Disclaimer: Legacy of Kain and all affiliated characters belong to Eidos and the Silicon Knights.

Story Summary: Kain creates his first fledgling--Raziel.

Warnings: Violence, necromantic squick.

Of Hawks and Hounds: Beginnings
(400 years after the Fall of the Pillars)

The hound snarled, spittle dripping from its bloodied jaws. Double-leashed by leather and iron, it strained against its chains, thrashing and snapping at the men who surrounded it in the courtyard of the keep. The huntsman it had savaged had managed to drag himself some small distance away, great rents torn in his face and arms from where the beast had attempted to tear out his throat. If the man survived his wounds, he would be scarred for life.

Kain watched, wide-eyed, as his father conferred with his kennel-master, their faces grim. He was not old enough to have seen the dogs used for war and the hunt, but he still knew them well; he had spent years romping and wrestling with his father’s hounds in the mud and the straw as if he were also a four-legged creature, much to his lady mother’s dismay. It had never occurred to him that they could kill a man. Could kill *him*, if they so chose.

Now he could think of nothing else, his eyes inescapably drawn to those vicious fangs, hearing only the rumbling growl that seemed born of Hell itself. He jumped as his father’s heavy hand fell upon his shoulder.

“It is a shame,” his father said, and Kain was not sure if he was referring to the huntsman or the hound. “Do not fear, son. The beast will have no chance to harm you.”

“You are going to kill it, aren’t you?” Kain said somberly, looking up at his father, then over at the hound once more. Beneath the fear, he felt a pang—the animal was truly a handsome one, with a glossy dark coat and bright eyes. It seemed…such a waste.

“Aye.” His father was also looking at the hound, but there was no pity in his eyes. “It is regrettable. He was an excellent tracker, fearless in the hunt—and a gift from my lord Duke besides. But I will suffer no hound to live that attacks a man unbidden. Such a traitorous beast cannot be trusted.”

Kain nodded, still unhappy, but knowing his father’s word was law. “Why would he do such a thing?” he said plaintively, edging closer.

“Who knows?” His father shook his head, and sighed. “A moment’s malice, or a slow-burning hatred … the result is the same, regardless. My lord Duke would not knowingly have given me a vicious beast; perhaps some creatures are simply incapable of serving two masters.”

No one wished to come within reach of those jaws in order to slay the hound. At his father’s nod, an archer put arrow to bowstring and lifted it. The cord creaked as it was pulled taut. The dog snarled, but refused to cower.

“Watch this and remember, my son. The only hounds to trust are those raised by your own hand. Let them call no other master, and they shall serve you well.”

There was the *twang* as the cord snapped free, a heavy *thok* as the arrow hit home. The dog yelped. His father’s hand was heavy on his shoulder.

Still chained, the hound died.

Meridian had been an unmitigated disaster.

Even now, almost a year from the time the Hylden Lord had been defeated and his creatures scattered to the winds—again—Kain could not help but think so. From a nearby bluff, he watched that twice-cursed human city, and thought it would have been better had he wiped it and its pox-ridden denizens from the face of the earth. Nosgoth would certainly be better off without it, festering boil that it was. It galled him that it had been the place, if not the cause, of his army’s defeat, as well as the end of his ambitions. Between human treachery and his own overconfidence—hard as that had been to admit—he had been undone, and now, five centuries later, was no better off than when he had first decided to make Nosgoth his own, with only his armor, some few weapons, and his own acquired magics to his name.

At least he had reclaimed the Reaver. His hand lifted, touched the skull-adorned hilt. It felt right to have its weight slung across his back again, ready to come to hand. Powerful as it was, however, it would not win him his empire alone. He needed an army. One made of something other than treacherous, mayfly humans. Even making them vampires had not cemented their loyalty to him as he had once thought, and while those traitors were now dead twice over, it left him with a seemingly impossible quandary. He could hardly create his empire with armies made of demons or humans.

No, he needed to create new vampires. Ones of his own get, free of mortal ties and unquestioningly loyal to him, til death and beyond. The question then became: where would he find such creatures?

He could expect no help from Vorador, not that he had ever planned to ask. Kain’s pride would not allow him to go begging boons of the elder vampire so easily. There were other places in Nosgoth, however, ones rife with ancient magicks and dark knowledge. Even the knowledge of the Pillars themselves might aid him in this quest—the Guardians of Death and Mind might be destroyed, but fragments of their learning still remained among the humans and the ancient holy sites. Thus, lacking any other direction, Kain made his decision. He would waste no more time brooding over this misbegotten city. Instead he would travel to that most ill-omened of places, steeped in dark knowledge and blind human faith--Avernus.

Avernus had not aged well in the four hundred years of his absence. When Kain had last seen the massive cathedral, it had been in flames, the town that sprawled around it plague-ridden and infested with demons. That was no longer the case, but the scars of it could still be seen, and while the humans had made attempts to repair the cathedral, their efforts had been remarkably ineffective. With so much energy required for mere survival, it seemed that neither the nobility nor the peasants of the area could hardly bestir themselves to rebuild an edifice that provided mere spiritual comfort instead of material.

In contrast, Avernus town itself had grown, and not for the better. Muddied roads created a noisome labyrinth between the sagging and haphazard wooden buildings that almost encircled the older, better kept portions of the city. The streets were choked with beggars, whores, and worse. None of them tried to importune Kain, who had concealed his vampiric features under the guise of a nobleman, but an almost tangible air of decay hung thick in the air. His Hunger stirred, instincts drawn to the miasma of fear and weakness that spoke of easy prey. Kain paid little heed. He had fed well before making his way into the city proper, and he would not be diverted so close to his goal.

He reached the cathedral in time for vespers, and made his way inside along with the throngs of the faithful. From there, it took little enough time for him to remember his bearings; the church had changed little from what he remembered, other than in the most superficial sense. The humans continued on to beg for deliverance from their sacrificed god, and Kain separated himself from the crowds of the faithful, making his way into the depths of the cathedral. There were surprisingly few guards--he supposed that the Sarafan host had few warriors to spare of late—and he needed to kill only a few priests before he found the secret passages he sought.

The public records of the church kept above would do him little good. But down here, among the twisting, ill-lit catacombs, Kain could feel the prickle of magicks old, but not yet dead. That sense carried him downward, past racks of bones and silent statues, his booted feet making little more than the occasional scuff against the stony floor, Reaver in hand. The church was old, and ranks upon ranks of corpses filled the tunnels, which were a veritable labyrinth of their own. Kain doubted very many humans had the courage to venture so far into the darkness, buried under tons of earth and stone and surrounded by the dead. He was beyond such fears, however. The dark was no barrier to his night-adapted eyes, and while this crypt was larger and less ornamented than the one in which he had awoken to his unlife, it was hardly more fearsome. There weren’t even any of the pathetic zombies and ghouls that experience had led him to expect—and he doubted that there was anything ‘holy’ about the power that had kept them at bay.

One passage led to the next, and that to yet others. It was some time before he found the source that he sought. Finally a passageway, almost indistinguishable from the rest, opened into a cavern—one so massive that even to his eyes it seemed to contain nothing but endless darkness and an echoing silence. There was no rustle of movement, no drip of water. Only the smell of dust and stone, and beneath it, the old, old tang of blood. This cavern had been long abandoned, but what had been done here had left its mark.

A booted foot caught upon an unseen stone, and Kain growled. “Enough of this skulking in the dark,” he muttered to himself, and straightened, summoning light to illumine the darkness. The spell answered his call, feeble as it was—in time to reveal a massive, steep-sided pit falling away, not even a half-step from where he stood. He sucked in a breath in surprise.

“Now that would have been an unchancy step indeed.” He knelt, peering down into the pit. Night-adapted eyes picked out heaps of mounded offal, more human bones, and a series of strange artifacts, round and made of metal. He would have called them shields, were they not strapped to frames and much too large for any human arm—or vampire, for that matter. For a moment he puzzled at their purpose, then put it aside. The pit was indeed the origin of the bloodsmell, but neither man nor beast lived in it now. Still, the pit had been smoothed, if not made, by human hands, and he could spy long-extinguished torches and braziers along the walls. Walls that also had arches, leading to antechambers.

He explored further, lighting torches and braziers to mark his progress once the light spell had run its course. The rest of the chambers seemed to bear out what he had already surmised; that this dungeon had been long-abandoned by whatever creatures had practiced their dark arts in it. It seemed that most things of value had already been stripped; there was no treasure lying about, only broken crockery and other such leavings, scattered about the occasional stone altar or niches dug into the stone. Kain was not here for mere gold or silver, however, and he had less eyes for what lay upon the floor than what lay upon the walls. For sides of the cavern had been adorned as well, first smoothed, then carved with reliefs and strange symbols. Most seemed to be in a strange, twisting tongue that he did not recognize, but as he progressed, one taloned hand trailing upon the ancient stone, they changed. Characters in blood script began to appear, and pictures of winged, humanoid creatures.

“Janos?” he murmured, tracing a fanged visage. Had this cavern once been used by the Ancients?

Encouraged by his discovery, he pushed on, deeper into the chamber. More symbols appeared, and these he recognized. Those of the Pillars—States, Energy, Dimension, Time, Conflict, Nature, Mind, Balance--and Death most of all. Repeated over and over, the symbol of the Guardian of Death, and the runic names of those who had held that duty, until finally he had come to a great metal-sheathed door, shut fast in an archway surmounted by the symbol of death once again.

“I should have known better than to expect subtlety from the likes of Mortanius,” Kain said, amused. “A conceit common to Guardians, it seems, if one that works to my benefit.” He laid hands upon the door, and pushed. The door did not yield. Frowning, Kain stepped back, looking at the barrier once more. Spell-sealed, even after all this time? He concentrated and dissolved into mist, intending to bypass the door and seep through the cracks, but once again found himself forestalled, the door seated so flush to the stone walls that not even mist was allowed to pass. Reforming, Kain snarled in frustration. To be barred from what he sought by such a deceptively simple obstruction was almost insulting. Gathering up the shreds of his patience, Kain stepped back, and inspected the chamber once more. Perhaps there was a lever or switch of some kind, hidden away… Slowly, inch by inch, he surveyed the walls, running hands over the carvings, pressing and tugging to no avail. If it hadn’t been for the Reaver, he would have missed the clue he sought entirely. As he passed by a shadowed section of wall, however, the blade vibrated, stirring with a low, absent thrum. Stopping short, Kain saw what he had missed earlier—a slot, hidden in the shadows. Much like a keyhole, inset into the stone itself. The Reaver still hummed as he unslung it from his back and looked at it. Was the blade the key?

It was.

There was an audible ratcheting of an unseen mechanism as the blade slid home, and the door shuddered. Then with the grating of metal upon stone, it slid to one side, allowing him entrance. Kain entered slowly, wary of further traps laid by the former Pillar guardian, but if there had been any, they were not triggered by his entrance. The chamber itself was a study of contrasts. An altar greeted his gaze first, bare and cold, with no indications as to its undoubtedly grim purpose. Near to it stood a work table, unexpectedly homely and tool-scarred, with dust-furred basins and eating utensils scattered across its surface. Empty shackles dangled from stone walls next to shelves stuffed full of scrolls and tomes. Lighting torches, Kain investigated further and found cages bare of occupancy, save a few pathetic animal bones. Beyond it was even a small sleeping area, containing a rotting pallet and nightstand. Mortanius, it seemed, had not been one for qualms about living in the depths of such an unwholesome crypt if needed.

Drawn back to the shelves, Kain began to investigate the tomes more closely, a sense of vindication mounting upwards as he scanned their contents. He had been right; here was the knowledge he sought. Spells were stuffed cheek-by-jowl alongside ruminations upon the nature of death by previous Pillar guardians, some in script so old that he could not even begin to decipher the words. Kain was not deterred. Tucked away in these tomes were his answers, and if there was one thing he had in abundance, it was time.

Overgrown by weeds and adorned with moss, the Tomb of the Sarafan had long been abandoned by the faithful. Kain could appreciate the irony; it made things a great deal more convenient for his intended defilement, after all. The only protections laid upon the ancient burial ground seemed to be that of anonymity, for once found, Kain found it pathetically easy to break apart the rusted metal hasps that sealed the door. His footsteps echoed as he entered and surveyed his surroundings. Built of pale stone, the crypt had been laid out in a circular fashion with seven niches inset into the walls, names above them.

Dumah.

Melchiah.

Turel.

Zephon.

Rahab.

Raziel.

Malek.

The names of the Sarafan martyrs. The greatest butchers of their age, enshrined in stone and venerated by the church for their prowess at exterminating his kind. How deliciously ironic it would be to raise them as the very thing they hated in life. To bind them to serve *him*, body and soul and blood of his blood. This place was the perfect spot in which to begin anew.

The niche under Malek’s name was empty. Unsurprising, since the Conflict guardian had not died with his Sarafan brethren, but instead been forced to haunt his keep, his soul bound into the empty metal shell of his armor for his failure to protect the Circle of Nine. Bound, that was, until Vorador relieved him of his disembodied state and summarily sent him to the hereafter. But it was not Malek that Kain had come for.

He moved to the nearest niche, picking a name at random. Raziel. All of the Sarafan sorcerer-priests had been interred in elaborate carved sarcophagi, and this one was no exception. Bending, Kain inserted black-taloned hands into the grooves on which the heavy stone lid lay, and brought full vampiric strength to bear, sending it crashing to one side with a singular lack of reverence. What lay within, however, gave him pause.

Centuries of decay had left their mark, and the corpse within was nothing but gray, withered skin over dry bones, clad in tarnished, richly worked armor. Skeletal hands were clasped over the pommel of a rusted sword, with a shield alongside, its device obscured by grave dust. There was not much left to work with, Kain had to admit. He had never heard of a vampire summoning such ancient corpses to a new unlife, not even Vorador. But Kain was not one to walk in the footsteps of others; with his power, he felt, he would not fail.

Stepping back from the sarcophagus, he began his preparations. The rituals he had painstakingly endeavored to learn from Mortanius’ tomes could not raise a corpse as a vampire in and of themselves. Instead they were intended to draw the dead close, to thin the barriers between this world and the next, and aid in the workings of his own innate power as he attempted the impossible.

Around the dais he drew runes and elaborate sigils with a chalk made of grave dust, powdered bone, and his own blood. Once he would have scoffed at such symbols as mere superstition, good only for duping peasants and credulous fools. Since facing his own death and becoming a vampire, however, he had found his horizons somewhat … broadened on the matter.

After the last rune had been scribed, Kain straightened and surveyed his work. For this endeavor, he had come clad in the simplest of steel armor, with the Reaver blade safely left elsewhere, lest its influence interfere with the spell as it attempted to devour the very souls he required. All that remained was activate the spell, call back the Sarafan’s soul and bind it forcibly once more into its long-abandoned body. A deceptively simple task, and like most such things, far easier said than done. Turning back to the entrance of the tomb, Kain stepped away from the ranked sarcophagi in order to retrieve his final and most necessary ingredient: a human peasant, gagged and chained.

The wretch groaned behind his gag, eyes rolling white and struggling feebly as Kain dragged him into the crypt. With an ease that bespoke his unnatural strength, Kain manhandled the unwilling human into the center of the encircling runes. He sank a fist into his victim’s gut when the man tried to squirm away on his belly, driving the breath from his lungs for a time and stilling his struggles. Kain had fed well in anticipation of his endeavor, but even so the Hunger stirred as Kain stepped astride the man, wrapping a hand around his throat and lifting him upwards until their faces were inches apart. Kain studied him for a moment: the coarse features, the stubbled jaw and unkempt hair, fear-sweat sliming his skin and adding to the peasant’s unwashed stink. The spell called for a new death in exchange for old, in order to draw the underworld near. To be the sacrifice paid in order to resurrect the first of Kain’s offspring … it was an honor that Kain doubted the wretched creature truly deserved.

“Animam efflare,” Kain growled, and in the same moment, tore out the man’s throat.

Bright blood fountained up as the man convulsed, eyes bulging. Splattered with crimson, Kain felt the dark power rise, summoned by the words and captured by the runes as the human drowned in his own blood and died, the afterlife claiming his soul. There was no flash of light or crack of thunder to herald the spell presence; only the air, which seemed suddenly thick and heavy with the unseen, the presence of mortality like a great hand pressing down upon him. Letting the body drop limply to the floor, Kain lifted his head. Now. He had to do it now, before the power fled.

Moving was no longer effortless. Each step he took felt as if his feet were mired in an invisible bog; Death itself fighting his approach. Kain fought his way towards the waiting sarcophagus, fangs bared in a determined snarl as he mounted the dais. Reaching into the crypt, he cast the archaic shield aside, metal clanging dully against stone, and leaned downward to cradle the leathery skull in black-taloned, bloodied hands. Blood. For vampires, it always began with blood. He smeared the dripping remains of human flesh and blood over the lipless mouth. “Raziel,” he murmured, feeling the power around him shudder and surge like the tide at that name. He did not know the Sarafan’s family name, nor his lineage, but he did not need it. Only his birth-name, the name of the man himself.

There was no change in the desiccated form. Kain lifted one hand to his mouth, and tore the thinner flesh of his wrist open with his fangs. Vampiric blood, purplish in hue, flowed sluggishly from the wound as he pressed it against the bared teeth of the skull, forcing the jaw open, heedless of how dry skin and brittle bone tore apart underneath his touch. “Raziel,” he called again, more urgently, feeling the magic in the air snap taut and focused, anchored to him, to the blood he forced into that lifeless mouth. For most vampires, it would be enough—he knew Vorador had raised many a corpse with nothing more than the power of his own blood.
This particular corpse still remained stubbornly inert, however, and Kain, his whole mind focused on nothing but willing Raziel to rise, could feel the fragility of the soul he sought, caught just at the edge of his power, as feeble and tattered as an abandoned spider’s web.

He leaned closer, crouched over the sarcophagus until his face hung bare inches away from the gruesome skull. The empty eye-sockets stared blindly upward, past Kain’s pallid, blood-smeared face. Kain drew in a breath, holding it. “Raziel!” he growled for the third and final time, and pressed his lips to that fleshless mouth, feeling the ridges of brittle teeth press against skin as he forced his breath and his power into the corpse, casting it out like a net about the soul that the power of the ritual held fast. For a moment, he thought it had not worked—then the ritual magicks that had swirled around the tomb suddenly reversed upon themselves, turning into a vicious riptide and funneling away his power. The body began to reform under his fingers, pale skin blossoming up from leathery flesh, muscle and tendon filling in the spaces between bone, remaking the mortal shell into immortal even as the newly vampiric soul sucked away Kain’s vitality.

Kain wrenched himself backwards, but could not break his hold. He watched in fascination as rotted teeth were shed to make way for fangs, needle-sharp and gleaming. There was an abrupt sense of disconnection, the insistent pull upon his power ending as suddenly as it had begun. Pale eyelids fluttered, then rose, and eyes as golden as his own locked on his face with an uncomprehending, fixed stare. For a long moment they took each other’s measure, newborn and elder.

Then his fledgling bared fangs, and lunged for his throat.

Ancient armor fell apart in rusted shards as pale hands clamped down with inhuman strength upon Kain’s arms, white teeth snapping at his flesh. Surprised, he lost his balance and stumbled backwards, taken off-guard at the sudden strength of the creature he had made. They toppled down off the dais in an ignominious jumble of limbs, grappling upon the stone floor and snarling at each other in bestial fury. Kain’s strength should have outmatched that of his fledgling with ease, but he dared not bring it to bear for fear of damaging the very thing he had worked so hard to create, even as blind need lent strength to the new-made vampire’s limbs. They struggled—and in doing so, the wound Kain had earlier made in his own flesh came open once more. The effect caused by the scent of Kain’s blood was immediate; the younger vampire struck like a snake, burying fangs into his Sire’s arm and drinking with desperate greed. Snarling, Kain had raised a gauntleted fist to club the creature away when something he could not name made him hesitate, and stay his hand. He could feel the Hunger, like an empty devouring hollow inside of him, but … something was not quite right.

Slowly, he came to the realization that the Hunger wasn’t his. That it was his fledgling’s thoughts, seeping into him without intention or effort, an incoherent jumble of *blood* and *need* and *cold*. Uncurling his fist slowly, he laid it instead upon that downturned head. His touch produced nothing more affectionate than a subdued snarl as the younger vampire continued to feed, hands locked about Kain’s arm to keep it in place. Kain pushed himself upward, propping his back on the side of the sarcophagus, but otherwise did not try to retrieve his limb from his fledgling’s grasp. With each passing moment, each swallow, Kain could see him gaining strength, the last remnants of mortality dropping away like tattered leaves to reveal pale, perfect skin over smooth muscles, glossy hair the color of a raven’s wing framing an avid, sharp-planed face.

He began to laugh, his voice echoing triumphantly between the stony walls of the crypt. He had defeated Death! Sarafan and mortal no longer, this creature was now his!

The fledgling continued to suckle at Kain’s wrist with single-minded intensity, unperturbed by the sudden laughter. When it became obvious that the younger vampire would not stop until he had drained his sire dry, Kain gripped a hand around the creature’s jaw, forcing it to release his arm, chuckling as the fledgling growled in defiance. “Such a fierce one I have made,” he commented. “One hopes you shall also develop intelligence enough to go along with such fine instincts.” No longer so afraid of harming his firstborn,
Kain barred those snapping teeth from his throat and dragged the younger vampire bodily to the cooling human corpse on the floor. Once there, the fledgling hardly needed any encouragement before he dove upon it, lapping up lukewarm blood from flesh and floor alike with little regard for dignity.

“We shall have to teach you some manners as well, it seems,” Kain remarked, still amused, and somewhat thankful he had not suffered through such a period of witlessness upon resurrection. That thought brought with it a brief flicker of apprehension: what if he had not truly succeeded in raising anything other than a beast in the guise of a vampire? Then Kain’s customary confidence--some might say arrogance--reasserted itself. He had seen vampires driven mad by blood-thirst before. Why would a new-made vampire, still healing the ravages of centuries of decay, be any different? And if it turned out that his fledgling’s wits were truly gone past retrieving … well, what he had made he could also destroy, should it become necessary.

Much to his chagrin, Kain soon found that he had badly underestimated his fledgling’s appetite. He had thought he had laid his plans well, having foresight enough to leave two other captives bound in his camp not far from the tomb, since that the magicks he intended to raise would likely drain his strength. As it turned out, two humans were hardly enough. Not for both a hungry adult vampire and a voracious fledgling whose appetite for blood, it seemed, was inexhaustible.

At least the fledgling vampire had not tried to attack him again. The combination of Kain’s blood and that of the peasant seemed to have calmed the creature, if not sated him. Although he now followed silently upon Kain’s heels, the young vampire did not seem to comprehend the particulars of his new existence. The thread of communication between them was tenuous and instinctive, and nothing so coherent as words emerged from either tongue or mind. Instead there were impressions—cold, confusion and weariness, along a blindly trusting need that startled Kain, who had been both independent and coldly focused upon his revenge from the moment of his resurrection. But that had been at the hands of Mortanius, and different, he told himself. At worst he had been dead only a few days before he had been offered Mortanius’ devil-bargain. In contrast, this newest addition to the vampire race had been dead for literally centuries; some confusion was no doubt to be expected.

The hapless humans did not live long once both vampires had returned to Kain’s camp. Spying the male first, the fledgling leaped upon him, iron-hard fingers digging great rents into arms as he pinned his prey to the ground and bit deeply into the swarthy neck, heedless of the man’s screams or his sire’s displeasure. Still feeling the cold ache of his fledgling’s hunger, Kain contained his distaste and did not try to interfere. When the younger vampire tried afterwards to do the same to the remaining woman, however, one that Kain had intended to sate his own hunger upon, Kain’s patience snapped. He cuffed the fledgling away with a vicious clout upon the ear and an irritated snarl.

“You are a damnably greedy creature, are you not?” he snapped in weary annoyance, watching the fledgling worry at the remains of the woman’s corpse once he was done, licking up every last trace of blood. “And very much like an ill-trained puppy--albeit much less endearing.” The woman’s blood had refreshed him somewhat, having replenished most of what his erstwhile fledgling had taken. The strain of the night’s endeavors would not be wiped away so easily, however. He needed time; time to rest and consider what was to be done next. It was obvious that, contrary to his original intentions, he could not raise any more vampires this night. Nor could he simply lead his new fledgling to the nearest village to hunt. Not when the creature did not have the wit to follow his orders. He doubted the fledgling would even think to flee if danger approached, and even peasants could cause a vampire harm, if properly equipped with torches … or backed by water. The remnants of the Sarafan also still scoured the countryside, along with other, less pretentious hunters. No, they could not stay in the open.

Licking at the remaining rusty smears on his pale fingers, the younger vampire looked up. Kain found himself once more caught by that level, unafraid golden stare, twin to his own, as the younger vampire inspected his face mutely. His brow furrowed in concentration, the fledgling did not look away … and there was something in that look, Kain suddenly knew, that was not that of an uncomprehending animal, despite the other vampire’s bestial actions.

“I am Kain. Do you understand? Kain,” he said slowly. “I am your maker.” The younger vampire’s face did not change, though it was obvious he was listening intently. Kain caught a vague echo of puzzlement, of a groping for … something … but his fledgling remained silent, messy strands of dark hair hanging over his upturned face.

Kain sighed. “Whether you understand or not, we cannot remain here,” he told his fledgling, and pushed himself to his feet. It was past time to retrieve the Reaver blade from its hiding place, and his other, more arcane armor as well. The fledgling imitated his action, uncoiling smoothly up from a crouch, and Kain thought ruefully that he would also need to provide clothes in the near future, even if the younger vampire did not seem to care one whit about running around clad in little but his own pale skin. Skin that covered a clean-limbed, well-muscled frame, Kain was pleased to realize, pausing as his eye caught upon his fledgling’s proud carriage, the unconsciously arrogant lift of that head.

It was wholly unexpected, but there was no denying it. His new fledgling was quite unexpectedly … appealing.

That consideration, however, would need to be left for another time. The country in which the Tomb of the Sarafan had been placed was hilly and well-forested, something that worked to their benefit. Kain had crossed it innumerable times over the centuries, first alone, then with his army at his back, and knew well the secret places that lurked in the gullies of the forest, far from human eyes. Nevertheless, it took several hours to traverse the distance, the fledgling following obediently behind, bare feet picking through the litter of the forest floor in near-silence as they followed faint game trails and clambered over deadfalls. Despite being thrust into this new world, Kain noted, his firstborn’s eyes were alert as he took in the rustling of the trees, the nighttime cry of distant wolves. The younger vampire might not understand what his sire intended, but unremembered skills at woodcraft obviously aided his progress through the dense forest.

Making camp was simple enough; merely a matter of spreading blankets and tending to one’s gear. Building a fire was not a chore Kain had to wrestle with, since the warmth was unnecessary for vampires, and would likely terrorize his fledgling besides. Their makeshift haven ended up being a shallow cave that offered shelter equally from the sun and rain, both of which could be deadly to their kind. The fledgling touched the rock with the tips of his fingers, staring at it as if secrets were written upon its face, but entered the cave willingly enough at Kain’s urging. Once there, the younger vampire moved to the rear of the space, curling up on his side and putting his sire between himself and the forest. Within moments the fledgling had fallen into the trancelike state that served vampires as sleep and lay still as a marble statue, with none of the mutterings or shiftings that human sleep entailed. Kain snorted softly at the evidence of such blind trust, but did not attempt to rouse him. He had felt the exhaustion dragging at his fledgling’s every step on their way here; death, it seemed, did not release its hold easily.

Over the next few days, Kain found himself in the unenviable position of hunting for two. Thankfully the fledgling did little but sleep and eat, and for the most part showed little inclination towards mischief. Unfortunately, such passivity was no guarantee of obedience, as Kain soon discovered.

Necessity dictated that he needed to hunt, and he could not do so effectively with another bumbling at his heels. Commanding the younger vampire to remain, he had therefore left to hunt in the nearby villages. When he returned some hours later, an unconscious woodsman tossed over his shoulder, he found that his fledgling had fled the cave and attempted to follow his track. The younger vampire had made surprising progress in following his scent—possibly aided by their tenuous link—only to find his way barred by a bog that Kain had used bat-form to cross. He had scalded his hands and feet badly from wandering the treacherous edge, trying blindly to follow in the direction he *knew* his sire had taken. Kain’s fury had mounted into a towering temper by the time he found his errant spawn, and it was only the fledgling’s incandescent relief at seeing his sire, clear as the moon emerging from behind the clouds, that stayed his hand.

The next night, he waited until the younger vampire was once again asleep, then ripped a large boulder loose from the nearby soil and planted it at the cave mouth. This measure proved more effective in foiling the fledgling’s attempts to leave, but not without consequences. The younger vampire was frantic by the time Kain returned, having ripped his fingers bloody clawing at the massive chunk of stone. That inexplicable terror vanished the moment his sire returned, and while the fledgling did not show any outward signs of affection nor voice any complaint, Kain often felt himself being watched as he moved about their camp. Events repeated themselves the third night, though by the fourth the fledgling at least no longer caused injury to himself in fighting his imprisonment. His uncomprehending panic at being left behind, however, refused to abate.

When he had embarked upon this endeavor, Kain had not counted upon becoming a vampiric nursemaid, and his fledgling’s continued incapacity for speech or thought continued to be a source of aggravation and private worry. Ironically, the younger vampire’s loyalty to him was both obvious and absolute … but that loyalty was useless to him if the fledgling did not improve. He needed warriors at his back, ones that could provide the foundation of his army and lead his troops and govern his empire. He did not need a silent killer who was more beast than vampire, however loyal that beast might be. Watching the pale, lithe form of his fledgling pick over the tumbled clothing they had scavenged from the bodies of his kills, fingers twisting inquisitively through button-holes and buckles, Kain came to a decision. He would give the creature a month to improve. His life had spanned centuries, both waking and sleeping; he was not about to throw away the unlife of the only fledgling he had ever managed to create in all that time simply to salve his impatience. If, after a month, there was no change …. The fledgling looked up, eyes glittering in the moonlight, almost as if he knew his sire’s dark thoughts.

Tiring of the riddle the creature posed, Kain turned his head away.

In the end, it took only a hands’ span of days before his patience was rewarded. The moon had just risen, a waning, knife-edged crescent, when the silence was broken.

“….you….?”

Caught in the midst of cobbling together a rent in the padding of his armor—while vampiric flesh healed any wound quickly and without scars, the same could not be said for said vampire’s garments—Kain’s head snapped up at the unexpected sound. Sitting in the ruck of their gear at opposite side of the little cave, the younger vampire’s face was tense with concentration, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“You … me? No …” The fledgling growled a little in frustration, and tried again to form the words he needed. “You … like me. You like me?”

For a moment, Kain thought the question a sentimental one, and was baffled by it. What did liking have to do with anything? Then Kain understood what the new-made vampire was truly trying to ask. You are like me?

He wanted to know what he was—the terms of his new existence.

“Yes,” he said evenly, setting his work aside. Inwardly he was jubilant, buoyed up by the evidence that his creation was capable of speech and thought. “I am a vampire. And so are you … I made you thus.”

“Vampire ….” The fledgling echoed, frowning as he tried to understand. Kain wondered if the former Sarafan’s memories were struggling to the surface. If so, and the younger vampire attacked him out of some misguided notions of righteous anger …. But there came no anger, no fear, only a continuing bewilderment. “What … is vampire? What … ?” The fledgling stopped short again, obviously stymied by questions for which he did not yet have the words.

“Vampires are creatures like us,” was the simple reply. “We hunt the night and drink the blood of the living. Our flesh is cold, but eternal.” After a moment, Kain continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, wanting to encourage that emergent intelligence. “I am Kain … I am your sire. You are Raziel. You are firstborn of my blood and my power.” His pride in that fact was evident in his words, his golden gaze possessive as he watched that pale face.

“Raziel.” That name, at least, the other vampire seemed to recognize. He touched his chest and repeated it, nodding to himself. “Raziel ….” His reactions came more swiftly this time, as if in the naming he had regained something of his former self. “Kain. I feel … “ The enormity of his resurrection and all the questions surrounding it seemed to defeat his limited capacity of speech. He looked mutely at his sire, his hand hovering impotently in the air before falling into his lap once more.

“Raziel.” Kain had led men before, and he knew well how command others’ attention. “Raziel, you are mine. I require only two things of you: your loyalty, and your obedience. I will guide you, and command you. All else means nothing. Do you understand?”

Defiance and acceptance warred within those golden eyes. Raziel could feel the power of his sire rippling outward like the heat of a furnace, threat and protection all in one, and something in him wanted to shift closer, to feel the primitive comfort of another’s touch and curl up in safety at Kain’s feet. Something warred with that desire, however …. Eroded away by time and the strange hungers of his new nature, the last remnants of his human life refused to yield. As stubborn and sharp-edged as obsidian, his will had endured, long after every softer emotion had been scoured away—and it refused to let him bend knee to anyone so easily.

“Why?”

Kain blinked in surprise at the question, and a budding prickle of anger met that challenge.

“Because I made you. Because you are *mine*, and if you do not, I will destroy you.” He did not bother to suppress the slight involuntary snarl that curled his lip at his fledgling’s impudence. Kain had already suffered defiance and betrayal from his own once. He would not make that mistake again.

Without giving time for the younger vampire time to retort, he lunged, using his greater speed to best effect. Kain slammed Raziel downward, pinning him to the rocky floor of the cave before the other vampire could react. Raziel struggled fiercely, growling, but without bestial madness or blood-hunger to aid him, his strength was ineffectual when pitted against that of his sire.

“Loyalty and obedience, Raziel. They begin now. Do you understand?” A black-taloned hand tightened around that arched throat.

His fledgling snarled in frustration, every muscle coiled as he tried to buck his way free, only to fail. Kain’s strength was every bit as solid and immovable as the boulder that had kept him prisoner.

Finally, after several long moments, some of the tension eased. “I understand,” Raziel said finally, grudgingly acceding to his sire’s demands. Despite the lingering defiance, Kain could not help be pleased by his victory. Raziel could not hide from him the relief singing underneath that stubborn anger—an unspoken relief that in obedience would also come guidance. That Raziel would not have to find his way alone, and that he would always have a purpose … so long as he obeyed Kain.

This was far from the final battle they would likely have, Kain knew—but he had the beginnings of his future finally in his grasp. One hand still around the vulnerable cords of his fledgling’s throat, Kain’s anger was replaced by a surging tide of triumph as he lifted pale fingers and traced them in benediction over the face of his creation.

“Raziel … my Raziel. We have quite a journey ahead of us, you and I … and all Nosgoth awaits us.”