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Lady Avella · Posted: Sat Mar 10, 2012 1:07 pm Post subject: Shadows of Change

In all the universe there is one thing and one thing only that remains constant and that is …

Change.

Death, life, rebirth. Consistent change, consistent upheaval, consistent evolution. The crucible of death. The chrysalis of rebirth. The mysteries of change… all of it …

Inevitable.

**********

The of sound pickaxes echoed deep within the hidden caves found only in the Mountains of Compassion. Steep narrow valleys often lead wayward adventures and wealth seekers into unimagined dangers. Daemons haunt these valleys, or so it is told. But such tales had never dissuaded the two hardy miners from exploring new caves for rich veins of ore and gems. Today was no different. Oil lamps lit their way as they dug into an old abandoned tunnel. Rats scurried from the light and spiders the size of a man’s hand hissed and fled into black crevices or squeezed their soft bodies into narrow cracks. The air was heavy and dank. But the miners, friends for many years, seemed content. Content to work and sweat for the opportunity to make good on so many promises made over the years. To family. To friends. To themselves. And the work this day was going well.

They were midway down a side tunnel when they found it. The discovery was every bit a shock, for the item was out of place and had no business being where it was. The two miners scratched their heads and spoke of ancient relics, but what they found was not old. What they found that caused them pause in this dark underworld environment was a large stone sarcophagus. Upon closer inspection they found no writing or carvings on the stone to indicate who, if anyone lay within. The only thing they found, painted by hand, on all four sides of the stone coffin, were signs of warding. Paladins, Knights of Virtue made the marks. That much was certain. Wards of protection the miners agreed. To protect what? From whom? The two friends pondered this mystery for over an hour. They sat debating whether or not to open it. Paladins, they had heard, were known for hiding their treasures in deep secret places. Perhaps this was one such place.

Finally the two men agreed. They alone held the right to open and make claim to whatever treasures lay within for the Paladins had left no warning or guards of either spirit or flesh to watch over their treasure. Thus it was that the two miners pulled the iron pins holding the lid of the stone sarcophagus in place and slid the heavy cover off. It fell with a mighty crash and broke into a hundred pieces. The echo of it trailed off through a hundred tunnels and down to unimagined depths. The two miners grinned at each other in congratulatory celebration and, holding their oil lamps high; peered inside.

What they found within was not treasure; at least not on first inspection. What lay within was the decrepit body of a woman. Wizened and dry her face was like that of a long buried corpse. Her hair, gray and brittle, was strewn about her head like dry wheat. Her lifeless eyes, as if in eternal contemplation, stared at the ceiling overhead. But what caught the two miners' attention was not the body, not the richly appointed clothing, or even the rings of precious gems adorning her fingers, but the object that held the body in place. The object that kept the body pinned against the raised wooden floor of the sarcophagus; a wooden stake driven through the woman’s chest.

The two men looked at each other and retreated, once again, to debate their next move. The raised floor, upon which the body rested, was an indication that something might be hidden beneath. Perhaps the Paladins hid their treasure beneath the body. Perhaps the body was placed there to frighten away would be thieves. But the miners assured themselves they were not thieves but honest working men who happened to have come across an opportunity to improve their lot in life. No, they would remove the body and open the treasure beneath. By day's end they would be wealthy men. Their years of hard labor in the dusty, dank environment of the mines would be over. Their promises made would the kept.

Moving back to the sarcophagus they removed the stake that pinned the body to the floor and lifted the woman’s body, with all due reverence, out of the stone coffin and placed it gently aside. Satisfied they had shown the body all proper respect they set about removing the wooden base. Using pickaxes they attempted to pry the floor open, but it was anchored into the sides of the coffin. It would be necessary to chip away at the stone in order to loosen the floor and thus find purchase to pry it loose and the two miners set about this task with all focus and intent.

**********

Rage, unbridled, unfettered and unchained poured into her brain as she took her first breath and opened her hate filled eyes. A formless wraith had haunted her dreams and told her secrets of the underworld she had never imagined. Voices of power and terror spoke to her in rhymes and stories of lust and longing and fear. She awoke and the power that now possessed her raised her up and brought her back to an old reality, she felt the hunger of reawakening; the thirst of longing and the hate of vengeance. She stood in the tunnel and watched as two humans hammered and pried at her former prison. Her newfound powers bent the shadows and carried her closer to them. She would need their strength to leave this underworld. She would need their lifeblood to regain her beauty. She would need even more if she were to wreak havoc upon the world and unleash her daemon rage.

**********

The sun was setting as the dark haired woman emerged from the mountain caves. Long shadows clawed at the deep sided valleys dragging them down into a purple haze of gloom. The woman’s eyes, black as night, flashed with a vile hatred. In her right hand she held, by the scalp, two human heads. In her left a tome of knowledge given her by a Daemon Wraith. Hissing with delight she flung the two heads far out into the empty air and watched as they plunged into the valley below. A word from her lips and ragged shadows, conjured from the depths, rose to embrace her. Within these shadows a portal opened. The woman stepped though and found herself standing on a darkened street, in an unfamiliar town that was, in another life, called New Haven. She hissed with glee and flashed her bone white fangs for the night air was swollen with the scent of blood, both living and undead. She would feast here and regain her strength. She would mock the laws of nature, bend the forces at her command to do her bidding and walk this world again as Avella; a terror reborn.

Lady Avella · Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2012 3:51 pm Post subject:

I make no effort to clean the dried blood from under my black, razor-sharp nails. No effort to wash this sticky mass of hair I call my own. My senses burn with unholy fire. My sacrifice is the memory of what was for the gain of what is. Words and chants, spells and runes; languages of the dead echo in my ears and cloud my vision. The Daemon’s voice, once all consuming, now a mere whisper, has marked me as a Daughter of the Abyss.

Anxious ears listen as my steed canters through this small unnamed village. The echo of his steel-clad hooves on the cold cobblestones weaves between the thatched roofed houses like a serpents tongue. Their fear is rank and seeps from their dwellings like thick, putrid fog. Dogs bark and bare their angry teeth then whimper and flee at our passing. Before they have gone ten feet a word from my lips burns them to ash.

A compulsion pushes me. Call it instinct. Call it a sliver of memory. Call it what you will, but it drives me forward.

I have already taken one.

“My Lady,” she calls and kneels before me. A willing participant in this oldest, most wicked dance. I recognize her only as kindred. I can smell it on her. That subtle scent of death no amount of perfume could ever hope to cover. She is willing, supple and bends her neck to the axe and so I accommodate her, change her, bring her into this new reality; this new nightmare. Freed her from her bonds she wanders the land spreading the word of Death and Terror like a true apostle.

A haze drifts across my vision and I find myself somewhere south of Trinisc. Wrapped in a forest of damp rot and vegetation the living plants and trees twist and writhe in their relentless thirst for life; for the burning rays of the sun. But in all this haze; in all this shouting and crying out for mercy, only one name claws its way into my brain. Only one name charges my intense desire and pulls me, pushes me, tears my flesh into ribbons of forgotten rage. One name looms over the lost memories of my once human self; over the Daemon’s own lust.

Draven …

Lady Avella · Posted: Wed Mar 21, 2012 6:27 pm Post subject:

These shadowed empty corridors of this ancient castle reek of betrayal and failure. Like the stench of human flesh it clings to the tapestries and fixtures. Dust and filth blanket the council hall. Vermin slither underfoot and Witches haunt these halls.

The Lord of this House has endured the unfathomable and unforgivable betrayal of the Blood. Bonds broken as if nothing mattered. As if loyalty were nothing more than a word etched in water to be washed away as easily as spit.

The Bonds of Our Blood are more ancient and more certain than any promise given or oath taken by any creature living or undead. And yet such pretenders fold themselves in the righteous illusion that they can live outside the bond; that they can fall on their knees and pray to human gods like some vicar who seeks the blessing of his own congregation.

Spare me.

I have found in death that worms and maggots provide the greatest loyalty and ask for nothing in return.

Now, as I walk these musty corridors and rake my black, hard nails along these gray stone walls, I ask myself.

“Does one show mercy and pity? Or does one seek retribution and destruction?”

What course is set will be given by he who is known as Draven. For it is He whose very nature runs within these veins and whose voice commands the very flesh upon these bones.

Lady Avella · Posted: Mon Mar 26, 2012 10:20 am Post subject:

Nightshade ...

My darling, I cannot think of you this way. Are you mad? Have you arrived at no conclusions?

Belladonna ...

The sweetest kiss of all. My lips beg for your kind words. My eyes break upon the light of your sweet face. Upon this gift of forgetfulness.

**********

Veils of smoky, shredded shadows embrace me as I wander the grounds of Carden. Old and new scents linger on the deep, wet grasses. None is familiar to me. Echoes of past revelations and curses hide in the thick ivy and cling to these ancient walls like a desperate lover.

Why have I no use for them? Awakened too soon? Violent hallucinations or are these pupiless eyes no longer needed.

I can taste them.

Oh, how I can taste them.

The stone stairs of the mausoleum accept my naked feet as I climb the last steep angle and pass beneath the vaulted arch. The long forgotten echoes of judgments passed and the stony silence of the unforgiven crawl in unison towards recognition only to recede at the last second into the very shadows they themselves have conjured.

I sit upon His throne and drape one careless leg over an arm. With these tortured hands I pull worms of sulfur and ambrosia from the pit beneath my feet and weave columns of acrid smoke that fill the space around me. Daemon’s Tongue and Eyebright to speak the words and see the changes that hate, contempt, and fear can divulge.

Visions in the mirror of Obsidian.
Faces in the eyes of the dead.

Speak to me my children.
Speak to me of madness and lies.
Speak to me of journeys taken and
Journeys yet to come.

There … there in the goblet of blood. A reflection. A sign. A city. A town.

Yew …

Lady Avella · Posted: Thu Mar 29, 2012 9:19 am Post subject:

Somewhere in the dark forest south of the City of Yew, in the ruins of an abandoned tower, in the deep shadows of stone and ivy, rests a coffin. The coffin is constructed of plain ordinary wood, Pine perhaps. This plain ordinary coffin, however, is covered on all sides, top, bottom and even the underside of the lid, with ancient, demonic runes of conjuring, of curses and wards, incantations of protection and spells of dark Magick. The runes are crudely written, as if someone dipped a finger in human blood then scrawled them over every inch of wood.

As the last rays of the sun kiss the western hills and draw down the curtain of night, the coffin stirs. Rising from her rest Avella stands, clothed only in wisps of dark shadows. Her body, the color of moonlight, shimmers in the darkness. She stands motionless, staring into the middle distance for an hour, perhaps longer. Lost in the dream of the undead and the fleeting, tattered memories of unrecognizable places and people. From her trance she whispers to the night.

“Lost in your soul."

"Taken in regret."

"Sold in haste."

"Motion in finality.”

She moves her slender fingers in tiny arcs of Magick and, in an instant, she is clothed in black, the only color her guardian daemon will abide. She moves her hands again and weaves a tapestry of spells. Shadows of deep royal purple and sickly green rise from the earth to surround her, embrace her, shelter her. A word from her lips and a portal opens. She steps through and arrives in the streets of Yew.

**********

“I have felt him in me. Rising through the heat. I have felt him force his tongue between my lips. The Daemon Lord took me in the darkness and taught me how to be … forever.”

**********

Like a mist she moves through the empty streets of Yew, searching. For what she is not sure. She only knows there is a reason for her being here and it is not for the blood. But in the darkness she takes three of Yew’s citizens and leaves their bodies torn asunder in the manner of an enraged Ettin.

She finds the hospital…the scent of blood is strong but the beds within are empty. Instead she lingers looking over books of anatomy and cures. Shortly, a man and a woman arrive. The man is curious and polite. The woman angry, defensive, challenging. Her anger appears not to be directed towards any particular target but a general anger with the world at large. Avella turns her focus on the man. She finds him interesting in a quiet, sensible way, but he too is guarded. They talk awhile. They ask if she had ever been to Yew before. She cannot remember. The man offers to show her around starting at the winery. The area is famous for their wines he says. She agrees and they walk the short distance to the building.

When they arrive there is more talk and introductions. When she tells them her name the two human’s attitudes shift as if the name means something to them. There is greater caution now. Hesitation. Then, on the night air, Avella smells the approach of two of the Kindred. She was not expecting this. Her focus on the man called Judas is shaken by this interruption. She grows confused. How or even why are two of the Kindred mingling with humans? They seem to know each other as if this were nothing more than a friendly gathering. Avella swallows her rage and waits patently. She wants the man called Judas alone. But it is not to be. One of the Kindred approaches.

“My Lady Avella. Do you not remember me?”

Rage is something that must be bridled like a wild stallion. Anger, however, can be set free.

“I know you not.” She answers. Her words are clipped and spoken harshly but still the girl persists.

“You are my maker,” she spits in desperate anger. “You … you are exactly like Draven …do you remember that name?”

The name of Draven burns in her and twists her blood. She struggles to maintain control. But in her heart, in the blackness of her soul, that name sings to her … calls to her. She hisses at the girl. The humans watch amused or enthralled, she cannot tell which. The second Kindred stands behind the humans. She is frozen in place, unmoving. She watches, her face expressing both astonishment and fear.

There are two choices now; burn them both to ash in front of the humans or retreat. Avella chooses retreat.

*********

She finds him in the darkest hour. Arresting rioters, he takes them to the Yew prison. Rioters? She has fed on them and left their carcasses in the street. She watches him from the shadows and finds him fascinating. Should she take him? Glamour him? Turn him? No … not this one. This one she must approach differently.

She waves away the shadows and enters his sight.

“Good evening.”

Her salutation is genuine for it was indeed a good evening. He greets her and they talk of pleasantries. She watches him. He is cautious but seems unafraid and this excites her. She has, in the past, taken many human lovers. Some, those she finds worthy, she keeps a while. Others she bleeds after the first night.

This one however is different. She leans in close to him to gage his reaction. She does not touch him for he would recoil. He does not move or flinch. She backs away and tilts her head in honest curiosity.

“Do you fear that I would harm you?”

“I hope not,” he answers as he adjusts his collar. “I was hoping for a different path between us.

“A different path?”

“Aye. I mean I was thinking that perhaps we could help each other.”

“Help each other? And how exactly would we do that?” The tone of her voice was one of amusement rather than scorn.

The human ponders this question a moment, but Avella wonders, looking closely at him, what plan he has conjured in his mind. Surely this human did not, suddenly, out of nowhere, decide he would help a woman he so obviously has heard of. Has her reputation spread so far as to drive ambitious humans to plan how they might use her? Have these humans deluded themselves so completely as to think they can bargain with or control what nature herself cannot?

“You are searching,” he says. “For what I wonder?”

She turns her head and looks at him from the corners of her eyes. This one knows something. How he knows she cannot fathom, but he does. But how can she answer the question when she herself does not know what it is she seeks?

“A rather curious question.” She turns and takes his eyes into her own. She could end this now, here, in the hours before dawn and be done with it. Mortals and their questions. Their meddling. But the question stands.

“I search for the truth.” She answers.

“What truth?”

More questions. Questions within questions. An endless circle of mortal discontent. She was growing impatient.

“And what do you search for?” She asks, her voice shifting slightly. She could Glamour him, take him? Tempting … so tempting. She can smell his blood. Hear his heartbeat. That vein along the neck, pulsing.

“Was Raquel right? That you are … missing things?” He responds.

Clever man to shift the subject. Distract her. The name causes her pause. Yes, she remembers the girl. Her angelic face pleading from her knees. Begging. She took the girl in Haven. Changed her. Made her more complete than she could possibly imagine and yet, now she wants more? These mortals and their questions. So now he understands and learns from the Kindred and they, in turn, give out information as if it were a public service?

“Raquel is a foolish girl who does not know her manners. I own her nothing.”

“Well,” he says. “That is between the two of you. But surely there is something you want. And what of Jolicia? You did not seem to remember her, yet you sired her.”

She turns. Now he has her full attention. Her anger simmers at these words from one whose life is so uncertain. This mortal walks the razor thin line of too much curiosity and too many questions about things his mind could not possibly contain. This one wants something too. Something he thinks only she can provide. She steps toward him, her eyes flashing.

“Sired? She hisses. “What would you know of siring?”

“I know more than you think.”

“Do you now?”

She steps closer. She can feel the heat of his living body reaching out to her. She twists her head and glares at him. Shifts her voice in an angry, seductive way. What he hears in his own mind is unimportant. Perhaps it is the voice of a former lover. Perhaps a beloved family member, it does not matter. Her eyes lock on his. She leans close, her lips only inches from his neck. He does not move. Raising her lips she whispers in his ear, her breath hot against his flesh.

“I can teach you more than you could ever imagine,” she hisses softly. “More about life … and about death. Is this of interest to you?”

“And what would you want in return?” He asks.

Smiling she steps away. Turns her back to him. Offers him a chance to destroy her if he dare. He claims to carry silver on his person. Now would be the time to plunge a silver dagger into her. Rid the world of her. She waits. From beyond the prison walls comes the sound of slamming doors. Iron bars to hold those who would rise up against their king. Bars to end their freedom. The mortal does not move. She drops her head and wonders. Perhaps this one is worth keeping.

“I would ask for one thing only. But the thing I ask is rare indeed and difficult to find these days.”

“And that would be?”

“Loyalty.” She lets the word hang in the air. The weight of it alone can drive men to madness for its value is so much greater than gold yet, by its very nature, it demands sacrifice.

“And no tricks?” He asks.

She lifts her eyes to the sky and grins. Her bone white fangs flash in the waning darkness. He has committed. To whatever goal he has set for himself he has stepped upon a path that will change him for all eternity. The door has opened. Will he step through?

“Tricks?” She asks.

“Aye. You know. Trying to feed from me. Blood Bond me. That thing you do with your eyes and your voice.”

She turns and moves closer to him. Her smile plays upon him. Her eyes wander over his body. Strong, able. Yes, this one would make a good lover … for a time. She lifts her hand and runs her fingertips gently along the side of his face. She hisses. Her words a seductive whisper.

“You wish to learn these things?”

His body stiffens. She is amused.

“I think I have something … something more ambitious … in mind.” He responds.

Yes! Now comes the truth. Now comes the reason for his tempting her. For his questions. For his meddling.

“Oh?” She whispers. “And what would that be?”

Her hand slides to the back of his head. She could drive her steel hard nails into his scalp and take him here … now … before the dawn broke, before his mortal eyes saw the sun again … he would be hers.

He knows how close he is and his voice cracks as his body flinches slightly.

“You are … the … the Lady Avella, yes?”

She nods. Her lips barely touching his neck.

“I am … she.” Her breath is warm and moist upon his skin. She bares her fangs.

“Do you know …” he stammers. “Do you know what I think would sound better?”

“Amuse me.” She whispers and presses her body against his.

He swallows hard before the word falls from his lips …

“Queen.”

Lady Avella · Posted: Sun Apr 01, 2012 10:55 am Post subject:

The young man lay on his back in a freshly mown meadow just outside the city of Yew. The summer air was perfumed with the heady aroma of fresh cut grass and wildflowers. He lay looking up at the bright face of his beloved. He marveled at her beauty and how the sun, shining through her flowing blonde hair, made her appear like an angel. She straddled his waist; her gypsy skirts flowing out around them. She gazed at him with eyes the color of the sky, her voice was light and teasing, and her laughter was like music to his ears. He would marry her one day; of this he was assured.

When she leaned over to kiss him, her hair cascaded around his face like the glided walls of a cool summer tent. She kissed him deeply and nuzzled his neck. Her tongue teased his ear.

“Why must you join with the rioters?” she whispered

“I must my love,” he answered. “I must because people like you and I have no other recourse against this oppressive tyranny. The Nobles have everything, control everything and share nothing with the common folk. We are never going to be …”

“Shhhh….shhhhh,” she whispered placing a finger gently on his lips. “Everything will be fine my love.” She sat up and smiled down at him. A thought came to her and she leaned over once more to gaze into his green summer eyes.

“But I must ask you my love …” her breath was sweet as honeyed wine. Her lips full and inviting.

“I must ask you my love. If I were your Queen, would you rise up against me as well?”

The young man laughed and hugged his beloved.

“Never my love for you would be a just and loving Queen.”

She laughed and sat up. Looking down at him she grinned and raised her hand above her head as if to pull down a piece of summer sky.

“A just and loving Queen, you say? A just and loving Queen?”

With that, she drove her hand down hard upon his chest tearing a ragged hole through his body. The blow smashed bones, tore muscles and pushed aside his ribs. Blood spewed from the gaping wound and the young man gasped in utter shock. Grabbing hold of his beating heart she yanked it hard ripping it from his body. The last image the young man had before he fell into everlasting darkness, was of his beloved angel, the girl he was to wed, biting down upon his still beating heart and draining every drop.

*********

Yew became like a prison. Each night she rose from the hidden, ruined tower to stand in the darkness at the edge of town, in the rain, in the fog, waiting for a sign, some indication as to where she was to travel next. Each night she fed. A citizen, or a farmer or a hunter or a traveler along the road and sometimes, when her thirst became too great, she took livestock. Nights passed in a confusing blur of wanderings and trances. There were no signs. The small obsidian mirror gave her no visions. The sleep of the undead held no answers. The Daemon Lord fell silent. In a rage she tore down sections of the stone tower and set loose elementals to wander through the deep forest killing anything that crossed their path. She drooled over her kills and carved runes in their flesh with her black nails. One night she waylaid a merchant on the South road to Britain, glamoured him, fed from him then carved cursed runes into his forehead. For spite she let him live and sent him on his way. Yew became her playground. Her nightmare.

This night found her standing beneath a stand of yellow pines staring at the sleeping city. A heavy spring rain left her soaking. Her black hair hung like seaweed over her shoulders. Her clothes clung to her in a seductive manner. Her eyes remained fixed on a single point, unblinking. Then, from the shadows, another of the Kindred emerged. She smelled them before she saw them. That subtle odor of death, often missed by the living, always preceded the arrival of a Kindred. It set them apart from the stronger scent of living blood that permeated her prey. This one was young, not as young as the other females she had encountered on her first night in the city. But young nonetheless.

The female did not speak at first but kept a respectful distance, watching. She made no attempt to approach but stood completely still as if waiting for permission. Avella tossed aside the human heart she had ripped from the chest of a young rioter and shifted her gaze toward the newcomer.

The Kindred bowed her head and whispered:

“My Lady.”

Avella stared at her for a long moment. The woman’s pale face was partially hidden under the cowl of her black cloak but her one good eye flashed orange in the lightning of the storm. In the distance, a crease of thunder rolled over the forest.

“What brings you to this place, Kindred?” Avella asked before turning her gaze back to the sleeping city.

“I heard you had risen. I have been searching for you.” The female answered. “Do you not remember me? I served you once.”

Avella hissed. Who were these kindred who hounded her claiming to be her childers or claiming to have served her? She glared at the woman.

“Served me, you say?”

“Aye, My Lady. Once, when you ruled over a province held by our House, I was an aide. Do you not remember? I am called Mei of House Draven.”

Avella arched her back and balled her fists so tightly her nails bit into her flesh. Blood trickled from her hands and dripped onto the muddy ground. Again the name “Draven” seared her blood. She spun and closed the space between them in a instant. Exposing her fangs she leaned close and studied the woman’s face.

“I know you not.” She hissed and turned away.

“I am Mei Fa Lo, and I served you once and will serve you again. I wish to help you recover your memories so you can return to us as you once were.”

Avella ignored the comment and drifted back to where she had been standing. Mei looked at the rain soaked ground and the discarded heart. Her face soured.

“Perhaps if you fed on Trinsic blood.”

Avella glanced up. “What is this “Trinsic” you speak of?”

“A city Milady. You once preferred Trinsic blood to all others.”

“I cannot leave here. Not yet. There are still no signs in the blood. I must wait for the signs.”

Mei Fa Lo said nothing but followed Avella at a respectful distance as she wandered through the city. An hour, perhaps more, they walked the rain soaked streets of Yew until she paused and looked skyward.

“Dawn approaches. I must take my rest.”

The Kindred called Mei bowed her head.

“I shall return again and talk more of these matters, Milady.”

“Do as you please Kindred. Do as you please.”

Lady Avella · Posted: Fri Apr 06, 2012 11:29 am Post subject:

She kissed him full on the lips, hard with intended passion. She knew he had a plan. They always had plans; these mortals. Power was the elixir of choice for so many of them. Revenge another. Whatever his intentions she would play along. Perhaps he was the sign she sought. Only time would tell and time was the one thing she had in abundance.

**********

The muscles of her forearm corded tight under her alabaster skin as she twisted the neck of young rebel. Her eyes flashed milky white as the Beast roared in her ears. The heart pumping. The steady thump … thump that quickened as terror clawed its way from its nest in the young man’s belly. Clawed its way up past his gasping ribs through the pulsing vein in his neck and into his blue-green eyes. Such pretty eyes.

What she left behind was the shriveled, bloodless shell of dying mortal. She paused only a moment to glance back at the young man’s body before the Beast snapped her attention towards another. The night sky glistened with the orange of the rebels fires. Their shouts of protest could be heard echoing among the stately trees of Yew as they ran from place to place.

“The Abby!” They shouted. Like school boys on the pitch they shouted.

“The Abby! Burn the Abby!”

She paused and dropped her gaze. The Frenzy, in all its horror and delight, gnawed at her, tickled her, demanded more, but she held back its reins as a memory flashed through her clouded mind.

**********

She had taken him by the arm. There in the Abby in front of all who stood nearby. She did not care who saw. How were they going to stop her? She had chosen him and half-dragged, half-carried him out the main doors and into the night. Dragged him across the lawn and into the darker shadows between the buttresses. There she pinned him against the stone walls of the Holy Monks House of Prayer. He did not struggle or protest. He did not complain or object. It was if he wanted her to take him; wanted her to end his suffering. Instead she kissed him on the lips and let him go.

She knew he had a plan …

She released the reins …

Lady Avella · Posted: Tue Apr 10, 2012 9:19 am Post subject:

Avella sat atop a rough-hewn dinning table etching spider-web-thin runes across the face of an obsidian mirror with a sharpened fingernail. Figures, faces, places, names swirled in a fog of confusing images. Then an image cleared and showed her buildings, old and low, huddled at the edge of a leafless forest. A great blue-green ocean lapped at the rocky shores of a stony island.

The Daemon roared in her ear.

“What place is this?” She hissed at the farmer’s wife who cowered in the corner of the ruined house. The woman’s eyes grew wide with terror. Her husband’s body hung upon the wall like a bloodless tapestry. A butcher’s blade through his chest held him fast.

“I ask again.” She said and seized the woman by the hair, digging her nails into her scalp. The farmer’s wife squealed in pain as Avella lifted her up and shoved the mirror in her face.

“What … place … is … this?” She hissed. Her voice became like dried leaves scrapping across rough stone.

“I … I … know not My Lady.” The woman squealed. “I … I have never journeyed far from Yew.”

“I know not, My Lady.” Avella mocked in a singsong child's voice.

She drew the woman close enough to kiss and sniffed at her slender neck. She held the woman fast, ran her tongue along the woman’s jaw and snapped her teeth in the woman’s ear.

“And I was going to keep you as a pet.” She cooed playfully. “Turn you. Give you the gift of immortality and sight. But only if you could answer … one … simple … question.”

She bent the woman backwards and grinned at the sight of the thick, blue vein pulsing in her neck.

“But alas, my child, you could not answer with your tongue. Perhaps, instead, the answer lies within, for I do believe you know, in your soul, where these buildings sit."

**********

The night air was fractured with screams of abject horror. The small farmer’s house, situated at the edge of freshly plowed fields, fell silent under a bone-white moon. Slaughtered livestock lay strewn across the fields like fallen fruit. Avella emerged from the darkened house, her arms bloody to the elbows, human entrails clutched in her fists. She looked to the moon; her milky white eyes glistened in the night. A dark stain spilled from her lips and chin to drip slowly onto her alabaster skin. Throwing back her head she hissed at the starlit sky and tossed the entrails to the ground.

“Three days time.” She hissed. “In three days time I shall be free of this city of Yew. Free to journey. Free to sail to the island town …

Ocllo.”

Lady Avella · Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2012 7:04 pm Post subject:

Black Banner …

Black Flag …

Black Eyes …

Watching.

How could that pitiful farmer’s wife of Yew have known her entrails would be so prophetic?
The obsidian mirror shows exactly where I must go to find the most delightful outcomes.

See how the Black Order marches?
I stand in the shadows and watch as they subdue the population of a town too small to care.
See how they murder and sacrifice on the altar of their zeal
And then claim victory over the weak and oppressed?
Aye, victory over the weak and oppressed.
Is that not the battle cry of all dark armies?

But, what care I.
Blood is blood and my thirst is sated no matter what army prevails.

In the darkest hours before dawn
I will find your armored soldiers and feed from them as easily as any other.
And they swim not so well as those you slaughtered on the docks this very eve.
The quiet waves of Ocllo harbor will accept my offering as quickly and as surely as those of Trinsic or of Brae.

I will walk among you and taste your blood.
I shall gaze upon your Daemon Banner and smile.
I am familiar with that face and I have heard that voice and understand where the signs might lead me next.

My bloody plan is no plan.
My bloody armor is no concern of yours.
I am shadows.
I am a Gate Keeper to the sweet undead.
Did my maker understand the monster he created?
Did he understand the suffering he sired?
Or was that his plan from the very start?

I will come for you my children.
Can you not feel me surging in your blood?
When the signs of Ocllo point in a new direction
I will share my love in ways you cannot imagine.
The pit and the terror of the Daemon’s breath shall wash over you
And cleanse you of your dreams.

Lady Avella · Posted: Fri Apr 27, 2012 10:21 am Post subject:

Ocllo proved not to be a complete and total waste. After all, the island offered little save a few unworthy farmers and several soldiers of the Order. Nothing at all like the fertile grounds of Yew. But, in the dark nights of prowling this tiny city, a Dark Wolf suddenly appeared to her. From somewhere within the folds of otheworldly shadows, from that veil of pain and agony that exists at the edge of ecstasy, it came to her. To watch over her and follow her. A constant companion, it stood at her side, watching. Its only demand; to share the blood and take the body to devour after she drank her fill. She wondered it the Daemon sent the wolf to collect the souls she so readily provided. It mattered little for the wolf left no trace to follow.

But there was one other thing Ocllo offered her.

It was on the forth night. She was standing at the end of the dock, her milk-white eyes gazing out over the open sea. Water soothed her. Helped push the voices away. Voices of the damned making their own pleas. Expressing their own opinion. She needed a way to drowned them completely, a way to send them back to the pit from which they sprang. She was lost in such thoughts when a familiar blood-scent filled the air around her. She grinned; her bone white fangs glistened in the moonlight.

“Judas, my pet. What brings you to this forsaken island?”

Judas! That plotting meddling mortal whose very blood begged to be turned. How he walked the razors edge. His schemes, bargains, and questionable alliances had lead to the death of a number of kindred, some of whom carried Avella’s own blood. She became aware of this fact slowly and only since her arrival in Ocllo. Perhaps it was the water or the Wolf that returned these scattered memories and clarified her recent past. Raquel Blackrose. Sired by another, made complete in a violent act of re-siring. Another Law broken. But Raquel Blackrose had been reclaimed and set free. The girl betrayed the blood and sacrificed herself willingly to the blade. The impossibility of such an act confused and bewildered the dark woman whom the Gypsies once called, “The Devil’s Daughter.”

Now this Judas stood nearby reeking of blood and plots. The Wolf nudged Avella with his snout and growled a low, deep throated compliant. She scratched behind his ears to sooth him. This human was under her protection … for now.

“There is someone here who wishes to speak with you, my Queen,” said Judas with his silver tongue. “But she will not come near the water.”

Raising her eyes to the sky, Avella twisted her head in a most unnatural way and looked at Judas who now stood next to her.

“And who might this person be?” She asked in a silky voice.

“Mei Fa Lo.” He answered. “She has come to serve you once again.”

Mei Fa Lo. The name rang familiar. Something tugged at her memory. Another island city. One of desert and heat, and the service of someone loyal and of the blood.

“Very well my pet. I will speak with her.”

Mei Fa Lo, cloaked and masked in black, stood in the shadows near the docks. Drawing close, Avella commanded that she remove her mask so she might better see the woman’s face. She did is she was told and revealed her one good eye. Her one orange eye. Avella nodded and the Wolf whimpered slightly.

“Aye, I remember you. Dear … sweet … obedient Mei.” Her voice became a soothing breeze that washed over the one-eyed woman like a mother’s song.

Glancing at Judas, she smiled then spun and, seizing Mei behind the neck, jerked her close. Rolling back her eyes she bared needle sharp fangs and drove them deep into the woman’s neck. A torrent of blood gushed forth saturating her mouth with a sweet, familiar taste. Memories flashed in a rapid blur behind her alabaster eyes. Mei Fa Lo, faithful, loyal, deadly. Aye, she would serve well. She shoved the woman away almost sending her spinning off the docks and into the harbor.

Ocllo had delivered.

Moving a short distance away she let the mortal and undead argue over loyalty and pride. Over the future that mattered little to those already gone and even less to those who had survived. There was no future here, only the now. And the now demanded answers. Demanded direction. Demanded consultation.

Bringing forth the Mirror she spoke the words and etched the runes with her black obsidian nails. The voices whispered. Visions of place and time, faces and names swam across the dark surface of the glass. But only one stood out from all the rest. Another city of islands and of water. A city where more answers might be found. She returned the Mirror to its place and turned to the others.

“We leave immediately,” she announced and began the chant to raise the shadows and open a portal.

“Where is it we are going?” They asked in unison. Their argument suddenly over.”

Blood red and purple shadows rose from the ground to envelop her in a shroud of smoke and haze. Within the gloom a portal opened. A howling wind issued from the doorway as Avella turned and beckoned them to follow.

“Vesper,” she said and vanished in the haze.

Lady Avella · Posted: Sun Apr 29, 2012 11:08 am Post subject:

The fires of Vesper burn with an unholy radiance.
Such beauty should not go unappreciated.

I stand on the Southern bridge over the waters of Vesper Bay and grin as the night sky glows with the riots of discontent.
Mei Fa Lo has done well.
She has discovered much about this city that I had little knowledge of.
But the sweet scent of burning flesh and the even sweeter taste of Vesper blood was more than was expected.
Even Yew could not compare.
And, after the disappointment of Ocllo, well … this is a true delight.

There are many more rioters here than in Yew.
And their anger is far more palatable.
I have, thus far, taken more than six and my Wolf, no less than three.
A rich feeding ground, indeed.
How is it I was not aware of such a place for so long?
How is it I passed over this city on my many wanderings throughout these lands?
A merchant city. One of commerce and trade and populated with a healthy stock.

The night air carries with it memories of a distant time.
Was it centuries ago I stood on the docks of Nujel’m?
Was it a lifetime ago I sired my first childer?
My eyes burn with the knowledge that too many lifetimes have passed
With little to show for it other than the power of the Dark Arts
And a servant of the Daemon who hunts at my side.

“Queen.” The silver tongued Judas calls me.
Queen perhaps, but Queen of what? An empty House? A desolate castle?
Have we not seen enough of empty Houses and Lords put down like dogs?
Is it not time for a new order?
One the Gods of Blood and Chaos will smile upon?
One whose very name will turn the blood of brave Knights and corrupt Kings to ice?

Who was it that turned me so long ago?
His face is gone from me.
His voice has fallen silent.
I close my eyes and conjure up a vision of the past.
Red tears on an alabaster face and the whimper of a young girl-child.
The death of a parent and the naked body of a man far too young to die.
How many lifetimes?
How many throats torn open for the sweet treasure within?

I am loath to remember for the emptiness of it is too much to bear.
The night is split with the cry of a church bell.
Another fire has been set.
Another band of rioters is loosed upon this city.

Come, my pet.
Let us share the harvest of this night.
Let our hunger play out on the innocent and guilty alike.
May the Lords of this city be blessed with the blood of their own.
For we shall grant them favor.
We shall cull the herd of the discontented.
And bring a sense of order closer to their grasp.

Lady Avella · Posted: Wed May 02, 2012 1:38 pm Post subject:

His scalp comes away easily, soughs off like a snake shedding its skin. My nails imbed in his skull as I twist his head violently to the right. Blood streams down his forehead and brows to part at the nose. He looks for all the world to be weeping blood. Pinned against the wall of the Vesper bank his feet kicking six inches above the stone pavement. In his mind, is he still running? I pull back and study his soot streaked face.

“Why, look how you weep tears of blood,” I laugh. “Just like one of us.”

I lean close, place my cheek alongside his and with a voice as sweet as a wetted lover I whisper in his ear.

“Would you like to be one of us?” I coo. “Would you like to live forever?” I pull back to await his answer but his eyes only roll up into his head.

“No?” I pout.

It was when I twisted his head to the left, so I might have clear access to that pulsing vein, that artery of lust and life, that I saw the flyer partially hidden by his head and shoulder. How long had it been since I read my name on anything other than an invitation? How long? Curious, I read the words as I fed, savoring the thick, sticky richness of this rioter’s blood.

“Order of the Silver Sword?” I queried as I gulped down what remained of his pitiful life. His body quivered then jerked and I tossed him aside. He rolled twenty feet across the Vesper pavement pursued by the Daemon Wolf who finished the task. Rocking my head playfully from right to left I read again this declaration.

Sins? Virtues? Judgment? How positively noble. How Paladin like in its tone and tenor. But have we not shared this dance before? Have we not succumbed to our most base instincts time and time again? I rid you of your human vermin, both low born and high, and you … well, you slay dragons and carry out wars of conquest against your brothers while I … I and my kind, slide through the shadows doing what you yourself fear to do but in your heart of hearts, yearn to do. How many more centuries must we play at this? How many more little groups must spring up to compare their “virtue” against my “sins” before the realization sets in that we need each other? But, I suppose it is important we cover this same ground from time to time. Otherwise we would find nothing but boredom in this world. So … I welcome you my brothers of the “Silver Sword.” I welcome your participation in this endless dance. Come, I will lift my skirts and share with you my lust for life and blood. For we are no different. We are but two sides of the same coin minted in the vile furnaces of those gods and daemons that see us as nothing more than playthings. Come, lay with me. I will show you what true love really is.

The Wolf, having finished his task, comes to my side seeking affection. I give it freely and he nuzzles my leg. The city of Vesper still burns, but with a light now somewhat diminished. I bring forth my Obsidian Mirror and scratch the surface with runes of power. The Wolf whimpers at my side. He is anxious to move on. He is anxious and as restless as I to find a different place to hunt, for Vesper has lost its sheen and the waters of Vesper Bay no longer sooth us. Tell us Daemon light, where do we travel next?

Lady Avella · Posted: Thu May 03, 2012 10:23 am Post subject:

Avella sat in a small out-of-the-way library within the vast complex known as “The Lycaeum.” She had taken one of the large comfortable reading chairs and moved it into a corner of the windowless room. From there she could watch the only doorway leading in or out. Stacks of discarded books, papers and scrolls lay in disorganized piles or scattered across the floor. One of the large bookshelves lay on its side, its hardwood frame splintered. The bookshelf was tilted at an odd angle, propped up by the body of one of three monks Avella had found studying here when she first arrived. The other two … well … the Wolf had made short work of them.

The city proper of Moonglow was not one of her favorite places. Too neat. Too organized. Its people too … scholarly. They questioned everything. Why is this like that and that like this? Always questions. Unfortunately, she had only one answer. Death. But, be that as it may, she did enjoy the Lycaeum. There was a quiet air of contemplation and it had its … secrets.

She was reading a treatises on the existence of the soul when she realized she was getting blood from her fingers on the pages. Sighing, she licked them clean. The Wolf lay at her feet staring at the door. He growled.

“Soon my pet, soon.”

She flung the treatises across the room.

“Drivel.”

An hour later, the sun having set. Avella and the Wolf wandered through the courtyards and gardens of the Lycaeum. The moon had not yet risen, and the night sky was clear and sparkled with a million stars. The air was clotted with the scent of Jasmine. Avella stood, looking up at the vast expanse of sky, when a memory struck her. So sudden did it appear that it caused her to jerk as if awakened unexpectedly from a dream.

“Papa?” The young girl called. “Papa, tell me a story.”

Avella blinked. A moment later, she was jolted forward as another memory exploded behind her eyes.

**********

She was a young woman. Healthy, beautiful and desirable. A ball was being given on the anniversary of Lord British receiving the title; “Protector of Akalabeth.” A great number of Lords and Ladies were in attendance. The evening had been a delight. Not a few young, unattached Lords had requested the pleasure of her company. She danced, laughed and gossiped with other young Ladies of the Court. She was, for lack of a better word; in her prime.

The evening was winding down and, taking one last stroll in the garden, she paused when she came across a man, sitting alone in a corner. He was handsome, almost beautiful in a way. Strong features. A steady brow. His dark hair, worn long, as was the fashion, lay neatly across his shoulders. Well dressed, with a practiced bearing, he was, from all appearance, a nobleman.

She curtsied. “Forgive my intrusion My Lord. I was not aware …”

“Think nothing of it,” he answered. His voice was silk. Like the loving, comforting voice of a father.

“Come, sit with me awhile. It is not often I am treated to the company of such a beautiful woman.”

She looked back toward the house. Her father would be looking to take her home soon.

“Come.” He said again.

A chill ran up her spine, and, as though her body refused to obey her will, she turned. The man was smiling, holding out a pale hand to her.

“Come, sit with me my child.” His voice became everything, drowning out all resistance. A great weakness swept over her and she felt her feet move towards him as if compelled by some greater desire. And his eyes; how they saw into her soul. How they suddenly knew all her innermost secrets and vile desires, her passions and her failings …

**********

A blinding flash and Avella stumbled forward. A thousand memories flooded her brain and she dropped to her knees. Her head bowed, her black hair hung like a shroud across her face. Blood seeped from every pore of her body until she was soaked and kneeling in a growing pool of it. The Wolf howled and the Daemon roared in her ears. A voice of rasping hate and unbridled power bit into her. She screamed and tore at her flesh. There would be no end to it. No end to the memories, the agony and the blood … always the blood.

Daybreak found her lying in the secret vaults beneath the central courtyard of the Lycaeum. The Dark Wolf sat guarding the little known entrance. Years ago, the monks kept madmen here. Women too, at times. Now the vault and its adjourning cells were empty, forgotten save but for a few. She would be safe here. Protected, hidden, guarded. She would remember and from those memories would rise a creature more vile and more deadly than before.

She would need no master. She would need no Sire. She would need no Coven, for she was Lasombra, the Nightmare personified. And she would remember ...

Everything.

Lady Avella · Posted: Sun May 06, 2012 9:40 am Post subject:

Avella’s eyes snapped open. With a rasping intake of breath that startled even the Dark Wolf who sat watching the entrance to the lower library and the cells beyond, Avella’s back arched in a manner that would have snapped the spine of any mortal. Her arms shot towards the vaulted ceiling the way a drowning person reaches desperately for life and air and hope.

Her exhale was a death rattle. Like the one she had expelled so long ago. She did not breathe again; she had no need for it. The Dark Wolf settled down to continue his vigil while Avella lay awash in memories. Had it really been that long? She remembered the emptiness of that first night when the world changed from one of brilliant color to one of shadows, grayish hues tinged with dark, muted blues and the pale moonlight that glistened off her alabaster skin. She remembered the abject loneliness and the vivid terror that swept through her as the hunger gnawed at her. She remembered the unquenchable thirst that drove her from place to place, city to city, village to village. She remembered the Blood Frenzy and the ecstasy that such wild abandoned feedings brought her. She remembered the night she finally came to accept what she was. How she learned to embrace it, savor it the way any warrior savors victory. And she remembered Him. How, after so many years alone, he had found her, took her in, gave her power and titles and gave her free reign to do as she pleased. And she remembered them, the ones she took as her own; her Childers. She remembered how they came to her, some dying from illness. Others curious and inquisitive and still others lost in a world they simply could not understand. She remembered the one who sought only the Power and the other who sought only her death.

Their faces passed before her:

Nicolae Sorin; sickly and close to death but with a sharp mind that questioned all realities. A collector of books and histories. His reality now was vastly different than he could have ever imagined.

Balam; the assassin in the payment of Tokuno, who journeyed to Nujel’m to destroy Avella for her “crimes” against Tokuno rule. He found instead a different kind of payment. A different kind of death.

Jolicia; sweet, innocent, wanting to be more human than she could admit. None confused Avella more than this loving girl. And yet, in some tiny way, she understood Jolicia’s need and let her go.

Raquel; angry, desperate, confused. Abandoned by her own sire then, taken under her wing, Avella taught her the meaning of her existence. Taught her how to use the power and bend the will of others. And more recently, made Raquel hers through the violent ritual of resireing. Poor Raquel, haunted by her human past she gave herself to the Silver Sword in some misguided attempt at salvation. A pity. She had showed such promise.

Mei Fa Lo; once a lost soul wandering the earth, mistreated and forlorn, found by Avella who gave her purpose, power and understanding. A loyal childer, she remains to this day, her most willing companion.

Dezera; A broken, haunted killer, she sought only the Power. So Avella gave it to her and set her loose upon the world. She did not disappoint. She too fell to the Silver Sword but not in the same, compliant manner as Raquel. No, Dazera found the True Death defending her own childer and through that act alone, gained Avella’s respect.

Michael Hawk; sweet Paladin lover. Born of Trinsic and taken as lover and confidant. She turned him for the sheer sport of taking one so sworn to the Virtues that twisting him would be an act of pure mockery of his Order. He proved most worthy.

Now all but three dead or gone into hiding.

Avella rose from the cold floor of the empty cell and stared at the distant memories as if they would become her next victim. She spat the taste of ashes from her mouth and hissed at the knowledge she now possessed. She spoke the words and a dark mist rose from beneath her feet. Shadows of blood and the choking smell of bile rose to envelope her as a dark portal opened. Calling the Wolf she stepped through and found herself in Umbra.

A short time later she caught his scent and followed it west. She had business with the human named Judas, and she would find him no matter where he went.

Lady Avella · Posted: Tue Jun 12, 2012 7:56 am Post subject:

Time heals all wounds. Or so the saying goes.
Lives measured in increments of days, weeks, months, years and in some cases centuries, even millenniums.
Time. What an intriguing concept. The healing of wounds? Hardly.

**********

Avella sits in her empty chamber pondering the passage of time. One leg thrown, unlady like, over the arm of her throne, she slouches back resting her chin on the fist of her right hand, her elbow braced on the other arm of the blue crystal chair. Her dark hair unkempt, dull, matted. Her black eyes gleam in the darkness. Her black nails click together like cockroaches as she muses over past mistakes and misplaced trusts.

House Isilian was a tomb. Dark, dank, smelling of death and decay. No voices raised in debate. No childers whimpering at her feet. Gone, bonds broken, ashes scattered to the four winds. An outcast now. Even among her own kind her name is cursed. Used as an example of just how far from the path one might actually stray.

The Daemon wolf lies at her feet licking its paws. Starved for souls its emaciated body reeks of maggots and flies. Shadows flit from one corner of the chamber to another. A muffled scream echoes from the lower cells. Avella picks at a dark scab, opening an old wound. She watches, amused, as it heals itself.

“Boredom will kill me sure as sunlight,” she mutters.

She kicks the wolf and it turns its fur-patched skeletal head towards her and growls.

“Go feed yourself. Why must you always depend on me you filthy beast?”

The wolf snarls showing blood stained fangs and curling its rotting lips into a rectus grin. It shakes itself scattering a horde of stinging flies. They buzz and wheel in a dark cloud only to settle on the animals back after a moment or two of noisy flight.

Avella rolls her eyes and sighs.

“Very well. It is far past time I fed as well.”

She stands, shakes thick dust from her clothes and moves to the center of the room. The wolf stagers to its feet dropping maggots to the floor like apples from an overripe tree. The cloud of flies vomits from its body disturbed by the movement. It limps to Avella’s side and sits.

Looking down at the creature Avella twists her lips in a mocking smile.

“Well? Where shall we go? Hmmm?”

The wolf drops its head. Dark saliva hangs in threads from its mouth then puddles onto the stone floor.

Avella sighs and raises her arms. Speaking the words she conjures blood-red shadows from the ground that rise and swirl in dark ribbons. Acrid smoke fills the space before her and a portal opens sucking the air from the room. Avella adjusts her hat and steps inside. A moment later the wolf enters followed closely by the horde of buzzing flies.