgotten and avoided side streets of London more than any other citizen, except for the children that lived there. She found herself in a rotting alley, one so out of the way and ignored that it had no name. The buildings on either side were abandoned, but they were also completely boarded up to keep out the so-called riffraff. Zoe found this to be a monstrosity, for the children could be sleeping within those empty, unused buildings, out of the rain and the grime. The smell of the alley was enough to keep any and all travelers from entering. It reeked of bodily excretion, decaying garbage, and unwashed bodies. The middle of the alley was mostly clear of debris, but the sides were strewn with old cardboard boxes, garbage bins, and bags of scavenged trash.

A citizen unlucky enough to become lost in such an area would see only a stinking alley full of junk and trash. To the more trained and experienced observer, it was a home to many. The bins and boxes were arranged to allow some privacy and some shelter to those who slept here. Lucky individuals had scavenged dirty rags as blankets and pillows, while others clearly had been less fortunate. Some clever child had stolen a sack full of lawn trimmings as a bed. Zoe shuddered to think that the majority of these children, with ages ranging from six to fifteen years, slept with hardly any shelter from the cold and rainy weather that permeated London. The thought made her feel physically sick, more so than the smell of the place ever could.

She reached out a hand and placed it on Magnum’s back. The great Irish wolfhound stood beside her, gently leaning against her right leg as if to offer moral support. She knew that he too could remember the days when they lived in such a place. Nights when she would curl her dirty, bruised body around his bedraggled puppy body while they huddled together in a garbage bin, praying for morning and warming sunshine to come quickly. That had been a long time ago, but the memories were still vivid. The stench. The way that strangers would look at her with a mixture of pity and disgust, as if she was not a person at all, but a thing that they must quickly avoid and forget, lest they feel obligated or responsible to do something for her. No scraps of food were given. No hand-me-down clothes were offered. The citizens of this God-forsaken city had been afraid that helping an orphaned street child might mean they were picking sides in the War between the Church and the Heretics, for even at her young age it was obvious that Zoe had powers.

She waited until the surge of memories passed. It was common for her to become lost in the past when she returned to these streets. The children here haunted her every waking moment. She had begged the upper officials of the church to allow her to bring them home, to clean them up, and to care for them. It was always the same story: not enough resources, not enough time, they needed her for other things, and when she helped them to end the war these children would no longer need to live in fear and poverty. It was all a lie. She knew that they were just being selfish and monopolizing her skills and time, but there was nothing she could do. She had no money or resources of her own. Sighing, she let out a low, almost inaudible pattern of whistles, one long, two short, one long. Almost immediately, movement could be seen within the rotting recesses of the alley.

Dirty, scarred, haunting children began to crawl from their hiding places, moving towards her with their hopeless, yet eager eyes. Their rags were still wet from the last storm, and it was difficult for Zoe to paste a smile onto her face at the sight of them. They looked worse than when she had last visited three days before. Something must have happened. “Hello, my sweets.” Her voice was soft and infinitely tender, bathing the children with love and compassion that they never received elsewhere. “Come to me, my little ones, for I have brought you clean food and water.”

The church might forbid her from taking the children home, but they could not stop her from spending her own allowance on food for them. She went without as often as she possibly could in order to bring them food, water, and sometimes clothing. She leaned down to untie the bundle that Magnum had carried on his back for her. As the children approached her quickly, their eager, filthy hands reaching out to her, she placed a loaf of bread in each palm. She started to fill a clean glass from the traveling canister full of water, and let the children pass it around their motley group. “Do not eat the bread all at once, loves. I know you must be very hungry, but I am afraid it will make you sick, and then you will lose all of the calories. Make it last for a few days until I can return, if you can. Now…” She paused, looking around at their grimy faces. It haunted her how their bodies and facial features were so youthful, but their ribs showed, and their eyes reflected histories of horrors that no child should ever know. “Are any of you injured? Let me tend to you what I can, my quiet ones. You know I will not harm you.”

Only one boy stepped forward, which relieved her. Their unnaturally quiet and bedraggled appearance was not the result of some injury, but then, what else could there be? They experienced so many horrors daily, that she cringed to consider what might lower their already desiccated moral. The boy was tiny and black with dirt, but then, they all were. She could not guess his age by looking at him because so many of the children were small for their ages, and she assumed that he had lost track of his age long ago, as many did when living in squalor day after day, year after year. She did not ask him any questions about his past, including his name, because those were his secrets to reveal to her if he wanted to. She recognized him merely by sight, as she did with the majority of the children, for they had all been living in these retched conditions for a long time.

“Hullo, young Sir.” She tried to sound cheerful so that he would not be afraid of her. Though these children were less fearful than many of the city’s citizens, they still feared magic and the pain that it could bring. “Will you show me where you are hurt?”
The young lad averted his gaze, ashamed to need her help, ashamed to crave her attention because no one else cared. He pulled up the edge of a shirt so tattered it was hardly identifiable as one, and revealed a nasty, festering slash just under his ribs. Zoe was stunned. How could one so small have survived such a wound without any sort of medical assistance? It was clearly the result of a weapon, most likely a knife, but she knew that he would not tell her what had happened to him, for fear that his assailant would find out and come back fom a second round of pain infliction. “Oh, love,” she crooned, “You should have come to the Cathedral, to see me. You know the whistle. I would have come out to you. There is no need for you to live in such pain.”

Zoe placed one hand against the filthy gash, disregarding the way his blood stained her fingers. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the magic from The Flute of Life, the slender, silver dog whistle that was suspended from her neck by a delicate silver chain. She let the magic grow and flow through her body, feeling the power surge through her veins like a vast river of life. When she was completely full of the magic, she concentrated on the small boy’s wound, gently probing it with the magic, taking stock of the condition of the skin, the nearby organs, and the blood vessels. He had been lucky. The weapon had not injured any of his organs, but the cut was far too deep for the flesh to heal itself together, and she knew that he had probably been bleeding for days. She allowed her concentration to focus completely on the boy’s side, becoming part of every nerve, every vessel, and every cell. She careful stitched the cells together once more, the wordless song of healing playing through her mind while she did so. While she would normally heal an individual without giving up any of her own health, allowing them to recover at their own pace after her magic bandaged them back to one piece, she allowed a tiny bit of her own life force, her own energy, to flow into the wee one. It was not more than a breath of energy; he was so small that he would not require much, and she hoped that it was enough to chase some of the nightmares from his sleep, or to bring hope to his brutal existence.

Her task completed, she removed her hand and opened her eyes, stopping the flow of magic from The Flute of Life. The silver instrument was glowing a pale blue shade, and it slowly faded back to its normal silvery shine. She felt a bit weak and her skin was pale from the effort of bestowing this gift on him, but she smiled through it. “Come children. Magnum has missed you greatly, haven’t you boy? He would love to have you pat him while we chat a bit.” She waited while the children crowded around the loving, tolerant dog, many of them shorter than he was when he stood on all fours. They ran their dirty, cold fingers through his silky white fur, murmuring to him words that only he could hear, as shy children are wont to do. “I have heard dreadful news, my sweets. News that I must speak to you of. Please do not be afraid, for I will not be angry, no matter what you tell me. Have you seen one of the heretics in these parts? One of the supernatural?”

The children would not look at her at first. They remained quiet, running their fingers through Magnum’s fur, transferring their grime and dust into his hair. She knew Magnum did not mind, and neither did she. They would simply take a swim later. Finally, one of the older boys straightened, the boy called Johnny, looking directly at her. “I seen him, miss. Very white. Big wings. He be watchin’ and waitin’ for someone.”

Zoe did not allow her emotion to show on her face so that she did not scare this terribly brave boy. She fretted about his lack of proper verbal skills. He was too old to speak in such a way, and it would be hard to correct his speech as he grew older. Putting that thought aside, she nodded her head encouragingly. “Did he speak with you, Johnny?”

“Nah, miss. He ne’er seen us, eh? We hid real nice like you tell us to, and he ne’er knew we was watchin’. But, miss,” He seemed to be struggling to find words to describe something to her, ”In Grit-Bin, where them other kids like us be, the…the…” his voice dropped to a mere whisper, “The Black Organization is usin’ the kids to bring papers around. Papers and lil’ chains.”

This both relieved and troubled Zoe. They had listened when she told them not to approach strangers, especially magic ones, even if they were desperately hungry. She could not take them home to keep them safe, but she could teach them how to avoid danger. “Thank you, Johnny. I am so proud of you, of all of you. Now, run along to eat your bread. Remember that the heretics cannot be trusted, and many of them kill humans just for fun. You must always avoid them. I will try to return in a few days, and perhaps Magnum can make a solitary visit to you sometime soon with more food. Now, go ahead, run along.”

As the children scampered off to eat what was probably their first meal in days, Zoe stood and turned from the alley, one hand gently stroking Magnum’s neck. She did not need to speak to him to convey her emotions, for she knew that he simply understood her, as she did him. As glad as she was for these children’s safety and obedience, it deeply disturbed her that The Black Organization was using the children from ‘Grit-Bin,’ another alley such as this to the south of the city, to deliver messages. Zoe and Magnum started off then at a sprint through the deserted alleys and past the dilapidated buildings of the city slums, heading for the Cathedral. It appeared that their swim would need to wait, for they needed to find someone in the church to report to, possibly a warrior. There was not enough information for a hunt to begin, but the warriors would certainly need to be alerted to the presence of a heretic so close to the Cathedral, and to the new messenger service of The Black Organization. So help her God, if one of her children was injured by this new scheme, she would see to it that every member of The Black Organization was sentenced to a life-time in hell.

Zarai took the chain from her confused. How would it benefit him? He had no need of it. He did no argue with her decision however. Maybe she knew something he did not. He tucked the chain into his pocket and gave her a low bow before he turned away from her and left the offic. Once he was out, he sighed relieved. There was just something about her that made him second guess himself. He wondered how much power she really had.

With a shrug and walked down the hall and into his room which held nothing glamours. He just used it for sleep and for the writing of his reports. He spent most of his days outside in the open air. He didn't like being indoors even if there was storm going on. The room was dull with ontly a desk, a chair, and his bed. He sat in his wodden chair and quickly started on his report. When it was at last done, It was about ten pages in length. He had learned to give every single detail of it.

He stacked them neatly and had a lesser creature deliver it for him. He looked of his window and saw that it was quite late. He wasn't sleepy however. Instead of laying down to rest, he left and took flight into the air once more. He flew over the area high so no one would see him. He looked down and some ash. He lowered and could smell the burnt bodies and wood. He wondered what had taken place. He landed on a buildings roof and scanned the world bellow. He saw a woman with what appeared to be a dog from his height. His eyes narrowed on her. She was from the Church.