A RAWN , A NGEL

OF

D EATH

Sidar
Shades, men who have traded portions of their soul for immortality, the Grey are detached from the events
of the world. Only intervening to protect themselves or striking out to destroy undead (they see undead as
aberrations despite their own use of magic to extend their life), they are happy to keep to their hidden cities
out of the eyes, and the wars, of the younger races.
Sandalphon
It was cold and foggy, the kind of thick, solid fog that can only be sustained in the man-made canyons of a
city. Everything more than an arms length from the two walking figures started to disappear in the murk, so
she had to stay fairly close in order to keep them in sight. Here and there, the soft glow of torches and lamps
changed the color of the woolly vapor. She avoided them as much as she could. Casting shadows was not a
good idea in her line of business.
When she saw him in daylight, Sandalphon remained perfectly visible, as solid as the next man but
with an unnaturally pale complexion, and dull eyes. It was as if the light never glinted off his pupils. In this
foggy twilight, however, Sandalphon seemed to blend. He seemed to glide in and out of it, or become one
with it, vaguely luminescent. He did not appear to be entirely solid. At any rate, it was impossible to say
exactly where the fog stopped and Sandalphon began, even though it was not hard to actually distinguish
him from his vaporous surroundings. The whole man was like an optical illusion. It was a rather disturbing
effect.
Unexpectedly, his voice, drifting back through the mist, was strong and commanding, not at all the
vaporous whisper or distant hiss you would expect from his shadowy appearance. He was discussing the
merits of being a shade with his traveling companion.
Immortals must necessarily become creatures of habit in the end, she reflected. It was their
weakness. Years of repetition set their lives in patterns, comfortable and predictable. Sandalphons most
exploitable habit was these walks, giving those who are considering undergoing the ritual a taste of the life
of a shade.
I never really missed love, Sandalphon mused, as they ambled along between the taverns and
shops. Love, hate, anger, greed, and jealousy are just a few of the confusing, unnecessary emotions bound
up in your soul. You soon realize that you are better off without them.
Was there nothing you missed? Nothing you felt you were giving up when you abandoned your
soul? As the acolyte asked the question, they turned a corner. Cursing, she swept after them.
Oh, of course there were things I missed. It took years before I got over the loss of pleasure of
food, and smells, and music. All those things appeal to the base instincts. But in the end, they paled in
comparison to the prospect of getting drunk on knowledge, of gorging yourself on all the wisdom of the
world, which you have endless time to explore.
They kept walking, the acolyte asking questions, Sandalphon answering with calm certainty, their
route twisting in and out of the city streets, never presenting a good opportunity for her to make her move.
Silently, she kept pace with them, praying that soon she would have her chance.
But surely some shades get tired of their never-ending existence? If I am to join you, am I doomed
to forever walk the earth, with no escape in sight? the acolyte asked, as they turned the corner into a short
road that ended in the mouth of a long tunnel.
She could not follow them in there without making too much noise. It was now or never. She
pounced.
Sandalphon considered the question: Suicide is always an option, he announced at the same time
as he straightened up, as if sensing a change in the texture of the fog. Its not that we cannot die, for
example, a violent death, he continued, making an elegant step to the left, and thrusting out his hand,

grabbing the assassins knife-arm. We can. He wrenched the unfortunate assassin toward him, and for a
split second he became very solid indeed, as if suddenly stepping out of the shadows and into a floodlight, as
he snapped her head back and thrust her spine forward in one fluid movement that produced a sickening
crack. Its just that we are very, very hard to kill, he said, and let the assassins limp body slide to the
ground.
Rathus Denmora
The once-elves startled at the alarm. Even the obsidian-clad Perditioners broke their stoic watch to look
toward the vortex. The ever-night was gone, light tore through the curtain that contained the veil and blinded
the warriors who had never seen sunlight before.
Rathus moved through the once-elves massed at the citys edge. He moved among them unnoticed,
an easy feat for a shade who often found it more challenging to be recognized or remembered by those he
knew. After decades spent like this, you become something other than mortal, the world is as much a ghost
to you as you are a ghost to the world. And you pay close attention to anything that stands out from that
haze.
Which is why Rathus was here instead of under that light. His friends, if he hadnt slipped from their
memory by now, fled the city to escape Haerlonds edict. Their fate was their own now; Rathus meant to use
the distraction to check out what the elves called the Malachite Palace, a dark ziggurat with a portal at its
summit.
The Perditioners were more observant than most and could see even into the ethereal world, which
allowed them to keep watch on anything coming through the portal. They might have seen him coming;
fortunately, whatever magic was being used in the battle provided all the cover Rathus needed and he
slipped up and through the portal. He felt as if he awoke, senses and memories that had long been lost to him
by his state were now restored. He was reborn.
A blue-skinned angel stood before him, the angel was male but he appeared to be both young and
old at once, as if he was a blue man in every stage of a full life, all in one unchanging form. He carried a set
of chains in one hand and a key in the other, and there was a sword lying at his feet.
Any whose soul is unclaimed may enter my lords domain, but there you will remain until creation
is ended. Is that your desire?
Rathus was confused by the memories; it was becoming harder to focus on the present as the
memories become more and more vivid, harder to tell if he was in this moment or another. But he managed
an answer.
No, I came to see. To pledge service to Arawn in creation if he would have use of me.
Arawn cares not for creation, his dominion is here; let the other lords bicker over the transient.
Rathus focused on the Angel, he had been well trained for this task, even to the point of being able
to ignore pain and he used those skills now. For better or worse, he perceived the angel in all of his
memories and held this conversation with him in each of them. Each of the angels thoughts was highlighted
in different parts of his life, the bickering in the declaration of war by different religious factions, creation in
the abundance of life, good and evil, and the transience in the eventual passing of everything he once
considered permanent.
There are those who wield death as if they were Arawn himself.
The angel smiled. The underworld is full of their victims. Holy or unholy, the path of these men is
always the same, masses killed to further their goals or the goals of those leading them; lives cut short while
theirs are extended beyond the appointed time. If you seek retribution, to thin humanity of those who
monopolize it, my lord will not help, but I will.
The angel stepped back from the sword at his feet and motioned for Rathus to pick it up. The blade
was lighter than steel and had green runes carved in its blade; the runes were unfamiliar to Rathus. It felt real
to hands long separated from the sensation of touch.
Retribution?
No, the angel answered, Balance. This is the Nether Blade; it will strike strongest against those

whom the angels have favored most. Those who no longer fear death will fear you.
With that Rathus turned and left the portal. The Perditioners were set to receive him, pikes at the
ready. Rathus assumed they would still be distracted by the escape; he would later discover that nearly a year
had passed from the time he stepped into and out of the portal.
Once outside the portal the world reverted back to the grey haze Rathuss shade nature made it. Only
the portal behind him and the Nether Blade seemed truly real to his senses. The blades green runes glowed
as he raised the sword and the Perditioners shrunk back before him.
Divided Soul
Verdian moved slowly through the camp. The falling snow gave more notice to the alert soldiers on the
perimeter than he did, but he moved slowly anyway. He could be perceived by some alert or spiritually
attuned individuals if he were careless, so he stayed out of the moonlight and followed the winds. The winds
were stronger than he had expected at this time, even at the foothills of Tempus Mor. The snowfall was
unseasonal as well, and he used that to his advantage, getting ever closer to the center of the camp without
drawing notice.
The guards at the large tent were less alert, but more experienced. One man was warming himself by
a large fire as Verdian passed, and his form was outlined in the smoke. The guard drew his scimitar and
stepped back into the doorway of the tent, alert now though he couldnt guess for what. Verdian took a risk
and pushed past him. The guardsman felt the heat of the fire give way to a chill, but the tent was sturdy and
should have blocked the wind. While a false alarm may bring some menial punishment and minor
humiliation upon him, ignoring an intruder here could bring his death. He called out, Lord Commander
Decius! Awaken, I fear some magic about us. Decius stirred from his rest on the floor of the tent, and other
sentries rushed in.
Emotion was tempered in Verdian, like his kin, and even more so when so far from his slowly
beating heart. He felt neither irritation nor fear when he heard the sentrys call, but pushed himself to action.
Sidar divided souls would usually will their somnolent bodies to reunite with their spirits slowly, and all at
once. This was more for their comfort than from necessity, however. Verdians hands appeared in the air
above Deciuss chest, clasped together and holding a slim stiletto. Even as the muscle and sinew of his arms
and shoulders followed he forced it to begin a downward descent, despite the pain this would cause him as
the rest of his body took shape.
The sentries were stunned for a critical moment by this spectacle, gasping in awe but unable to reach
the killer in time. Decius had been forged in far more battles than the desert warriors he now led, and had
seen and slain far more frightening apparitions. He rolled out of the way, saving his heart from the blade.
Verdian pierced his upper arm and hopped back, drawing another blade. His form was now complete, and
though his body complained of this painful transition, his will was stronger.
Decius reached for his blade, or tried to. His arm was numb, and not from pain. If the poison coating
the stiletto had reached his heart, instead He pulled the attackers weapon out with his left hand and
prepared to parry. He didnt have to, for by now his men were surrounding him. Decius finally got a chance
to get a better look at Verdian, but the garb that obscured showed only that he was a human man. You arent
the one I expected, he said.
Verdian needed but a moment to concentrate, to separate. His soul would be unable to be bound by
strong arms, and if he could get beyond the bounds of the camp he could pull his body back to him.
Sandalphon would need to know he had failed his task. Rathus and the others would hopefully fare better
against their targets. He closed his eyes, pushed away from his body but was drawn back with a cry.
Decius held a torch against the hunters body. Im afraid we need to have a chat before you leave.
Who are you and why did you try to kill me?

Mercurians
Basium broke the Compact. He was an angel under Arawn, but when the Compact was signed, he refused to
give up the direct battle with the demons. He and a small host of other rebel angels disobeyed their lords and
kept fighting. They spend their time split between time on creation and in Hell waging their war directly.
They can be found anywhere demons exist. They care little for people, they are only concerned with killing
demons, and are often confused with demons because of their single-mindedness and their rough warlike
appearance.
Basium
There is a word in the angelic tongue for love. Three, in fact. There are words for mercy, for
compassion, for tender kindness. The closest word to be used on this particular medium is carved upon
his left forearm: prudence. Like the word he just finished upon his chest, justice, this is prayer in his
native tongue written in blood and pain upon his now mortal flesh. Holiness, across his cheeks. Wrath,
along his right forearm. Judgment, his brow. Courage, down his torso. Each a prayer to gods he turned
his back on. Attributes of divine judgment he seeks to cultivate within his soul.
He was just finishing carving into the fingers of his right hand when two young men approached the
lord, dwarfed by his stone-faced sergeants that led them. What what is he doing?
It is a prayer with every pain, I beg for the strength to finish my task. He rose. He towered over
even his own mammoth soldiers.
The other man gulped. But arent you arent you a god? To whom do you pray, mlord?
Basium turned to face his men. Why do you disturb me?
I am Lars Lort, lord Basium. We wish to join your cause, me an Kobe here. A horde of Infernal
beasts destroyed our hometown, we were the only two survivors.
Then take you a swordwe march on the morn.
Well, sir, if we may, said Kobe, we two are more than mere sell-swords. See, weve a bit of
magic between us, thats how we survived the assault, by hiding invisible like. But we were watching and
we learned something. Wait an well show you. Without waiting for prompting, the two young mages
began their spells. Basium took a long, slow breath, the rune on his left arm throbbing.
It was the sulfuric smell that first alerted Basium. All his muscles tensed at its arrival before he was
able to recognize the presence of his enemy. Curiously, the balor stood motionless in the middle of camp.
Isnt it great? Lars exclaimed gleefully. We watched how the Infernals gated in reinforcements, but we
figured out how to put the ward of command around it ourselves. With us around, you can fight fire with
fire!
Basium leapt upon the Hell-beast, wrapping his bare fingers around its neck. Smoke began
immediately to hiss from the demons skin, and in moments flames began to lick at Basiums fingers. On
each of the fallen angels fingers was carved one of the five angelic names for the Most Holy One. The balor
writhed in pain, breaking free of the Lortss simple command warding in the process. He whipped at Basium
with his tail, raked his back with his claws, bellowed with an unearthly roar, all to no availthe Mercurian
was unshakeable. Eventually the demon was reduced to an almost pitiful writhing and moaning until all that
was left was a hellish smell and hissing puddles of black blood.
Basium rose, and stalked towards the two mages. You call forth a balor in my own camp? Let me
show you what I do with fireI extinguish it! Basium roared. Lars felt his brothers warm blood splatter on
his face before he even noticed that Basium had drawn his war hammer. He never noticed the second swing.
Basium walked back to his mat by the fire-pit. He picked up his ceremonial dagger, and began to
trace the W on his arm.
S e e Al s o
Chaos Marauder

Angel
I died as inanimate matter and arose a plant,
I died as a plant and rose again an animal.
I died as an animal and arose a man.
Why then should I fear to become less by dying?
I shall die once again as a man
To rise an angel perfect from head to foot!
Again when I suffer dissolution as an angel,
I shall become what passes the conception of man!
Let me then become non-existent, for non-existence
Sings to me in organ tones, To him shall we return.
Angel of Death
One may not escape the angel of death, nor say to him, Wait until I put my affairs in order, or There is my
son, my slave: take him in my stead. Where the angel of death appears there is no remedy.

Death Magic
Lichdom
If the gods desire one thing above all else, what is it? Allegiance? Worship? Ethical codes? Easily forgotten.
Their primary concern is their sovereignty, as our rulers sovereignty is theirs. The gods resent like no other
those who are able to subvert the rules that they have written into the universe, and the most utterly impartial
law of creation is death. Remember this whenever you encounter one who has found a loophole in this law,
the undead.
Skeleton
Kept alive by dark and ancient magic, Skeletons are the spirits of explorers who never found their way
home, condemned to wander the frozen wastes for eternity. Though they seldom foray into the lands of the
living, they will not hesitate to attack hapless wanderers of the wild.
The wars that spread across the Age of Magic consumed untold numbers of liveseager participants and
unfortunate victim alike. This left many empires lacking in young men to continue the wars. Clever mages
found a dark solution to the problem in the art of necromancy, raising fallen soldier to continue fighting.
Nearly all of these mages are long dead, as are the empires they served. Some skeletons still wander
the tundra, fighting wars that no longer matter. Their blows are no less dangerous to those once dealt to
them.
I loved my chosen: how then to face the day when she left me?
So I cast upon her body a single spellperhaps, to love her again.
Unknown Author, On the Various Applications of Necromancy
Spectre
A sudden cold struck the village. As the panic grew, dark clouds covered the sky like night. There was no
face without fear, there was no place to hide. They were doomed, and they knew it. Futile prayers of
salvation could be heard amidst the cries of the children and the laments of the old.
Red lighting struck, opening an abyss in the middle of the village. And a foul beast crawled from
beneath, shrouded in shadows and engulfed in vile flames. There would be no sunshine for those in its path.

Wraith
The lingering darkness that chews away at a mans soul; the unseen echoes of long-distant cries in the night;
the murderous malice of timeless death Wraiths are ephemeral creatures wrought of the fears and hatreds
of Mankind. Only the truly skilled necromancer can give them form, and only the truly foolish have the will
to do so.
During the Age of Dragons, the gods battled across creation. They fought over land and souls, until Dagda
enforced the Compact. The Compact established rules for the relations between the angels, including
providence over the souls of the living. When a person dies, regardless of race, his soul is brought to the
vault of the deity he served in life, knowingly or not.
But some people are bound too closely to their earthly life, and when they die they cannot leave this
past life behind, lingering in echoes of memories. The loss of this precious life, the frustration of dreams that
will never come to be darkens the heart of the spirit. These desires drag the soul into the Infernal Plains. The
soul arrives in Hell, where nightmarish shades whisper to the soul, making him relive his darkest memories
over and over. After some time, centuries in some cases, the mind and will of many fallen spirits are broken
this way, some of these spirits vanish, while others are devoured by the whispering fiends and other animalshaped Hungry Ghosts, spirits whose reason vanished and who exist only to satisfy their most primal
desires. Some spirits survive the mind-shattering whispers and change: they become spectres.
Spectres are fallen spirits who recovered clear reason. Their appearance and personality are similar
to what they had in life, and these will never change; the falling process galvanizes their soul to this shape.
These spectres group themselves in hopeless communities to defend themselves from a highly hostile
environment, but they keep the dreams and wishes they had in life, dreams and wishes whose realization is
almost impossible in that hellish place. Dreams and wishes that dont go away, memories of the lost ones,
that will to not disappear, nothing fades from the unchanging soul of the spectre.
During the Age of Magic, a Black Sea appeared by the shores of the razor-glass plain of Naraka. The
sky in Hell is starless, but the waveless surface of the Black Sea reflected stars, stars that are not from
Creation. Rumor spread that its waters were capable of making spectres lose their memories, dreams and
wishes, of making ones self disappear. Many spectres, bored with their grey afterlife, pilgrimaged to the
Black Sea, washing away their heart. But the dark waters dont wash away everything; a husk stays behind,
a husk that is animated by ominous will. These beings are called wraiths, a creature so unnatural that they
are hated even by the fiends. After they are born on the shores of the Black Sea they float to a sinister tower
in the middle of that sea, a windowless tower of infinite height, and no man knows what exists inside.