The Demonsoul Chronicles Chapter 1: Prelude Lord Vanrael sat outraged upon his mithril throne, stunned at the puny messanger's arrogance. "Forfeit your lands and surrender to the God-king Bal'dazur!" proclaimed the ambassandor. "Then he, the one true god, in his ultimate grace and mercy, will spare your life." Regaining his self-control, Vanrael replied, with a booming meanacing voice: "How dare you threaten me?!" He roared. "You filthy little vermin! Do you know who you are talking to?!" "Aye. You are one of the false gods. Vanrael, the half-breed, creator of the 14th circle, Lord of the forsaken ones. You are no match for me, a Chosen of the one God! Voice of the almighty- He came no further. Lacking any patience to listen to this worm any longer, Vanrael extended his right hand and utterd a word of power. Two bolts of lightning errupted from his palm, one bright as the sun, illuminating the great halls of his castle, the other as black as night itself. Noticing his impending doom, the nameless messanger rushed through an incantion of his own. Too late. Twin bolts of energy struck simultaniously, the first launching him ten feet into the air, the second blasting him to dust in the fall. Laughing, Vanrael leant back into his throne. Yet times were grave indeed. The age of the elder days were long past, many of the old Order had long faded. Even his own powers were greatly diminished, his, Vanrael's, One of the Ancient Lords! How he lamented his fall! Ironically, his powers were his undoing. He is the most powerful of his race, the forsaken. Half Angel, Half Demon, shunned by biengs both mortal and devine, more powerful than either, yet belaid with an awful curse. Both halves are steadily at war. One conciousness struggling for dominance, both weakening each other, with no end in sight. It was the norm for one half to completely take over after the age of maturity- usually around the youthful age of 1500 years- but Vanrael had walked the lands for uncounted millenia, always unrivaled in power, but always in a steady decline. A god he was called once, and in his realm, which he had wrought with his own hands, ensorceled with his most powerful magic, he truly was one. The 14th circle, a dimension outside the reaches of the mortal plane- A place only the strongest of mages could open a rift to. This is his world, where he is strongest, which he had created during his (long past) prime. The entirety of this dimension were his subordinates here, Demons, Angels and spirits, every one either once a forsaken that had matured, or enchanted biengs created by Vanrael and his more powerful magicains. In the other planes of existance, without his ancient magics amplifying his powers, he was but a mortal. One with battle prowess worthy of legends, and incredible knowledge in the arcane arts, but a mortal nonetheless. But one day even that will be taken from him... Pushing the dark thoughts away, Vanrael flexed his wings and fell into a fitful slumber. End of Chapter 1 Chapter two "Mylord!!!" Vanrael awoke with a start. Three assassins clad in black stood before him, curved blades drawn. A fourth assailant slew the angelic servant that had cried out in fear. His Guards were strewn across the chamber, their faces etched with an expression of horror. Quizzically, he frowned down upon the commotion. "Foolish mortals. Has your arrogance truly gone this far?" Without responding, the three assassins jumped forward, their swords gleaming Crimson, intent on ripping the God to shreds. Vanrael shook his head in disgust, and parried the first blow with his bare hand. Following through, he struck out twice with his left, throwing the other two sprawling against the far end of the hall. With another flick of his wrist, he snapped the neck of the first. He turned to face the last killer. The last one didn't seem concerned at all about the death of his brothers. "Now, little human. I suppose Bal'dazur sent you?" Growling, the shadow replied "You have sealed your doom! Our god will not tolerate your defiance! He will hunt you down untill your carcass lays before him, rotting like the scum you are!" Vanrael snickered. "He isn't doing very well at fighting, does he? Else he would not send unsignificant specks like you..." the fanatic exploded into a hysteria. "You! How dare you soil the name of our highest lord! Our creator! He has slain a dozen false gods! You are no more than a long forgotten relic of the past!" Frowning, the lord of the 14th realm considered this news. The Old had been long in fading, but he suspected that something was catalysing the progress. Perhaps this self proclaimed God-King was a greater danger than he had anticipated... Not noticing his absent-mindedness, the assassin continued his raging. "No longer shall we endure your heathen ways! You shall perish like the rest of your brethen!" with this, the demented figure cast a fiery bolt of energy, which dissolved into nothingness before even coming close to Vanrael. The would-be assassin cried out again, out of pain this time, not anger. An enchanted blade stuck out from his chest, draining his soul with the demonic magic embedded into the steel. The lifeless corpse slumped forward, and a Eight-foot behemoth stepped in its path. "Lord Vanrael!" the demon shouted, somewhat concerned. "Are you alright?" Vanrael looked up. "Yes. Clear up this mess. And call for my champions. I have a urgent matter to be dealt with...." End of Chapter two.