'No.. This can't be happening...' Kennedy's thoughts grew heavy, the gravity of the situation pushing down against him with callous force. He pressed his wrinkled hands against his head, feeling a seering pain scorching his skull.
His wavering eyes fell upon Ezeikel, whose body remained kneeled, bowing on the floor, his gaze staring towards the ground, unshifting.
'I... have to protect him... no matter what!'
His body shifted the next moment, appearing right in front of the terrified youth. Ezeikel's gaze elevated, staring at the lean behind of his weakly father.
He outstretched his unstable hand, grasping Kennedy's.
"Father, what are you doing?!" His voice was shallow, yet articulated his flickering emotions with utmost clearance. "Move! Or else... Or else...!"
"Silence!" Kennedy sneered, not turning back for even a brief moment. "Even if we loose our lives today, that bastard would have to kill me before he can even think of laying a hand on you!"
Darion's eyes fell upon the sickly man, his body twisting as he altered his direction.
"If I die here, then it's simply my time to go. I've lived a long life, anyway."
He drew his hand back, the crimson rapier releasing a sharp noise as the weapon glided instantly through the air.
Ezeikel's jaws hung low, an exoberant scream ascending from the depths of his vocal cords, straining his body to a considerable degree.
No words were spoken as the weapon was swung, Darion's maniacal countenance staring straight into the eyes of the elder vampire.
What met his gaze, somewhat to his dismay, wasn't fear or cowardice, instead, it was something different, more dignified.
The eyes of a man, unafraid of facing death himself.
Darion lightly chuckled as the rapier drew mere inches to the old man's neck. However, the crimson weapon didn't slash through weakened flesh.
A resounding clang invaded the ghastly terrain, fearsome eyes staring back at Darion with almost palpable contempt.
"Darion!" The man yelled, the luminescent sword grasped tightly in his hands. Long curly black hair fell just above his back, his facials sharp and imposing. He wore a simple pair of dark fabric that covered him from head to toe, an assortment of silver and cooper rings adorning each of his fingers.
On his neck, a silver pendant hung, an image of a young women with flowing hair carved into it.
"R-Raphael..." Darion uttered, the madness in his eyes diminishing at a rapid pace, nearly vanishing completely within seconds. "Why... why are you here?"
The leader of the Abyssal Gang was just as tall as his right-hand, his scrutinizing gaze never shifting away from his lackey for even a moment.
"Why am I here? You dare ask me such an obvious question after what you've done?!" Raphael spat, pointing his sword at Darion's throat. "I gave you all a simple rule—you were only meant to kill a hundred if they ever did something grave. Did you even take into account how going overboard could affect the balance of things?!"
He swung his hands in the air, a worried expression creeping onto his face.
"If you end up killing everyone in this town, who will we have to reign over? That was why I set a limit for The Rumbling! That was why I had to come and stop you before you burn everything to the ground!"
Kennedy's eyes remained wide in shock, his feet slowly moving back, standing beside Ezeikel.
"R-Raphael! The Leader Of The Abyssal Gang! W-why is he here?!" Ezeikel whispered, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
The acrid odour of death settled in the air, numerous body lying on the floor as their blood covered the rocky plains.
All around, small nightly creatures slowly began to gather, their tenebrous eyes staring at the dead corpses. A hunt of lust danced provocatively within their depths, each step drawing them closer to the massacre.
"Scavengers..." Kennedy muttered, his eyes narrowed.
The creatures boasted almost round-like bodies, curved spikes protruding from their backs, a short tail, and two sets of serrated teeth. They were barely two feet tall, their sharp claws and teeth tearing through vampiric flesh.
Over a dozen Driunds emerged from the darkness, drawn by the stench of bloodshed to satiate their hunger and thirst.
Though they preferred to avoid fighting live vampires, choosing instead to feast on their corpses.
And, of course, in Nefaria, death could always be found just right around the corner.
Darion took notice of the lowly scavengers, his lips curling in disgust.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Raphael swung his sword, the crimson blade clashing with Darion's crimson rapier.
A shocked expression displayed on Raphael's face.
"You... you dared block my strike?"
Realizing this, Darion quickly dismissed his blood weapon, allowing Raphael's to slash through his clothes, creating a deep wound across his chest.
The force of the strike threw him back somewhat, blood flowing from the wound frantically. He raised his hand, pressing it gently against the deep cut, a distant memory briefly playing within his mind.
The next moment, he fell to his knees, breaking down in tears as he struck the ground with his fists. Each blow sent a wave of blood splashing everywhere, falling upon those who were both dead and living.
"They killed her, Raphael! They killed her!" He repeated, visible cracks appearing on the ground where his fists kept striking.
Raphael's face grew solemn, a heavy sigh escaping his breath.
"... I already know. How do you think I could tell that you disobeyed my order? Have you forgotten the level of my power?"
Darion's actions halted, bloodshot eyes staring back at Raphael.
"You've killed over a hundred, you've gotten your revenge. Now, don't go ahead and do something you might regret later," Raphael voice was firm as he spoke, yet exuded a calm sense of empathy.
'These savages,' Ezeikel's teeth ground against each other, threatening to shatter under the crushing force.
Darion's eyes fell upon the mess around him—the countless lives he had taken, along with the Driunds feasting upon their corpses.
He placed his leg forward, pressing his hand against it as he gathered to his feet.
"Now, let's get out of here," Raphael ordered, and the next moment, the both of them left the morbid scene, heading back to the main part of Fluxton.
All that was left was an old man and his son, surrounding by numerous dead and bloodthirsty scavengers.
Kennedy heaved out a weighty sigh, falling to his knees. Ezeikel looked back at his father, noticing tears dripping from his eyes.
"I'm... so glad you're alive, son," he heard the older man speak, a sharp pain stabbing through his chest.
His attention then fell upon their current situation, his voice still infested with abysmal terror as he addressed his father.
"Let's get out of here. I'm not sure I can withstand all of this for much longer..."
The noise of locals bickering amongst each other injected the ambience with its usual dosage of entropic flow.
The citizens of Fluxton went about their daily activities as they normally would, pragmatically dismissing the fact that a gruesome massacre had just recently taken place.
Those who had lived during The Rumbling of two decades ago and beyond were swift in shushing the rowdy youths, allowing the struggling community to resume their daily hardships like nothing had changed.
The familiar sight of their poor-structured enclosure greeted father and son. Throughout The Rumbling, the house had remained as it was, unaffected by the indiscriminate killings.
The remnants of the abysmal slaugterage exchanged somber glances, stepping into the living space soon after.
Rummaging through their space belongings, their wiped themselves of sweat and dirt, eventually being seated against the hard floor.
The prickling cold spread through their bodies, yet they both shared the thought of not starting a fire.
The risk of burning accidentally their house down was just too much of a possibility, especially since living on the streets meant being plundered by others.
The creaking space was their only sense of safety within this treacherous town. People wouldn't usually break into others' homes, preferring to rob them when they were homeless instead.
This was done out of a somewhat mild sense of morality, the locals not wanting to utterly surrender themselves to the cataclysmic throes of barbarism and piracy.
They consumed their sparce dinner in the midst of the chill, the typical melancholy shrouding the putrid air.