"Prologue: Araboth´s Story" by Natalie J Walsh

                                                                              Prologue
A millennia ago…   

    Araboth fell to his knees, the tip of the lash bit into the bare flesh of his back and wrapped itself around his ribs.  He sunk his teeth into his lip trying desperately not to cry out.  His master, GoldenTooth, threw his arm back once more preparing for another blow, the man’s pasty face was covered in sweat from exertion.  The lash fell again this time wrapping around Araboth’s tapered waist.  The whip continued to fall against his bare flesh again, and again, and soon he lost track of where they landed on his body.

    Araboth’s blood dripped from his lip, and his back was so raw that it would begin to split if the lash kept coming.  Pain blurred his vision as more blows continued to fall on his bare skin.  The pain was excruciating but Araboth refused to show his suffering, so he knelt with his back to his master, not allowing his body to flinch away from the blows.  Another blow landed nipping the delicate flesh behind his ear and drawing blood.  The scent of that small amount of blood made something snap inside him, his instincts came alive.  He dug his bare fists into the dirt beneath him as he prepared himself to gain his feet; he was going to rid this world of one more bastard with a whip.

    Araboth stood in one fluid motion, his bare feet spread for balance as he rounded on GoldenTooth.  His inner world was calm, Araboth saw every threat, saw every move before he made it, and could no longer feel his tortured bodies pain.  This was where he went when he was fighting in the Games.  This “calm” before the storm was what made him a threat to multiple armed opponents.  GoldenTooth seemed to sense a change for he paused with his fleshy hand raised ready for another painful blow.
 

     “You will kneel and take your punishment… slave!”  GoldenTooth’s sneer revealed his namesake, a front tooth encapsulated in gold, which marked him for the wealthy merchant that he was.
 

    Araboth ignored the pain that reverberated down his body from the Collar of gold that encircled his neck.  The Arcane Collar was meant to control him, however when he was battle ready the pain and control of the Collar meant nothing; it merely provided him with more fuel for his fury.  The pain from his recent beating, combined with the torn flesh from the battle he had just moments ago fought should have left him weakened. However when Araboth’s mind had stopped registering pain, his torn body had become meaningless compared to his instincts that were telling him to hunt, and to kill for the thirst had just overtaken his mind.  It was not his fault that his master had thought that starving him would make him more fierce in the Games.  GoldenTooth had then thought it a good idea to bet on an unarmed Araboth against a rival merchant’s three armed Warriors.
 

    Araboth shook his head freeing himself from his angry thoughts.  He locked eyes with his master, then slowly began to set one foot in front of the other, each step costing him strength as he fought will to will against his Master and the control of the Collar.  His body was shaking in exertion as he finally came toe to toe with the man that had caused him more misery than he could stand.  Araboth was a full head taller then the doughy man before him.  Where GoldenTooth’s body was soft and fleshy from the overindulgence of his class, Araboth’s entire body rippled with the hard lean muscles of one who fought for his life often and was fed little. 
 

    GoldenTooth still held his hand back ready for the next blow when Araboth reached him.  He seized GoldenTooth’s ample wrist in his hand.  The pathetic fleshy man tried to land another blow, but Araboth merely squeezed his wrist until he felt the bones within crumple under the pressure.  GoldenTooth was forced to release the whip from his sweat slicked grasp.  The fleshy man’s face turned a furious red and he shrieked in pain as he tried unsuccessfully to pull his wrist from Araboth’s grasp.  A grin that held little sanity lit the Warrior’s bruised face as he began with the pinky and he snapped every finger on GoldenTooth"s pudgy left hand. Araboth paused when he reached his master’s index finger, he pulled a golden ring from it before he broke the finger and finished with the thumb.  Araboth released his hold on GoldenTooth and the man’s jowls shook as he collapsed into a heap of sobbing flesh. 
 

    Araboth stood in the midst of a large group of shocked bystanders.  The women and children were being herded away, as those men that were armed turned to face the rogue slave.  He hardly noticed what was happening around him, now that he held the one thing that had been in control of him nearly everyday since the day he turned 13.  For the first time in two centuries he was free to move as he wished, to think as he wished, the moment of freedom swallowed him up in its bliss.
 

    The bliss only lasted a moment before he was brought back to the present situation by the bite of a dagger sinking into the meat of his shoulder.  Araboth’s vision went red as he lost control of coherent thoughts, the animal inside him fought to gain its freedom.  The scent of more of his own blood made his thirst near unbearable especially now that GoldenTooth’s power over him was gone.
 

    Any thoughts of the dagger were pushed aside as the sobbing mound of flesh before him gained Araboth’s complete focus. The whimpering of pain from the pathetic man brought out every one of the predatory instincts within Araboth, the bastard still had to be dealt with properly.  Araboth moved forward to deal with GoldenTooth. He considered for a moment taking the merchant"s blood and gaining what strength he could from the bastard before he killed him. However, the Laws prevented him from doing such a thing, those of his kind were not allowed to kill the mortals they drink from, it was considered uncivilized.
 

     The armed men were beginning to close in around him, Araboth drug his gaze away from his soon to be former Master, and finally focused his attention on the men who threatened his kill.  As they continued to make their way towards him. Araboth stepped over the pile of man before him and towards the men that threatened him.  He flashed his fully extended fangs and hissed his defiance.  The men quickly stepped back, not one of them willing to challenge an uncontrolled and enraged Vampire.  The sobbing GoldenTooth seemed to realize help wasn’t coming for he began to try to drag his corpulent form away from Araboth. 
 

    Without taking his eyes from the guards Araboth stepped backwards onto GoldenTooth’s ankle, crushing it beneath his weight and halting his Master‘s retreat.  The pressure made GoldenTooth wail even louder in pain, as he flailed his chubby arms trying to reach his ankle and Araboth’s foot that entrapped it.  No matter how he tried, GoldenTooth was too obese to even reach his own ankle. 
 

    A cruel laugh broke from Araboth, as he exerted more pain to the ankle beneath his foot.  GoldenTooth’s face was nearly purple with pain, and snot flowed freely from his nose as he wept for mercy.  It was a desperate and quite useless ploy, Araboth had no mercy left in him, his string of cruel Masters had wiped it from him. 
 

    Still not taking his eyes from those that were armed, Araboth released GoldenTooth’s ankle from beneath his foot.  GoldenTooth tried to gain his feet but his injured ankle and his obesity made it clumsy and unsuccessful.  Whimpering GoldenTooth hunkered down in front of Araboth.
 

    Araboth moved to stand beside the pathetic man’s head, he raised his barefoot and set it carefully on GoldenTooth’s throat.  The armed men started forward, as they did Araboth grasped the hilt of the dagger protruding from his shoulder and pulled it out in one swift motion.  This seemed to make the men pause, many of these men had just witnessed in the Games what an unarmed Araboth could do against three armed Werewolfs, before being defeated.
 

    Blood poured from the newly opened wound as Araboth glared at each of the men before he focused his attention back on the victim beneath his heel.  GoldenTooth was still trying to plead for his life, reaching his arms up in a pleading motion.  Araboth’s mouth formed a cruel smile as he crushed GoldenTooth’s larynx and threw the dagger in one fluid movement.  The knife sunk in all the way to the hilt in the throat of the man who had thrown it.
 

    It happened so fast that the men seemed unable to act or even to fully comprehend what had just happened.  The men all started forward brandishing swords as they came to realize that the slave had just killed one of their own number and his owner.
 

    Araboth merely looked down at GoldenTooth who beneath Araboth’s heel was making gasping and gurgling noises as he tried desperately to pull air into his lungs.  If there had been a healer nearby, GoldenTooth might have been saved.  But there was not, so Araboth’s cruel smile was the last thing that GoldenTooth ever saw.  The merchant’s eyes glazed over and the stare of the dead gripped his sight.  Araboth finally switched his attention back to the quick approach of the men.
 

    “Halt!”  A commanding voice shouted from the gathering crowd of onlookers.  Araboth was already crouched into a position of defense gauging the approach of the men, but he stood as he realized who had spoken.  The armed men continued forward such was their rage at the death of one of their own. 
 

    “You will halt or you shall be killed.”  The man stepped forward he wore a black robe made of the finest silk.  He held out his hand, Arcana leapt from his palm, the blood red lightning collided with the charging men.  The men seemed to slam into an unseen wall, and they were thrown backwards, some found themselves sitting in the dirt, others were knocked completely senseless. The Arcane dusted his hands off as though he had just finished some heavy lifting and turned to meet Araboth’s hard gaze.
 

    Araboth stood eyeing the newcomer, he knew immediately that the man’s name was HalfMoon, one of the most powerful Arcanes in the Empire.  Even in his blindest of rages, Araboth wasn’t stupid enough to challenge a Black Robe.  A Black Robe had an almost unlimited amount of Arcana at their disposal.  Araboth only knew HalfMoon by sight, he had never actually come face to face with the most revered Black Robe of the Empire.
 

    HalfMoon’s golden gaze looked the warrior before him up and down with the efficiency of a man who knew his Warrior flesh.  Araboth, the Black Robe surmised was the perfect specimen of his race, he possessed the beautiful golden skin and raven’s wing black hair.  His arms were long and well filled out, his legs where thick and sturdy.  His broad shoulders rippled with muscle, his chest though flawed by two rather deep scars was well toned.  The Warrior’s neck was corded with muscles, and his eyes held that healthy predatory gleam in their hardened hazel depths.  Araboth’s pupils very nearly eclipsed the iris that contained them they were so dilated with the need to feed.  Also he appeared to be on the thin side, however that wasn’t anything a few weeks of good feedings wouldn’t quickly remedy.  The Warrior’s battle earlier that day had left a few rather deep wounds on the bared flesh.  The dagger wound in his shoulder still oozed a small amount of blood, and his face was badly bruised on one side, probably from a blow with a gauntlet.  All these wounds would require the care of a healer, but none were life threatening.  HalfMoon stepped forward and he held his hands up in the sign of peace.
 

    As HalfMoon was examining the Warrior, Araboth was doing the same to the Arcane. Araboth could usually read a man’s intentions, mortals were like open books when it came to their inner workings.  However, this Arcane was hard to read, he held his face in a blank expression, and his body language was also completely neutral.  The Arcane was of middling age for mortals, probably somewhere in his fifth decade or late into his fourth.  However, he didn’t possess the excess of flesh that most mortals allowed to accumulate on their mid drifts.  The Arcane was rather short but most mortals were when compared to those of the slave races.  The man’s russet hair was kept long, most wealthy mortals did, it was a strange custom.  A scar marred the side of the man’s face, it’s crescent shape started at his left brow and arced around to meet the cleft of his chin.  Most men of status could afford the healing that such a wound would have required to not scar, it was a strange anomaly on such wealthy man.
 

    The man was stepping forward with his hands raised, to show that he carried no weapons or any Arcana ready.  Araboth instinctively bared his canines at the mortal, they were still fully extended for his aching need to feed had not left him.  
 

    “Easy there, Warrior, I can see that the fools have managed to wound you.” His husky voice went rough with anger. “Such a beautiful specimen as yourself should not be treated in such a manner.” He threw a hard golden glare at the men that were regaining their senses, they cowered away, some of them actually leaptto their feet and fled.
 

    Araboth eyed the approaching Arcane, but made no hostile moves towards the man.  He could wait and see what this strange mortal was up to, it would cost Araboth nothing.
 

    “When was the last time you were fed properly, Warrior?”  The Arcane asked him in a direct no nonsense tone.
 

    The question caught Araboth off guard, he thought for a moment before he replied truthfully.  “Been on half portions since the beginning of the Gaming season.” He paused a moment longer before he added.  “Three days since I’ve even been given half a portion.”  His extended fangs made him lisp slightly.
 

    HalfMoon looked angry for a moment before he took a deep breath, and gained control over his emotions again.  He turned quickly to face a young boy that Araboth only just now realized had been hovering behind the Arcane.  HalfMoon leaned forward and whispered furiously into the child’s ear.  When he was finished the boy took off at a run towards the Marketplace.
 

    “What is your name Warrior?”  The Arcane turned his full attention back on Araboth.
 

    “Araboth.”
 

    “Araboth.”  HalfMoon seemed to think for a moment then he spoke again.  “Araboth, son of Aran, No?”
 

    “Twas the name of my father, yes.” A number of soldiers clad in the Royal purple and black uniforms of the Emperor were beginning to push their way through the gathered crowd. Their swords were unsheathed, and their steely gazes were focused on Araboth.  Araboth merely stood undaunted within the circle of onlookers with two lifeless bodies at his feet challenging the men with a look.
 

    “Aw yes, my grandfather spoke of watching your father in his last battle when I was just a boy.  He was said to be a great Warrior, but my grandfather used to tell me his Master was a foolishly greedy man.  GoatsBeard deserved the end he met… do you agree, Araboth?”
 

    Araboth’s eyes gleamed as he remembered the death he had dealt his Master a few centuries before GoldenTooth. He had torn out GoatsBeard’s throat with his bare hand, when he had found out that the cruel mortal had pitted his father against insurmountable odds.  GoatsBeard had gotten drunk, told a rival that his Aran could beat any four of the rival’s Warriors.  GoatsBeard put a lot of money on Aran, and had stumbled to the arena only to watch Aran, who was pushing his 10th century, be defeated by four Warriors a quarter of his age.  Aran lost his life in that battle and GoatsBeard had been so consumed with rage that he beat Araboth’s gentle mother so far into unconsciousness that she had never returned.  All of it was over a stupid mortal rivalry and a few gold coins.  Araboth regretted the lives he was forced to take when he entered the Games, but he never regretted taking the life of one his Masters when they pushed him to far.
 

    “Do you not agree, Warrior?” HalfMoon prompted Araboth out of his revelry.
 

    “I agree.” Araboth spoke softly remembering the soft brown doe eyes of his mother, and his father’s husky voice as he coached him through his Warrior training.
 

    The soldiers were pushing their way through the last row of those crowded around, when the Arcane lifted his hand towards them. The leader of the soldiers called out to the others to halt their progress.
 

    “What is this HalfMoon, why are you just standing there conversing with a rogue slave?”  The man sneered arrogantly and wore Sergeant insignia on his uniform, his tone was that of a superior addressing a subordinate.
 

    “Sergeant, my dear boy.“  HalfMoon raised his brow and turned to give the sergeant his full attention.  “Most men that address me in such a tone do not live to see the next dawn.”  The Sergeant started to reply but HalfMoon wasn’t finished.  “So, Sergeant, you would do well to rethink your tone and address me in a respectful manner.”
 

    “M-My Lord HalfMoon, I m-meant n-no disrespect.”  The Sergeants brow had broken out in sweat and he stammered in his nervousness, under the scrutiny of a man like HalfMoon it was understandable.
 

    “Very well, Sergeant, you will stand there with your men, and not move or say another word unless I address you.  Is that quite clear?”
 

    “Ye-Yes, My Lord.”  The Sergeant was looking at his boots, and a few of his men were snickering behind him.
 

    “Now, Araboth, are you aware that there are laws against the starvation of Warriors?”  The Arcane turned his full attention back on Araboth.
 

    Araboth had heard of such a thing, but rumors ran rampant through the Warrior’s halls.  One could never know what was real and what was not, the Masters were certainly not going to tell them.  They were under the impression that a Warrior that is told he will not be fed unless he wins, will fight all the harder for a meal. 
 

    “There have been rumors.” Araboth spat the words out, he was certain that this Arcane was merely toying with him now.  A man of such rank did not cause a scene just to inform a slave that there were laws about not feeding him properly.
 

    “Well then the rumors are true, it is punishable by a large fine and a long stay in the Vault.” As the Arcane spoke the boy from earlier shoved his way past the last row of those crowded around, and pelted to the side of the Arcane. HalfMoon crouched down slightly to hear what the boy whispered into his ear.  He nodded his head confirming something the child had said.   The Arcane patted the boy’s head affectionately and the child hurried back through the crowd.
 

    “Anyways, the laws were passed about 60 years ago, when all those Vampire Warriors went rogue and killed their master’s entire household.  They had been starved to the point where they could not longer be controlled by the Collar.” The Arcane began walking towards Araboth slowly. “What I am saying, Warrior, is that you will not be punished for your deeds here, we do not hold you accountable for what you do when the Bloodlust has so consumed you.”
 

    Araboth eyed the approaching Arcane with mistrust. He knew what HalfMoon could do if the Arcane wished to.  With a wave of his hand HalfMoon could steal the breath straight from his lungs, or render him unable to move.
 

    “Now, Warrior, I am going to ask you for your Ring.” The Arcane was only a few steps away from Araboth and he held his hand out waiting.  The top of HalfMoon’s head did not quite break even with Araboth’s sternum, this Arcane was a very small man.
 

    Araboth continued to look wearily at the Arcane, the man could have simply taken the Ring from his hand. Araboth was nearly certain that if the Arcane chose he wouldn’t even require the Ring to control him.  But here was one of the most powerful men in the entire Empire asking respectfully for something in the possession of a slave.
 

    Cautiously Araboth extended his arm and carefully placed the Ring in the Arcane’s hand, there was no use fighting this man. Araboth would lose his freedom whether it was to this Arcane or another. One consolation was at the very least this new Master did not seem to carry a whip on his sash.
 

    HalfMoon made his hand into a fist over the ring it held and bowed his head over it in concentration. There was a moment of silence then the Arcane mumbled a few words that Araboth didn’t catch.  HalfMoon opened his hand and the ring was no longer held within his hand. Araboth gazed at the Arcane, unsure what exactly this meant.
 

     The Arcane seemed to read his mistrust for he reached out his hand. “Araboth, son of Aran, I HalfMoon, son of BlueMoon, relieve you of the title of Warrior, and would offer you the title of Protector in its place.”
 

    There were gasps and sounds of surprise from the crowd, this wasn’t the way things were done.  A Protector was the closest thing to freedom a slave like Araboth had a chance to achieve.  It meant serving a Master, not because you were forced to, but because you were loyal to him and would die to protect him from harm.   One did not offer such a status to a rogue Warrior, especially one who had just killed his Master.  Not to mention also had the scars on his chest that labeled him as a killer of two other masters. 
 

    “Aye, I will do my best to keep yah out of harms way.” Araboth wasn’t sure he would die to protect any mortal, but if this HalfMoon fellow wanted to offer him a way out of the Games, then Araboth wasn’t going to refuse.
 

    “Then so it shall be.” As HalfMoon spoke he reached forward and brushed his fingers against the golden Collar that had encircled Araboth’s neck for over five centuries.  The thick gold of the Collar broke in two and fell to the ground.  “Now when we get to my home, that dreadful hunk of metal will be replaced with the rather more aesthetically pleasing silver Collar of the Protector.”
 

    Just as Araboth and HalfMoon moved to leave, a tall feminine form shoved its way mercilessly through the front row of those still crowded around.  She rushed forward and pulled HalfMoon out of Araboth’s reach.  She stood between them, her large membranous wings spread hiding HalfMoon from sight. She bared her pointed teeth and snarled viciously. The scales that flowed over her body sparkled with a soft lavender, but any hint of softness on this Warrior’s body ended there.  Her reptilian slitted eyes were the same lavender of the hardened scales that protected her belly, spine, and the backs of her arms and hands. Her entire body rippled with well toned muscles, she was tall enough to meet eye to eye with even Araboth.  For what ever reason this Dragon Lady was pissed off at Araboth, and she held a wicked looking dagger like she knew what to do with it.
 

    “Rakira!” the muffled voice of HalfMoon cried out from behind the spread wings. “Rakira! You will stop this nonsense at once!”
 

    “Master, I will not allow this rogue slave to place a hand on you.” She spoke of Araboth as though he were a stray dog that might dirty her Master"s robes.
 

    “I am no rogue slave any longer, dear dragon lady, your Master has just appointed me his Protector.” Araboth grinned broadly at the confused and dismayed expression that appeared on Rakira"s face, and took in the thin silver necklace about her slender neck. “If I read the situation correctly, that would make you and I partners, my dear.”