The DemonSoul Chronicles

Chapter 1: Inssurection

The demigod sneered in contempt. Barely controlled rage bubbled to the surface of his avatar's demonic features. His hands gripped the edges of his Obsidian throne, which cracked under the wrathful grasp.

"Impudent whelp." His voice boomed, deep and powerful, brimming with the essemce of divinity as he turned a heavy gaze on the intruders.

A score of his mortal guards lay scattered across the hall, their flesh rended and scarred. A stench of death had filled the air. Among the carnage, there stood three cloaked figures, emissaries of the pretender.

"I will not repeat myself once more," One of the ambassedors, a wizard, growled. "Do not dismiss the mercy. I, Sammaster Dragonstaff, mean to grant you. Denounce your heathen ways. Surrender to the one allmighty lord, so that he may grant you-"

"Silence." Vanrael, Lord of the Forsaken, snapped. "Do you truly believe I would kneel before that upstart brat? For millenia I have ruled, we all have. Now he presumes he could destroy us, siphon off our energies as he slays us all, one by one. Either that, or he would try to force us into servitude, casting that accursed geas upon our souls, so that we will be no more than slaves, and mindless shells! No, fool, I shall not yield. Not to you three, mortals. Nor to your false god."

Before Sammaster's eyes could even widen in outrage at the proclamation, the god raised his hand and uttered a word of power. A blast of black fire errupted from his palm, engulfing the wizard, searing at his very soul. Ignoring the imhuman howl of pain errupting from the magic-users charred lungs, Vanrael turned his attention to the two assassins.

The two were trained well, not even flinching when the remains of their comrade crumbled to the floor and dispersed, no more than ash remaining. Studied in arts both arcane and martial since birth by one of the most powerful Guilds of this age, the assassins were a force to be reckoned with. Their enchanted blades swung with prescision and power, spelling certain death for even the most skilled warrior.

But Vanrael was no mere warrior. He was a god.

In one deft, fluid motion, he unsheathed his longsword, slashing it across his would-be killers midsections with blinding speed. Both died before either of their halves hit the floor.