Yahriel.  Ambassador to the Archon, leader of a long-vanished race.  Warrior, most likely a mage, and now a supplicant.  If the legends were true, her race hardly needed Raziel’s services to fight Turel, and his suspicions rose accordingly.  They had managed to stand away from the Sarafan purges and Kain’s subsequent dominion of Nosgoth, never lifting a wingfeather to aid either side.  Now that it served them to do so, the cause was taken up, and Raziel had been pulled away from Kain’s cat-and-mouse game to clean up after his brother.  He shook his head, tremendously irritated.
     “Fight him yourself, Yahriel.  I did not come here to do your killing for you.”  He folded his arms and turned away.
     “We have tried, again and again.  Therein lies the problem,” she replied softly.  “Many of our number have fallen, and there have been no new seraphim born since Kain stopped the Wheel of Fate.  We are dying, Lord Raziel.”
     Raziel did not answer.  His hearing, still hypersensitive, had picked up a very distinctive sound – the rushing sweep of wings.  Glancing to his side, he saw that Yahriel has heard it too.  She had picked up her spear and was waiting, tense and alert, for the approach of the unknown flyer.  The sun had set, and it would be nearly impossible to see any approaching form against the coming dark, even with his night-adapted eyesight.

     The attack came nearly without warning.  Raziel had only a confused impression of black feathers and a sweep of air as he ducked away from his assailant, purely on reflex.  The creature shrieked a battle cry, and he heard it approach again.  Raziel swung the Soul Reaver in a mighty overhead swing as it dive-bombed him, but his blow swung wide and he felt talons rip into his shoulder.  The Soul Reaver winked out, leaving him unarmed. 
     A blaze of white light went up from behind him as a brilliant globe of mage-light streaked skyward.  The winged attacker was now apparent – Raziel could see it hovering on ink-dark wings in the air, gauging its next move.  Its red eyes burned.  Clearly this creature was a vampire, but as far as Raziel knew, there were no other vampires besides him who had ever developed wings.  Soul-hungry and ready to fight, Raziel sent blasts of telekinetic energy hurtling towards the nephil, intending to knock it out of the air.  It laughed at him, dodging with ease.  Raziel snarled in frustration – the vampire was too damned fast! 
     From the corner of his eye, he saw Yahriel slowly spread both wings.  Without the protective layer of feathers, the extent of her wounds was clear.  Great gashes had been raked in her side, and Raziel suspected that something like this nephil had been the cause.  She brought both wings sweeping down, and launched into the air.  Her flight was labored, but she had pulled herself aloft.  Despite himself, Raziel was both fascinated and infuriated by the motion of the beautiful grey feathers, and a thought all unbidden rose to the forefront of his mind – I want my wings back!  This freedom of motion would have been his as well if Kain had not ripped the bones from his wings, and the memories of his first tentative flight did little to stem the combination of desire and jealousy.
     Above him, the nephil had noticed the second combatant, and evidently decided that she was much more interesting prey.  From its superior altitude, it stooped on the barely-flighted Yahriel, claws outstretched.  As the vampire streaked towards her, she brought her wings down hard, rapidly gaining altitude.  The nephil shot under the seraph, and wheeled around in an explosion of feathers for another pass.  Yahriel, forcing reluctant wings to move, started to fly away from Raziel, attempting to make herself the primary target.  She turned towards her adversary, lifting her weapon.  Shrieking, the nephil swooped out of the sky as the seraph sighted along the haft of her spear.  Yahriel threw, and the spear kindled a stream of fire from the air as it roared towards its quarry. The vampire saw the missile and rolled right, laughing in triumph.  Its glee was short-lived as the seraph’s spear curved, impossibly, in its flight and slammed through the creature’s chest. It fell heavily to the ground, wings splayed. 

     Breathing hard, Yahriel landed carefully beside the fallen nephil, and stretched her hand out.  Golden energy lifted from the dying vampire in a stream, and she pulled it into herself. Her wounds, a deep and livid red, started visibly closing.  Startled, Raziel watched the seraph feed – did she feed on soul energy as well?  No, it couldn’t be – the soul was even now lifting from the creature’s body, released from its prison of flesh.  Reflexively, he inhaled the soul, and the Soul Reaver manifested again, tendrils of green energy wrapping almost lovingly around his arm.
    “What did you take from that creature?” he whispered, half to himself.
     The seraph knelt at the side of the fallen nephil, ignoring him.  She gently lifted its head, smoothing ragged dark hair away from its face.  A brief expression of intense, painful sorrow crossed her features for a moment.  Her voice, when she spoke, was full of suppressed anger.  “Witness for yourself, Lord Raziel, the death of our race.  This poor wretch was my kindred once, but he was caught by your brother and raised again as a vampire.  If he had not been bound to Turel’s service, we could have welcomed him back, vampire or no; but as your brother’s slave, the greatest kindness we can show him is release.”  Yahriel bent to pull her spear out of the body.  “Forgive me, Kochab.”
     Raziel was silent.  He knew the seraph’s pain all too well – despite his brothers’ betrayal and his subsequent rage, he still bore some measure of self-loathing over his forced fratricides.  Still, he had not forgotten who had helped his brother Dumah hurl him into the Abyss, and the sight of her wings had stirred his anger at Turel’s lack of action anew.  The seraph’s genuine anguish over her fallen comrade, despite the nephil’s vampiric condition, had stirred the infinitesimal amount of compassion Kain had left him.  All at once Raziel decided to see what these seraphim could offer him; if this were a cheat, the results would be sufficiently bloody so as to discourage any further would-be overlords.

     He redirected his attention towards the seraph, who was stoically watching her former comrade fall away into dust.  “What bargain does your Archon offer me, Yahriel?” he asked.  “I might be persuaded to aid you, provided your terms are to my liking.”
     Yahriel paused a moment before replying.  “The Archon herself would be best suited to answer your questions.  For that, I must take you to the Aerie.”
     “Where?” Raziel looked around; this bare, desolate area hardly looked fit for habitation.
     “High in Mount Aderyn, to the west,” she said, pointing towards a mountain a little lower than its majestic brothers.
     Raziel laughed outright.  “How shall I get there, ambassador?”  His voice was thick with mockery.  “Shall I lift these mutilated wings to catch the mountain winds?”
     The seraph sighed.  “I can carry you, of course.”  Yahriel looked his tattered, skeletal form up and down.  “I am a good deal stronger than I look, and you would hardly be much of a burden even on an extended flight.”  Her gaze sharpening, she added,  “Or, if you prefer, you might well be able to carry yourself, Lord Raziel.”
     “Do not insult me, seraph.”  Raziel’s tone was icy.  “These ruined remnants of my heritage will not serve.  You had best mind your tongue if you wish to retain my interest.”
     “I am not toying with you,” she said, matching his tone.  “I have a bargain of my own to strike, and I assure you that the results will be far more immediate.  I have the power to restore your broken wings, and more.  I can do it, and I will – provided you help me, first.”
     “Such a thing is impossible!” Raziel sneered, dismissing her words as a story for a foolish fledgling.  “You cannot regenerate this corpse I am cursed to inhabit, no matter what the legends say of your healing skills.”
     “Can I not?” the seraph replied, mildly.  From a crack in the stone, she pulled out a long-dead twig, with a few crumbling leaves still attached.  As Raziel watched, disbelieving, she surrounded the wood with the same luminous energy he had seen her pull from the vampire corpse earlier.  Under her hands, the twig revived slowly, and the skeletal leaves filled in and became whole and green.  Silently, she handed the living branch to Raziel, who took it in his talons as if it were made of glass.
     A living branch, impossible and possible all at once.  A chance presented, however slim, to gain the skies and reclaim his birthright – the temptation was almost too much to resist.  “What do you want from me?” Raziel asked.
     Yahriel flicked a wing and resettled it.  “As you have seen, Turel has been slowly decimating my kindred and making them his new children.  One seraph he caught was my brother, Jehoel.  In my brother’s case, Turel was sloppy.  Jehoel was not yet dead when Turel breathed in his vampiric gift and drew a second soul into his body.  Now, there are two souls in one body, each fighting for dominance.”  She absently rubbed her hand over her nearly-healed side.  “I tried to pull the second soul from his body, but I cannot do it.  I barely escaped with my life.  As a reaver of souls, only you can both drive the borrowed soul from my brother’s body and absorb it.”
     Resting again on the haft of her spear, Yahriel fixed Raziel with her level grey gaze.  “I would do almost anything to free my irin – my twin.  Restoring you will not be easy, but I will pay the price to bring my brother back.”  Lifting her chin in defiance, she challenged, “What say you, Lord Raziel?”
     Finally allowing himself to be swayed, “Where is your brother?” asked Raziel.
     She gestured with the head of the spear back the way Raziel had come.  “There is a tunnel, not too far along, which leads inside the mountain.”  The seraph smiled, thinly.  “The path should be obvious, as it is clearly marked with my blood.”
     “I did not see any tunnels.  Perhaps you should elaborate.”  Raziel peered into the gloom, but even his sensitive vision could not make out a hole in the walls of the caldera.
     The seraph muttered to herself, “Perish it, it is nearly impossible to see anything.  Too dark.”  Yahriel’s hands described a globe, and white light poured from between her fingers and licked at the surrounding stone.  She released the large witchlight, and it illuminated the surrounding area with cold fire for a good half-mile in every direction.  Beckoning him, she began to walk in the direction she had motioned with her spear.   As they traveled, a cave half-hidden by an overhang came into sight.
     “Do you see?” asked Yahriel.  Raziel nodded assent. “In there, across the underground river and high up, there is a cavern where Jehoel has barricaded himself.  Just remember – if you kill the body, Jehoel’s soul will depart and the vampire soul will completely inhabit his corpse.”  She drew back a moment, considering the Soul Reaver.  “Does your weapon dissolve every time you are injured?” the seraph asked.
     “The Soul Reaver may only manifest itself when I am at full strength.”  Raziel remembered the Elder’s words echoing in his ears after he had taken possession of the symbiotic weapon. 
     “In that case, if you will forgive my presumption, you will need a more reliable – if less powerful – weapon which will serve to take down a flying target.”  Yahriel’s fingers tightened on her spear, then released as she appeared to make up her mind.  “I will give you mine own.  It possesses certain…properties that may be of great use to you.”  She carefully proffered the weapon to Raziel, who took it. 
     “Now – choose a target and cast the spear,” she said.  “Make it something difficult to hit.”  Yahriel smiled.  “It will not miss.”
     Raziel lifted the weapon to his shoulder.  Its balance was excellent, and it fairly pulled at his talons to be gone.  A faraway tree trunk, toppled into the stone, would suffice as a proper demonstration.  He hurled the spear, and it flew unerringly without losing altitude to bury itself in the ancient wood.  Before Raziel could move to retrieve the spear, Yahriel stopped him.
     “Do not bestir yourself to chase your weapon.”  She nodded towards the tree trunk.  “Call it back.”
     “Call it back?” questioned Raziel. 
     “Summon the spear in your mind, and it will lift from its place to fly home to your hand.”
     Feeling a trifle foolish, Raziel stretched his hand out and called the weapon to return.  As if pulled by an unseen hand, the spear shook itself free of the wood, and streaked back towards him to settle neatly in his outstretched claws.  Useful thing, this…
     “Use it well, Lord Raziel.  Once called, this weapon will break stone to return to you,” said Yahriel.  “You have all the help I can give you.  I hope it is enough.”
     She bowed her head in farewell.  Raziel gripped the spear tightly, the light from the quiescent Soul Reaver reflecting in the crystal head.  He lifted it briefly in salute, then turned and ran into the cavern.

     Yahriel watched him disappear.  A sudden chill came over her, and she shivered, wrapping herself in her wings.  Unarmed and still hurt, she was all too vulnerable, but winning the reaver-of-souls to their cause was too important for such things.  Setting the strongest watch-wards she could, she settled down to wait.  Concern for her brother and his would-be rescuer gnawed at the corners of her mind as she began pulling in threads of potential energy for later use. 
     Our last hope, Yahriel thought, shivering again.  Looking toward the cave mouth, she murmured softly, “Godspeed.”