Dreaded Melchiah

You can guess which ones.

The Dumahim charged with their reckless desire to kill and outdo the other in a boorish show of combat and belief of strength. They ran into the arrows, their dead flesh taking the sweet touch and inconvenience of powerful projectiles striking and clenching. Their reborn muscles pushing and flesh healing what their armour wasn't able to rebuke.

The show of invulnerability in berserking bloodlust that would bring terror to the weak-willed. The violet standards of the risen clan flying by their bearers and their commanders leading the charge in multitudes against the human fortress.

Melchiah watched from a distant hill, claw sweeping the handle of his tea cup. The rim crying thick scarlet to the tiny plate below. Leg crossed and dark lip tasting the godly ambrosia that his body already begged for him to indulge. A prick of will before sipping.

The magical undertone of a wizard's imbibed potency at the bottom of the cup had a certain taste. So did torturous spice. The spy hanging by hooked ankles, shuddering and could only whimper through a splayed throat.

Melchiah licked his bottom lip, savouring as he watched the front assault of his brother's brutes trying to blungeon their way in. Quickly inducted fledglings to be infantry, criminals and rebels wanting a taste of immortal power that Dumah used.

His real warriors remained back, standing in silent attention. Their blood yearning to join but stoicism kept them inline, catapults hurtling their heavy boulders of outposts and homes used.

At his side, a scribe and artist were working. One sweeping his inked quill along a boarded paper, chronicling the Dumahim assault. It was the tenth night now of the siege, there have been attempted by the humans to evacuate but his brother's hunting parties were thorough. Two managed to get past, just to be played with by the more sadistic of his brood.

The artist was rendering the high fortress with its back to a man-made lake that had a river that snaked away towards the western crossing between Stalberg and a few other fortified villages.

Raziel and Rahab were dealing with the Sarafan fiefs now Melchiah had the misfortune to be chosen to assist Dumah in carving out the more stubborn Human petty lords. All were supplied by the Sarafan that remain a power, a weakened, discounted power but one that still held a force despite the loss of the daemon glyph magics.

The foul hunters found their old ways in forgotten tombs and libraries in the past three hundred years for their disgrace. Lord Kain have tried to steal and burn all he could but...there had a whisper between his brothers, even with his death, Moebius still haunt his arch-enemies with plots and hidden caches long scryed and tested for his forebears to find in due time.

The thought brought a bile in Melchiah's gut. Foul sorcerer.

"Lord Melchiah." A voice rolled under helmet, bringing his attention. "Yes, Siegmund?" He questioned without leaving his gaze on one of his captain. The skull-helmed warrior was in low bow and salute of fist to armoured chest, a mortal familiar holding his greatsword. Eyes cast the grounds and body bowed to keep respect.

"Our part is done, milord. At your command, we will commit."

"Then we shall. Drain it." Melchiah said while putting his cup back in its place. The blood slithering up and filling it again while he grabs a great fan. Flicking it out with his clawed sigil, waving it about and swayed.

In the distance, there was a thundering inside of the fort. The ground shook underfoot. Once. Twice. Then a great hole explode outward from the western side of the fortress, spilling into the spiked moat, burning the foolhardy Dumahim that fill to the once hidden trap to nothing.

Then more explosion rattled under the earth, blossoms of debris rolling from the scarred forest to lake.

Melchiah appreciated the climbing panic, it was obvious that the rank and file didn't know of the plan and that was the beauty of it. Dumah's captains knew. That is all that mattered, what they did with their troop were their own matters. All the while, one gesture of his fan before a wave of barded horses charged out. Cloaked riders snapping and urging their steeds faster.

The Dumahim were quick to recover, immediately taking the openings made. Several leaping across the most, even sabotaging each other and bounding off their battle-kin's backs to hurtle further on the walls. Clawing like eager spiders, it disgusted Melchiah in a way as he thought of Zephon.

Melchiah walked through the sewer with a slow weariness, senses reaching out before a voice whispered into his mind. “Hold, Childe.” It made his nape bristle, his lips curling under his mask in a sneer. His golden irises pierced the darkness to see another looking from one of the several tunnels in the stinking labyrinth.

“Who?” He questioned, fists tensing in full readiness to spring his vambraces’ blades from their armoured holds. “Come out and identify yourself.” The fledgling demanded, provoking a soft chuckle. A seductress’ amusement as the being stepped out, a woman wrapped in layers of miscoloured – and damp dark – clothes, even her face was shrouded. “Now, what arrogant creature dares to encroach into my little kingdom in the dark?”

She questioned with a gesture outward to the sewers with a humour of dreariness. “Speak now, or I will tear your throat just to watch your dead blood add to the foulness that I am forced to walk!” In that command, the Sixthborn restrained himself. This is the woman that Lord Kain has warned me of, her foulness is not prominent as I expected from a haggard-bride. No matter.

“You must be Madame Sadunne,’ Melchiah breathed out, swallowing his pride before bowing by the waist in curt respect. “Please, forgive me and my intrusion. I am simply passing, but not without tribute proper for a Daughter of Vorador.”

“A Daughter of Vorador. Oh, you have a way with words, childe.” The vampiress allowed to humour, crossing her jewel-wrapped arms before striding closer. The pale lights of the witch-lanterns hanging reveal her more. Her eyes were like a feline, sharp and keen as a blade. The flesh around them was alabaster with a hint of starting rot-emerald. “You speak as if another sire. There are no vampires not of his bloodline, none but-’

In her circling musing, Sadunne let herself breathe and purred dangerously. “All but one. So, he finally learned. That explains your...taint.”

“My taint?” Melchiah questioned; he felt straight-backed and squared in the shoulder, an appearance of readiness. Meekness had no purpose, especially to a creature as dangerous as her. “Yes, your presence is not of my kindred. It is off. Strange in a way, vampiric but not as it should be. Hm.” Sadunne caught Melchiah’s chin with cloven claws. Her taloned tips caressed the face-wrapping and the leather mask underneath, eye-to-eye. The Rat-Queen was a tall creature, her figure hidden in her layers, and despite his weariness, Melchiah could taste the power under her reclusion.

“If I know that man as I do, I know where you go. Be warned, those zealots may be broken but are not as toothless as we hoped. Do not bring their ilk here, or you will suffer a fate that will educate you in the fallibilities of Immortality. Do you understand me, Childe?”

“Yes, madame.” Melchiah pushed out from his tight throat, and he felt the caress – both of her palm and vampiric presence – over him. “Good,” Sadunne said, offering her other palm in silent demand to her tribute.

Melchiah kept his eye contact with her as he pulled the large pouch from his belt and placed it respectfully into the older vampiress’ hand. The grasp tightening in the blood-bloated rat cadavers within.

“Tread well...I will be watching you.” She said, slowly stepping back into the swallowing darkness. “Always.”

Melchiah sighed as he reclined within his hot oil breath. The aromas of lavenders and other sweet florals filled his nostrils, almost pushing the constant undertone of the pestilence that festered under the uncountable layers that regenerated and slogged on his cursed meat. Almost. Fortunately, counter to public belief, the Sixthborn did not complain.

There was almost a smile on his tired face as he rested his arms back along the rim of his bath.

His eyes closed and head reclined on his bountiful shoulders, to be cupped by gentle hands. The delicate fingers slowly caress his scarred scalp and thick neck. Melchiah reclined from purring. His thrall didn't deserve such a herence. How they pushed and massaged into the pockets of air that managed to seep into her lord's body. No matter how tight he made these damned stitches, it still managed.

The foulness of the escaping pressure offended their nostrils, her's more than his own for the briefest moment.

She didn't speak, only hummed to a song taught to her by her mother Lotte Baumann. That was an attentive woman, from her youth to the time of her decease in a ripe seventy-six. To be blunt, Lotte served him well and properly. It was a shame that the Whispers of the Dead got to her, her lord could not risk the affliction following her to unlife.

A sigh passed his lips, and heavy gold eyes stared up at her inheritor - Olida Baumann. Her hay-blonde hair flowed in allowed stands whilst the rest were gathered into a bun held by a brooch of pearls and golden motif. Hazel eyes immediately shifted from looking at her Master.

Good girl.

Melchiah looked at her. Her face lacked any pockmark or scar. Olida kept herself clean, obsessively so. Anything less than physical perfection as a servant of the Sixth was an offense upon Him and his ironclad orderly expectations. He could see even her ears were clean.

Her skin was beautiful.

With a face masked with stoic attention, Melchiah reached up and cupped his servant's face. He could feel her fear spike immediately, the color unable to decide to pale or flush out into her cheek. "Shhh." He whispered to the whimper conceiving in her vocal cord. The delicious fear that he ensured barbed into every mortal's soul under his banner.

Fear was all they deserved for the sins they committed. Their lives were to be used for the Empire and nothing else. They make penitence for the murders done upon countless houses and broods before the Six. The Crusades. The mobs. The public shows of executions. All of it.

Melchiah read deep into the histories and listened to the few elders that remained besides his own sire. Even the Ancient one himself, Vorador.

A hero that all were to keep a distance. Even unspoken, something grave happened between him and their Imperial Master, and it slithered into their descendants. Sins of the Father and all that. Melchiah frowned. No, they weren't worth his attention.

Backtracking, the Sixth tsk'd. The wandering mind so bloated with lore might be a shared affliction given to him by his Sire perhaps too.

"Rest your face upon my shoulder." He ordered. "Yes, my Master." Olida answered with her song-sweetened voice, slowly taking to her knees on a pillow that Melchiah allowed before hugging her soft arms around his shoulders. Her face pressed to his neck, nose almost touching the steel wire and staples that kept his outer hide together.

She could smell the oil and smell-goods that her Lord tried so hard to use to hide the beauty of his rot. Even then, she could smell the rancid stench. The Grave Personified. Her supple lips touched him but he made no move. There was no sensation to the Vampire Lord.

He felt nothing.

"You are wondrous, My Master." Olida whispered. She has adored him since her young eyes first fell on him. The stalwart proud, the unyielding demanding, the consistency that made sure the only politics that dare disrupt the quiet of his domain was the ensuring of the clan's betterment.

The Melchahim was cold and aloof. They were cruel, but not without purpose. Not like the Zephonim. Those who tolled their lives away were branded with sin. She is only condemned of being human, yet here she was - adoring her Master. The reward of her bloodline from generations ago. They saw his brilliance even then and bowed without hesitation or question.

And their reward was to be servants, tasting his blood in an unbreaking pact and, if especially well-done like her great-grandmother, ascended into the apotheosis of vampirism.

Olida hoped. Olida prayed to the Emperor that she will be found worthy.

"Olida..." Melchiah spoke again. His dark voice lulled while her hands unconsciously caressed and worshipped his stout form. Tracing his scars and stitches. His face almost twitched in aggression.

"O-oh! Forgive me, my lord. I did not..." The human muttered, withdrawing until a firm, leathery hand grabbed her. The other reached back to run his black claws through the girl's locks. "Silence." He ordered again. It wasn't a snap of command nor a bark of disdain this time. His power slithered through her muscles and bones, the Pact of Baumann still running true.

"Silence and feed me."

Melchiah sneered when he heard the warning horn; it was a low bleating that was like insectoid feet on his eardrums, the Zephonim approaching. In all reality, this method was mere formalities and more for the Human slave-warriors than actual use to the vampires, with the power of the Whisper reaching a substantial distance. Runners were preferred, anyway.

"Why are they announcing their approach?" Odilia, third in Melchiah's retinue, questioned with a quirked brow.

"To vex me." Her lord breathed out, passing his notes and logistics to Seppel as he rose from his seat to meet with his brother and entourage. At his back, most of the guard slipped at his back in a three-to-three wedge formation from his flank. The dying afternoon rolled off his thick fabric shroud. A soft irritation rubbed at his side, a mere reminder of the assassin that tried for his life a couple nights ago.

At the foremost west of his camp, the Zephonim were mounted on their charmed horses. A good twenty-five, layered in cloak and leather armour. Few wore the platemail among his brother's menagerie, holding spears bearing his developing sigil; a poised spider on a dust-grey banner bearing the imperial star.

And of course, Zephon was front with his beautifully bred horse. She was Willendorfbred, a lineage of shire horses that was stubbornly held truth by binding laws and reinforcements. Out of the whole group, Melchiah approached and greeted her first with a palm. Humorously, she neighed and greeted him in turn with familial affection. Huffing the spices clinging to his palm while he looked up to the thin-smile and mischievous squint of his sibling.

"Did you ride well, Brother?" He asks while petting the mare's nose with his thumb. "It has fared better with your thorough hold, the nights been quiet?" Zephon questioned in turn, and the youngest of Six grunted. "The nobles are well-rooted and pay their fodder well with the whip and coin. I think even the pest of bandits has found their spines in interrupting some of our patrols."

On that, Zephon made a jovial little cackle. He was as amused as Melchiah to the point of selfish murderous cutpurses recognizing the threat that they'd stop their deviance for a greater 'good' of their fellow man.

"Prayhaps, Brother. I can extend some of my finer hunters in the endeavour? They are well-accustomed to such lesser prey in my part of the wood. Former sheriffs and all." Zephon offered. Melchiah's cold yellow eyes looked up at the tall figure doubly-layered in his cloak and leather armour. A moment's thought before entertaining this one allowance of joint occasion.

Melchiah plunged his arming sword under the knight's sternum with enough force to almost throw the mortal off his feet by the cruel-clawed grip of quillon. The quick stain of blood spreading out the croaking man's surcoat. The fight of a dead-man was immediately, even when the knight dropped his sword. Fists flying and quivering fingers clawing at the lord's masked face and gorget.

The Sixth gave no moment of hope for his victim, his free hand wrapping around the mortal's throat before shoving hard. His blade piercing beyond the severed lungs, ignoring the blood spilling on his fingers from both the drowning mouth and soaking chest. The sanguine to be sampled by his Father's morbid armour, crawling on the pulsating muscles and veins under the gilt plating adorned by Melchiah's armsmith.

With a twist, the jolt of Death's snatch came and by a pull of the flame-curved blade, the arc of blood followed it to feed both Master and warplate by vampiric thirst.

At either side, more of the Knights of the Tears were fighting for their occupation. Their soft silver-blue armour and sea-azure surcoats flown, silver-edged blades whirling and cutting against the Melchahim and their mortal thralldom. Professional warriors that fought with hope and defiance against an eternal enemy, the remnants of the Old Sarafan's war-tutelage was noticeable. Even the stink of the inert odd 'holy magicks' that etched their armour, giving moment's rebuke by vampiric blades.

Melchiah dropped the withered corpse in his grasp and took to the next brave soul, sidestepping a halberd's speared thrust. Chopping its axehead under the hilt, his edge bouncing off a rune-lined heft. Enough of a distraction that the knight twisted his weapon and tried to cleave into Melchiah's armoured ribs but found his weapon gripped by the cursed cuirass' muscles in a vice clench. 'Blackguard!" The knight cursed as he tried to wretch his weapon back, only to find it steadfast.

After this time, attempts were made but I never put it down on blog. Here is a preview of the Melchahim Court.

Melchiah watched the battlefield from his vintage point, his familiars flying high to bring better view onto his scope. The Humans were slowly losing their momentum, they attempted to catch their march unaware through the western mountainpass. The ridge-folk of Dilmonde were a hardy and cunning bunch of sellswords and scavengers, but when the war against Humanity became prominent - it was easy to imagine who they would choose.

Human Stubbornness is ever amusingly frustrating - as much as Human self-preservation.

The promise of immortality was ever an tantalizing possibility to mortals. A few of them willing to betray their own for the mere hope of escaping the same, inevitable fate. Melchiah still wondered if he will actually honour a traitor's oath.

With a mere thought, one of the flying vultures made a swoop that threw a sharpshooter's aim off from disabling one of his vampires. A credible warrior risen from a noble-stock, Meridian merchantry. The last thing Melchiah needed was the lose of a fine economic advisor in the coming future.

The Melchahim vampires, whilst more plentiful than his brothers by nearly twice the numbers in the current state of the war, had to make up for their...lacking of raw power. As much as Melchiah despised to admit they may never be as strong as the Turelim or magically attuned as the Razielim, he found it a boon as much as a shame. They didn't need crutches. His vampires will win will by pure merit and outdo all others in their cunning and dedication to the future of the Empire.

And after...well - only their Dark Gifts will tell. They are still young. He is still young and power oozed under his skin.

As the death-like motif of their armour, from the ivories of skull-shaped plate to the rot-yellow of cloth and putrid brown of leathers, the Sixth Clan gave the humans their future for resistance. Cruel blades with serrated edges swept and tore through flesh and muscles, taking strands of either. Clawed shields catching returning axes, breaking hefts and necks with savage twists and punches.

The plentiful veins mined so far from Vasserbünde and its surrounding mines, to be forever worked by war-claimed slaves and fools, provided a fair quantity that secured the Melchahim place and the quality passed from smiths that Melchiah demanded of. Even some of the Razielim and Rahabim that came to join in his spear of the war were awed by his naked determination.

Perhaps one of the finer joys that the Sixth Lord can endure under his swelling chest. They saw the unyielding fist that he commanded, the expectation issued and his true followers followed accordingly. Anything less was a disgrace and fatal, an understanding they followed onto their underlings and so it went.