Annihilate’s blood was thick coursing slowly, painfully beneath his flesh. His veins pressed hard and move the black liquid, and his body strained under the transformation. Bones snapped and twisted in the silence, echoing loudly in the bare room he lay in. Death had no hold here, for the transformation was far worse. It was like a plague eating him from the inside out, causing his innards to burn and his skin to freeze. Peeling back like the skin of an orange, six blood-stained wings hid themselves from view beneath the façade of humanity, and hair grew from the tiny orifices on his skull. Upon the ground, Annihilate was naked, bathed in sweat and blood, and as he panted saliva trickled from his pale lips onto the cold stone floor. His red eyes were bloodshot, and his irises seemed to pulsate like red jewels strait from the pit of hell, but it was over. Pain had assailed his body as it had done so many times before, but there was no way of preparing for the coming storm. His only solace was that it came and went fast enough, though he wished it would never come at all.

The room was cold, and as his naked body lay across the floor he began to feel uncomfortable. His muscles twitched and spasmed as if attempting to realign themselves with the shape that had now taken before finally becoming still in the shadows of the dark room. Hours had perhaps passed since he had returned from the hunt, but when he rose from the shadows he realized how unfulfilling such a meal was. Frail bodies with too little muscle, brittle bones and hair; all of the desert rats in the world could not fill his hunger, and such a task was far too taxing to take lightly. He simply did not have the strength to shift back and forth after not having used his gift for over three centuries.

It took some time before he willed himself to stand, finding it far difficult than he had imagined. His feet were not right, and his head was pounding. He continued to grow further and further dizzy, and had to support himself with the wall to stop himself from falling down. In a final effort, Annihilate’s turned his eyes to the ceiling and roared, “Rhaaa!” It felt as though he had expelled all of his fatigue in those moments as his voice echoed in the small room, and when it had grown silent again he was focused. He found his balance, found his anger, and walked towards the door quickly. The stone was cold, but he pushed it open with all of his strength, and stepped into the sunlight that bathed his bedroom.

Annihilate had taken residence in Angband after his subsequent defeat by the rider and the burning of the White Raven Tavern in Ondolond. He had transported his few possessions there in secret, but spent more tie elsewhere and visited the place only when he needed something because it was such at such an inconvenient place. With nowhere else to go he had returned to the desert where he had met an old wizard on his travels, and had taken it as his own. In the highest tower he slept, he bathed, and he actually had warm water. It was actually clearer than some of the Inn’s he had lived in, and he thanked the old wizard for that. If the old man hadn’t fixed the place up so nicely Anni would not have been able to take the time to bath himself, and rid his skin of the blood and grime of a long night’s hunt. It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, but already he could feel the air beginning to heat up. It was dry and hot, but so high up a breeze was blowing, and was a pleasant feeling against his pale skin as he cleaned up. As he finished Annihilate dawned his usual apparel, strapped his sword to his hip and put his mask on, and left the comforts of his home.

He slipped down alleyways and different paths, a streak of red in the murderous shadows. He seemed to be searching for something, and he licked his lips almost as if he could taste the smells in the very air around him. A wooden door stood out to him rotting off of its hinges, one that he had entered so many times before but would not seem suspicious to anyone else in the city, which kept in the rancid stentch of the bar that it hid within its bowels, and inside there was a small establishment for the murderous dogs that roamed the city. Despite being so early in the morning there were quite a few people there. It was not quite time for the animals to come out yet, but it would be soon – that he knew, so he waited with intent on seeing them and finding a meal worthy of his appetite. So he stepped inside, and slipped to the back of the room. He sat down alone with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door wrapped in the shadows of the dimly lit place. The only expression his showed coming from the mask carved of human bone.

It was unfathomable, the heat at such an early hour in the day. Surely this desert wasteland was closer to the sun. Four members lounged against the prison-like walls of the city, each cloaked despite the swelter. Heavy fabric draped over their heads, hiding their face from public view. Despite or perhaps because of the mystery, the group was avoided both in approach and gaze. The tallest of the cloaked shadows pushed forward, pulling his weight from the wall. His footsteps paced in a slow trail before the others, but the group remained mute, only the crunch of the sand underfoot carrying across the breeze.

One of the figures appeared slouched, his body heaving in heavy breaths as it rested heavily against the pale stone wall. There was a slight tremble visible at the peak of each inhale, he was exhausted. As moments passed, the shudders ceased and his posture began to right itself, much to the relief of the exasperated pacer. “Finally,” a smooth voice drawled as his shuffling feet ceased their procession.

All heads turned to the figure who now removed themselves from the wall’s comfort. Her slender fingers moved to close around the trim of her hood, pausing a moment before sliding the fabric from her head. A curtain of velvet black hair shone in the morning’s sun, framing a strong yet beautiful face. Her violet eyes danced across the shadows of the alleyways where hidden eyes watched their group with a frightened interest. “I’m thirsty,” she said with a sigh, bending down to touch her toes and stretch before righting herself again.

The other three nodded, their own hoods remaining secure on the crowns of their heads. Sand sighed under foot as the pack moved down one of the street roads towards a bar near one of the secluded alleyways. It wasn’t a long walk and the group moved with no sense of urgency. Instead their trained eyes absorbed every detail of their surroundings making note of curious buildings or leery inhabitants.

A tired sigh parted Phedre’s lips as she reached the entrance to the pub, pushing the door open. There was a noticeable difference in temperature upon entering the room. The lack of sun had easily made the room ten degrees cooler, a much more comfortable warmth. A large mangled column of wood jutted out from the floor a few feet from the entrance, its limbs appeared to have been broken off leaving only one for the purpose of holding a cloak. Phedre undid the clasp of hers and tossed it over the splintered limb, almost surprised when it didn’t collapse under the weight. Her companions followed suit, stripping themselves of their desert beating fabric and throwing theirs over the antler’s of a deer head that hung on the wall.

Phedre led the group to one of the long tables located nearer to the corner of the room with hope for some privacy. The city was known for its chaotic inhabitants but there was no sense to be looking for a fight. Dropping herself into the seat at the table’s head, she relaxed her weary muscles, letting them melt into the cushioned wood of the chair.

Thayet, a violet haired woman with a red spark in her eye, leaned inward from her seat at the table and spoke softly. “Diocletian and Kronos arrived last night, they will meet us here by taking some of the underground tunnels. They both fed from Kronos’ blood stores as to not cause a commotion.”

Phedre nodded, running a hand through her hair and glancing back to Thayet. “When are they expected?”

A scowl donned the lips of the woman, her eyes flashing in anger. “Punctuality is not Diocletian’s forte,” she said slowly with hopes to lesson the venom so felt, “we could be here days.”

Phedre smiled in a silent laugh, leaning back in the chair and hoisting her boots atop the table with a groan. Norse, the pacing one, rolled his eyes with distain for such immaturity. His back was rigid in his chair as he sat with perfect posture, his face showing no sign of the fatigue that weighted upon all of them. Sabien, the weakened form from before, merely coughed.

It was not days. In fact a fumbling barkeep had just brought their drinks when a door leading from an adjoining room opened and two fierce looking men entered. Kronos looked slightly uncoordinated, his footsteps shuffled unlike the swift steps of the man beside him. He slid into the solidity of a chair with great relief, casting a queasy grin to the other members of the table. Diocletian eased into the seat at Phedre’s right, matching her stance by resting his own feet on the table top as well. The barkeep returned as soon as the newcomers sat taking drink requests. “We’re taken care of,” Kronos growled pulling two flasks from his jacket pocket. The content was a thick crimson liquid carefully labeled with a soldier’s scrawling print.

“Speak for yourself you cad,” Diocletian growled with a teasing grin. He turned his blood red gaze to the barman, “a blood wine, if you please.”

There was a grumble from across the table sounding similar to, ‘why dilute it,’ but it heeded no response. Instead there was a strange silence whilst the barman brought the blood wine and the others peered into their drinks.

The room seemed to grow crowded, and Annihilate watched with keen interest. The group that entered shortly after him made quite the impression on the shade, and he was curious as to what they were up to. He rarely saw anyone here other than the beggars and thieves that seemed to be a plague upon the place, and to see such well armed people was quite intriguing. He particularly liked the fellow who seemed very punctual and proper, and he scoffed with their leader threw her boots upon the table top. Annihilate disliked allowing himself to participate in such behavior himself, but he not unaccustomed to relaxing and understood that everyone had their own method. His was silence and the ability to listen in on those around him. He listened in on their conversation for a short time, and though some would have called it eavesdropping he felt that it was only right. If they were going to come here in such a loud and flashy manner, then it was only fair that he listened in on their conversation as to find out why.

Then, when the door suddenly opened his eyes flashed across the room to the two men who came to join the party. He would’ve liked to have kicked the chair across from his out from under the table, and cause it to crash right into the drunk’s legs. To see him fall in such a manner would’ve been an amusing event, but many in this world had anger problems, and the odds were six to one – an even enough match for any man. Annihilate simply did not feel like embarrassing them.

After heeding the call of the ground, the bartender cast instead he prepared a drink in a wooden mug, and brought it straight to the shade. He was not a very visible figure pressed back into the corner as he was, and though he was wrapped in his blood-red cloak he seemed more like a statue than anything – especially as he gazed through the gaping holes in his bone mask. The bartender, however, noticed him in his never-ending quest to learn and observe before striking, and he brought him a mug of what he called krognith – a type of mead made out of fermented mold spores. It was a catchy little drink and had the power of hard liquor. Very few people could drink a glass without being knocked unconscious, and a flagon of the drink could knock out a giant. Anni was accustomed to drinking at least three.

Slowly, Anni ran his hand across the hilt of his blade, which was positioned comfortably beneath his cloak. He studied the group closely, and his attention turned back and forth from the men to the women, but never stayed on any one of them for too long. He found them all attention grabbing, but he took care to note their weapons, and what other manner of armor and other paraphernalia that they might have visible on their person. They seemed to calm, an anomaly in his mind, and he was unsure of their intentions. Still, one stood out above all.

Annihilate began to sip from his mug, and though it appeared so he had no difficulty downing the powerful liquid. His eyes were focused on the leader of the group, the woman with her feet propped up, and he shook his head. Where the hells have I seen her? he thought to himself, a growl inside his own mind echoing of the many facets of his paranoia and psychosis. However, it was not her face that made him growl, it was the blade at her hip. He could taste the electricity running through the air, and felt a tingling in his shoulder and back. Obsidian was so close, yet Annihilate could not feel him. Something was amiss, but he could not guess what it was. He had not seen Obsidian sense the end of the tournament, had not heard of him, and now to see the hilt of the weapon that had licked his flesh so many times. Suddenly, a hungry, seething voice spoke out to him. 'Dalninuk. Ogglinn,' It’s voice was clear as the day, and he knew exactly of what it spoke of. The Bloodletter. His own weapon was kin to the weapon at her hip, and without thinking he stood to his feet.

He took one final swig of the disgusting, potent mead and he wiped his mouth. His clawed nails raked across the table top like nails against stone, and he swept across the tavern towards the group of six. His voice was like a poison, albeit sweet like velvet, and was dark and foreboding like a storm mounting on the horizon. “Few come this way without good reason, and not without ample defense,” he said as he closed on the group, “So what brings you six to this corner of the desert.”

The entrance of the small clan had caused a rather noticeable stir amongst the bar’s shady inhabitance. Those whose hands gripped tightly on their belongings lost their grip, some too slow to retrieve the objects before they clattered to the ground. Some jaws hung slack, their owners caught gaping at the six figures, their eyes following them as though their very existence depended on it. The attentions of the group were focused elsewhere, submerged in their own boisterous conversations. Arms were slung behind their heads as they leaned back in their chairs, smacking the lips after each sip from their drinks. It had been long weeks since they had tasted anything but the dull grime of nature’s water, or in the two vampires’ case… corked blood. Their spirits were high, now reunited and no longer fighting the brutal elements that the desert forced upon them. Weary eyes were brightened and tired muscles were rejuvenated.

The sun slowly shifted and slim rays of light filtered through the minute cracks between the boards which sealed the view through the bar’s windows. The slender stand of golden shine crept ever closer to the large table threatening to burn the two whose lips danced with crimson. It was not long before Diocletian and Kronos had become aware of it and shifted their seats farther back, away from the menace, their eyes shifting to insure they were avoiding any other light fall. “Barkeep,” Phedre’s voice rang across the silent room, “a sheet over the window if you please. I’ve spent all day in the sun, I came her to avoid it.”

The man stumbled forward, tripping on an empty stool as he stripped a table of its ratty cover and draped it over the window frame. He bowed deeply back at the table and was rewarded with a small nod of thanks. The vampires returned their chairs to their original position and conversation continued, drinks being sipped leisurely. “You know, the hardest part was having to drag Kronos around,” Diocletian said with an amused drawl, “when Phedre’s not around he’s a lazy drunkard who rather sleep off his hangover than obey travel orders.”

Kronos nearly choked on his mouthful of blood causing it to spray out of his mouth and adorn the table, luckily no one sat across from him. His hand quickly wiped the crimson speckles that adorned his face as he glared at his accuser. “Lady, Phedre… I swear it was not like that…” he stumbled through the words, struggling to make eye contact.

Phedre waved a dismissive hand at him, her lips turned up in a charming smile, “you should know by now that the poison Diocletian drips in my ear simply comes out the other one. Now if-“

Her words stopped as they met her lips as she heard the scrape of a chair across the wooden floor and heavy footsteps drift towards them. She had acknowledged the presence of a shadowy man in the corner when she had entered but thought nothing of it, no man would be idiot enough to hunt them on their own.

His figure was shadowed and dark, his eyes steady on her face, flickering to her waist only a moment, to scan her weaponry, she supposed. He did not look to be a local. Those who infested the desert towns were vagabonds and treacherous thieves, not well equipped warriors… even exiled ones tended to find their way back into civilization. Her eyes watched him as he approached, their violet depths analyzing his every move.

“Few come this way without good reason, and not without ample defense. So what brings you six to this corner of the desert?”

Kronos yawned, Thayet rolled her eyes, but Phedre remained still watching him with an intense stare. It was Diocletian who spoke, peering and the stranger from over his raised boots. “Few come our way without good reason,” he said, speaking almost as though aloof, “and not without amply defense…” His eyes moved to his glass as he spoke, his wrist turning to swish the contents around with ease. “Do you have either?” his eyes turned back to the stranger nonchalantly, “or are you simply wasting our time?”

Despite the urge Phedre had to smile, she refused to, instead keeping her glare steady on the man. The others either followed suit or looked bored (something that Thayet and Norse were surprisingly good at). Sabien removed a small stone figure of a lion and ran his fingers over the smooth surface with a practiced delicacy. He refused to acknowledge the presence of a newcomer and did not shift from his position to look upon the strange face. He remained mute as always, barely taking place in the group’s conversation, but always listening. His lips turned in a smile every so often, a sign of his amusement at a spiteful remark or vulgar joke.

The others barely waited for a response for they clearly cared not for the answer. They were in pleasant company, their small group of six, and had requested no additions. “I hear there is a squad of the light army that abandoned the campaign… deemed it impossible once seeing the great walls of Raku’s fortress.” Kronos’ voice was rough and brash, his lips curled in a half scowl half grin. “I say we go on a manhunt. No disloyalties go unpunished. Besides… I haven’t killed a light bringer in 3 days.”

Annihilate had too much pride and confidence in himself to let Diocletianc speak to him like that without any come back. Such insolence – he thought, and yet he liked it. It made his next move all the more interesting. Whoever these people were, they were just up his alley – at least that was the way he saw it for the moment. Only time would tell whether or not his move to come forward as an intelligent one, and should this prove to be a dangerous course of action he was already looking around – glancing to find the exits. Expecting the unexpected was his forte, and beneath his cloak his hand stayed glued to his blade. Drawing it quickly might save his life in the chance of an all-out attack against him; luckily that was his specialty if nothing else.

“Perhaps, but perhaps not,” he said nonchalant, “Would you be the one to test me?” In a way he was inviting a challenge, probably sealing his fate as well, but he was far from serious as he spoke. It had been far too long since his hands last held a blade in combat, and had he taken the warrior up on his challenge he probably would not have survived long. However, the general swagger of his step as he waded around their table, inspecting the group, was far from threatening or inviting of any contest. “But then again,” he said without stammering or missing a beat, “My reason for coming here wasn’t to pick a fight. The outcome would shame you, and I’m not quite that cruel.” There was a faint grin on his pale lips as he spoke; a flicker of rage mixed with amusement that was almost casual to the common eye. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he would continue to do so for the moment, as long as he knew his luck would hold out – if only a bit longer.

He glanced around at the group, taking a seat on a barstool close to the group, however, before doing so a pale hand reached out from beneath his cloak holding a handkerchief. He tossed it upon a dry spot on the table, giving a wave to Kronos, “For you.” That same hand, however, reached up only moments later to take hold of the smooth veil covering his face. Annihilate wore a mask carved from a human skull, which was decorated with various red runes and markings. He removed it, and took it back beneath his cloak for a moment. His face was scarred in places – one running beneath his eye vertically to his chin, and the other a sun-burst upon his forehead.

Perhaps he was just a rude individual, or perhaps he was just stupid. He listened into the first lines of their conversation, his eyes never leaving Phedre, and after Kronos had had his little hate-mongering speech Anni spoke up again. This time, he was more interested in her than anyone, and didn’t seem to care what the rest of her group was doing. “To carry his sword is no trivial matter. Did you know him well?” he asked curiously referring to Obsidian. Suddenly, without much warning, the shade was far more serious than he had been before. He was actually someone perturbed by the fact that another carried the bloodletter. It had tasted his flesh, and as he recalled that feeling a cold dry feeling, as if a blade had been plunged into his arm, ran across his shoulder and bicep. He was could still feel the tingle of the weapon’s enchantment in his skin.

With a glance over his shoulder, Anni took hold of a shot glass that had been set there for him by the attendants behind the bar. Without really thinking about what had been in the drink Anni swigged it down, and sat the glass back in its place. There was nothing like hard liquor to loosen up a body, he thought. It would do him good if they decided they’d take their aggravations out on him…