The Most Fallen

By: Phoenix Flame

Disclaimer: I do not own Legacy of Kain, there is no profit in this, and the original character is mine, yada yada yada.

Author's Note: It's been awhile since I've visited this fandom. This is just a one-shot. Anything else you can find out for yourself. Hope you enjoy it! It you like it, send me a review. If you hate it, still send me a review about why you hate it. I adore feedback of all kinds. ;)

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Her skirts snapped at her legs as she stalked through the swampland. Where the ground was not sopping it was soft, though she moved too lightly to find herself mired in the muck.

The castle stood behind her, where it could stay for all she cared. The humidity of the bog strangled the air, but stopped the instant that it came in touch with her pale skin. Her flesh had not yet become tinged with green. When it did, she doubted it would affect her beauty much.

It was not her own beauty, she reminded herself, her thoughts rasped with more bitterness from her foul mood. Her beauty came with her vampirism. When her flesh had been much more delicate, she had never looked in a mirror. Her family had never even seen a mirror up close. She had once looked, however, at a reflection in a river, her features distorted and rippling. At the time, she had no one to compare her own image to. Everybody looked similar.

Now in her present state, she recalled her looks as having quiet simplicity. Her hair had been the color of common dirt and hard bread, now it gleamed like burnished mahogany, falling in thick waves almost to her waist. Her eyes had been the color of a mud-soaked shirt but had lightened to a honey tone, with the occasional flash of gold. Her formally ruddy skin shone like alabaster, while her physical stance took on an aquiline demeanor. She lived on borrowed beauty and time.

While her thoughts distracted her, her nimble feet managed to keep herself from harm. The swamp was a labyrinth but she knew her way. Any of Vorador's brood did.

The trees obscured any trace of the sun other than a sporadic shimmer of empty light. She did not mind. From bleak memories, she recalled the sun a weak pathetic thing anyway. She knew it had been stronger at one time, a long time ago --an eternity ago--, before the vampires of Lord Kain had crumbled upon themselves. The fall of the ancient vampire's empire had occurred after the death of a high general, executed for treason. Or so she had read.

She had lived as a human after the fall; she had never even seen Lord Kain except for pictures in books from her sire's library. All her knowledge came from her his library, or her vampiric sisters, or Vorador himself. The library had enough books to last for eternity. She had read almost all of them.

It was rare now she heard further news of the world outside the Termogent. Only Vorador traveled beyond, and only to bring back sustenance. On rare occasion, he brought back a sister. The last one had been twenty years ago. The woman had been a mere lass of fifteen. He had found her treating with Death in a glen, her stomach open wide and a Turelim beside her, a crossbow bolt through its skull.

She found herself on a sort of land bridge, the risen height of compact earth dividing a large swampy pool. Suddenly a smell drifted past her sensitive nose, causing her thoughts and memories to collide like two knights in tourney. In her mind's eye, a hulking Turelim sauntered towards her, fangs dripping for carnage. He would surely ask her where his lost master was…

From time to time Vorador brought back young maidens or other young women, ones he ha no intention of turning. He would promise them safety and keep them alive for months. She would often talk to these girls, learn the things they knew, learn the happenings of the world beyond the forest. From one burgundy-haired maiden, she learned of a ghoulish story usually told by brothers to scare their younger sibs. The girl's breathy voice floated back to her, the remembered sound entwining with the rank scent and fusing an image so vivid that it forced her to gasp, leaning against a mossy tree trunk for support.

"A Turelim will always walk up to you, with his claws always wet with blood. If you try to run, he will gallop after you, faster than a frightened horse. He will always catch you and hold you there, until he asks his question.

'Where is my master? Where is Turel, brave strong Turel? Turel who abandons his children! Where is my far-gone master, who so valiantly slew the pathetic ruler of Nethra's Keep? The leader of Nethra's Keep whose petty stands could never stand against the might of our sire! Tell me mortal!'

"Of course you will have no idea where Turel is. Cruel, ever-thirsting Turel who so heartlessly and pathetically slew the valiant leader of Nethra's Keep. The leader of Nethra's Keep whose brave actions eventually fell to the cruelty of Turel, as all human stands do. Turel has been gone for ages, gone to hells his vampires cannot follow. Wicked Turel has been spirited away, taken by the black fairies who only grant wishes of death. So you stutter back a reply, writhing in his bloody grasp.

'No vampire, I do not know where your master is! Wicked Turel, strong Turel, no Turels have I seen— Turel has been gone for ages, to places you cannot follow!'

"When the answer falls from your lips, the Turelim howls in anguish, like a wolf separated from his rabid pack. Spittle flies from his bloody jaws and he roars back, fangs snapping in your face.

'No foolish mortal! You foolish, foolish mortal! You condemn me to more searching, damn you, more searching for my far-gone master. More searching for brave, strong, valiant Turel who was only wicked to foolish mortals!'

"And with that, he tears your throat out."

She had listened in near-rapture to the story. She had wanted others, stories that the maiden had happily told. The silly maiden used to often flinch if she asked eagerly enough though, or even weep during stories that did not end sadly. Nevertheless, she told wonderful tales. Some of the girl's stories she already knew, or variants. Others she had never heard and those were the ones that she feasted on eagerly. For months, she dwelled on these tales, along with a few kisses and sensuous touches in the exquisite darkness of her bedchamber.

When Vorador finally killed the maiden, she had felt discontent for months, despite her sire's heated embraces. The girl's blood had flowed as burgundy as her hair, as red as the inlay on the marble floor. The same color as the skirts she currently wore. It was far rarer now that Vorador brought in humans that did not immediately become a vampire's feast.

Had the girl really been a maiden, or an escaped slave? She had never known for sure. Slaves never used to escape from Lord Kain's empire.

The scent flitted through her nares once more, stronger than before. It was not the Turelim though…it was the reek of the Dumahim. Something suddenly writhed through her ageless heart and her heart fluttered against her breastbone. It was fear. She hated the Dumahim. They frightened her.

No, the Termogent kept her safe. Her sire kept her safe. The foul vampires would never pass the forest boundary; Vorador scared them into wariness. Even Lord Kain kept his distance. After the cruel death of one of her sire's daughters during the overthrow of the Second Sarafan, the vampire lords had next to no interaction. Except once. The oldest of her vampiric sisters told the story with relish. She recalled the oldest one's wizened, husky tone as she spoke of times when she was a young vampiress.

"Our sire strikes fear in the hearts of the greatest, even the most arrogant of rulers. Listen carefully child, it is your lord's and creator's history I am telling you. Only once has Lord Kain ever attempted to include our forest in his destructive empire.

"The emperor sent an envoy. I remember his features well enough; one always remembers the condemned. He was one of the Razielim, with one retainer. He was also an arrogant fool. All of Lord Kain's brood is like that, but the Razielim most so. He wore their usual raiment, dressed in so little one would think he was one of their doxies.

"The arrogant fool strutted up to the Master and withdrew a roll of parchment, demanding Vorador come under their rule. Vorador tore his head from his shoulders and sent it back with the retainer, who no longer pranced like a green palfrey beside his envoy. Of course, our sire let us have a little fun with him before he returned to the Sanctuary of the Clans, Lord Kain's broken throne.

"A week later, Lord Kain himself came to the forest—with an army at his back. Razielim and Zephonim rode behind him, their weapons glittering more fiercely than the jewels at your throat. In those days, horses were still used alongside the infantry, though only the highest officers were mounted. The emperor rode a towering destrier, the animal having a bloodthirst as much as he did.

"They came nigh to the doorstep, their weapons bared for carnage. Only Lord Kain went inside. Vorador met him in the audience chamber. As to what occurred, no one can know. None of the generals or our sisters. This hiatus remained for hours, or perhaps it only seemed so. They outnumbered us over a hundred to one. The sisters—the revered brides of Lord Vorador—all feared we would be the playthings and slaves of the empire by sunset, all but for our faith in our sire.

"Eventually, after so long, Lord Kain emerged. He withdrew his army and returned south, and never made any further move to conquer the forest. He left wordlessly, except to order his army from the forest."

She wondered what had often wondered what transpired between the two vampire lords. Had an epic battle taken place, or had they exchanged their assault verbally? None knew. It was a question her sisters knew never to ask their sire. She acted no differently.

She knew how far back the stories of Kain and Vorador intertwined. She knew of Nosgoth's twisted history, and the corruption that mangled it so badly it did not even read straight. Accounts differed. Of course, a land's history would be different depending on the race, but certain events were completely inverted. Even her sire's history divulged into different paths.

Several tomes documented his vampiric unlife, though he was already old when the mortals began to craft their large books. Most chronicled that Vorador survived the vampire genocide led by the Guardian Moebius and aided Lord Kain in his first conquest, the war that ended in his defeat by the Second Order of the Sarafan. After the eventual overthrow of the Sarafan Lord, he returned to the forest.

Several other tomes however, claimed that her sire perished in the midst of the Vampire Purge, ending the vampires until Lord Kain raised his own army. The account had made her chuckle. She stood here now, did she not? Her sire was certainly lively, if not truly alive. He proved that during the nights well enough.

The dusty volume that had not made her laugh though, was the book Beyond Good or Evil: Memoirs of Nosgoth, written by Frederick von Nietzschecrowe. She had found it in a far corner of the library, smashed between documents of various battle stratagems. The tome's spine had been broken and the binding failing.

From other histories, she knew Frederick's mental state had been as poor as the volume's condition, but its contents did not have the distortion of a madman, only of one whose resolution shook her violently. In the account, the mercenaries executed her sire, only for him to be resurrected by Lord Kain himself. Vorador repaid him with an army.

Her sire had not been happy to see her reading it. The tome sparked a heated quarrel, until he pinned her to the library table in what was definitely not a fight. Perhaps that had started the frustration.

The frustration had simmered within her for years now. Life trawled along, and she the slowest of all. She knew the world changed from outside the forest, even if it was not for the better. But she, she remained. Something stirred in the abyss. Her sire had murmured it cryptically. Gods, Nosgoth was the abyss, but she wanted to see the decadence, not just stand above it, hearing the occasional happenings.

The quite, frustrated rage had built for so long, poisoning her even as she lived. Today the fire finally surged from her, leading her to storm from the castle and into the swamp. What exactly had been the catalyst of the overflow of resentment? As astutely as her mind worked, she could not recall.

And suddenly it did not matter.

The stench came again, this time overpowering. Like a doe scenting a lion, she felt each tendon within her pull taut as a harp string. Somehow, they had penetrated the forest. Disgust rose within her, along with the fear. She knew they had been proud once, cruelly proud vampires that fought with diplomacy as well as claws. The disgust came from how such leonine creatures could fall so far, into the mutated things they stood as now. Now they were mindless savages, feasting on prey like a pack of rabid wolves. She knew, oh, she knew.

The recollection shook her as it confronted with the stench she smelled now. So long ago she had been human—a human slave. Lacking everything, owning nothing. Just blood, so much wasted blood before she had the taste for it.

From far off, a growl sounded. Their call was unmistakable.

They had her traveling, the slave masters. She and her broken family. The slavers never guessed a pack of the creatures would come so far, but they had. The creatures descended from higher ground, charging for the wagons they all walked beside. Her father had tried to free the horses, only to be struck by one of the slave masters' whips. The man snapped his whip at everything. He had struck at one of the vampires, though it did not help him when the thing tore his throat out.

She had run. Instinct thrummed through her. She thought little of her family as she fled. All she had seen was the forest. Several of the Dumahim had followed her, but she reached the Termogent first. Of course, they had kept on pursuing though trudging waist-deep into swampy water had deterred them, if only for a moment.

Vorador had found her. How long it had been since she first entered the swamp, she did not know. Her arm had been shattered from a fall down a ravine, though somehow she had crawled out of it, driven like an animal that had lost its mind from fear and pain.

When her sire found her, the agony ended.

She whirled around, and there they were. The reek of carrion clung to their dark bodies while the deep-throated growls sounded like thunder in her ears. Two Dumahim stood in front of her, their vulpine eyes glittering with hunger.

Despite their insatiable appetites, they remained standing stock still like grotesque statuaries. Sundry pieces of broken armor clung to their frames so tightly it was as if it had melted with their bodies. The scabrous armor covered them entirely, and their stained teeth glistened with spittle. They were like gargoyles—revolting but somehow almost majestic in the raw power that emanated from their haunches and forequarters.

Another long, bass growl came from behind her. She wheeled half around, keeping the two in her sight while frantically looking for the source. A third Dumahim appeared, blocking any means of escape.

Her lip curled in disgust and she drew herself up to her full height. She was a bride of Lord Vorador, not a helpless damsel who could not defend herself from the horrors of the world. She occasionally sparred with her sisters for entertainment; though she carried no arms, she was not without her weapons. Flexing her hands, her claws extended more from the flesh like.

The third vampire charged her first and a second later the other two followed from the other side. She sidestepped just as the third came upon her, until it passed directly in front of her. Lunging forward, she slammed all her weight into its ribs. While her form was certainly lighter than the Dumahim's, the force of the assault catching it in mid-stride caused the creature to fall to the side, crashing into the swampy water.

The thing howled on impact and writhed in a wave of steam. Had she stayed to look, she would have seen it melt upon itself, with its own liquidized skin running down whatever remained of its face. The other two, however, quickly reached her.

She sprang back, earning herself a moment to put a breadth of distance between her and the vampires. The first one paused while its pack-mate hurtled forward, unrelenting in its assault. Quick as a cobra, she clawed its left eye out.

A wet snarl tore from its mouth as blood dripped from the wound. Scrabbling with its talons, it attempted somehow to alleviate its pain. It would not close as easily as a slash to the arm. She allowed the brief flush of exhilaration to carry her as she leapt back and landed in a defensive stance.

The first Dumahim ran ahead of the injured one and brought its forelimb down strike her. She reached up and blocked it with her own. The force shattered her arm.

She gasped as pain wracked through her body. How! When she mocked with her sisters, they occasionally drew blood or caused sprains, but never had one mere blow broken her bones.

The second assault she was entirely unprepared for. Its claws sliced across her chest, shredding through the bodice of her clothing and into the white breasts beneath. The attack sent her to her knees.

No! She was a revered bride of Lord Vorador, not a bleating lamb that so easily fell prey to the wild. She staggered to her feet and lashed out with her boot.

The kick caught the first Dumahim under the jaw, but the loathsome creature barely felt it. Instead, it dived and caught her by the middle. The ground smashed into her back.

Perhaps it was not so unfortunate that they were such degenerated forms of their former selves. Had they been the leonine, beautiful creatures of before, she might have endured more penetrating things than death. Such predators had different hungers. But she could endured that, long enough to return to her sire and repay the blood debt with more blood.

However, as the one-eyed Dumahim approached from afore, she knew her fate was at last sealed. Borrowed time and borrowed beauty did not last forever.

The vampire on top of her scrambled to its feet as she writhed in its bloody grasp. It bared its serrated fangs, poised to tear her throat out.

Perhaps they had not fallen so far after all.