A dizzying expanse of sky unfolded before the newly-fledged Raziel as he chased his supplicant and benefactor through the atmosphere. The tang of smoke from faraway fires and the icy breath of the wind curled around him as he swept through the lower atmosphere. The land below was murky, and though some of the pollution his kindred had wrought to protect themselves had faded with time, enough remained for visibility to be restricted below a certain altitude. Every so often a spire of rock thrust high into the air, and he practiced curving around them, too pleased with his new condition to spare thoughts for self-consciousness.

    Yahriel flew nearby, though not close enough that her own pinions would be fouled by an erratic move on the part of a neophyte flyer. She suppressed an almost maternal smile as she watched Raziel's acrobatics out of the corner of her eye. Though she had gained the skies nearly four hundred years ago, she still remembered the first quivering thrill of freedom, and the careless stunts she and her brother had dared each other to do. Though they had nearly been dashed to pieces on the rocks several times, the desire to test their limits had been stronger than any warning from the older seraphim. Mortal children are wont to disregard their parents' warnings, and immortal children are even more so. Yahriel chuckled to herself, and extended a wing to catch a nearby thermal.

    She soared, suddenly, buoyed upward by the upwelling of air. Raziel, startled by her unexpected rise, backwinged in surprise and stared up at her for a moment, then began working his wings furiously to catch up. Repentant, she dove and pulled up near him, not wishing to leave him behind for the sake of showing off.

    "How did you do that?" he asked, and for the first time, his voice held simple curiosity.

    Yahriel thought for a moment, then replied. "Weak as this world's sun is, it still produces enough heat to warm the earth well during the daylight hours. Winds blowing over the heated land will be warmed themselves, and they will rise more quickly. These columns of warm air - we call them "thermals" - will save you much effort if you can find one. Lift with the air rather than under your own power."

    The thermal she had ridden was still spiraling upwards a few yards away. Yahriel hovered at its edge, wings sweeping the air.

    "Care to try? Best to learn when the opportunity presents itself."

    She darted into the air column and extended her wings. The seraph's feathers ruffled as the wind filled her wings, and she swooped upwards without effort. Raziel waited below, hesitant. He dodged around the boundaries of the warm wind, gauging the amount of lift it would provide. Unsure, Raziel had backed off for a moment when a sudden blast of warm air rushed in below his wings and pushed him, all unwilling, into higher reaches of the atmosphere.

    With a startled yelp, the vampire retracted his wings instinctively, which proved to be a mistake. He fell for a few hundred feet before his presence of mind took over and he unfurled his wings with a loud crack. It wasn't quite enough, and Raziel rolled crazily for a moment before gray wings nearly closed around his head and a slender arm caught him around the waist.

    He steadied, and Yahriel let him go and pulled away. Laughter danced in her eyes for a moment, then she regarded him gravely and said, "I had forgotten to tell you that thermals are not entirely stable."

    "You could have told me that before I was lofted into the air like a -- well, like a--"

    "Like a what?" she prompted.

    "Like a feather!" Raziel growled, glowering.

    Now she did laugh, but not unkindly. "I apologize, Raziel. I forget that you are as new to flying as you are. But for pity's sake, don't fold your wings unless necessary! Far easier to lose altitude than to need to gain it at the wrong time. Now, shall we try again?"

    Raziel extended his wings again into the briskly rising wind. Forcing himself to remain composed, he arced them out into the warm air and was lifted gently higher. It was just like riding the puffs of air generated by the immense, creaking fans in the Silenced Cathedral that had presumably powered the pipe organs. More confident now, he experimented with the thermal, testing how far he had to fold his wings to drop in a more controlled fashion. Yahriel watched, bemused. Once he had probed the new phenomenon to his satisfaction, he turned his course again to the west. Yahriel followed, lazily soaring on the winds.

    The flight was quiet, the participants lost in their own thoughts. It was not until a particularly majestic mountain peak began to emerge from the gloom that Yahriel intruded upon her companion’s silence.

    "Look there, Raziel." She gestured towards the mountaintop. "The Aerie. Home."

    She increased her pace a little, eager to reach it. Raziel fell behind, more interested in surveying the area. Small shapes winging around the peak could be seen faintly – more seraphim, he thought. A subtle yellow glow below him caught his eye, and he glanced down to see a tower carved out of the rock set beneath him. He could sense its energy coursing through his bones, eerily sentient. Whatever it was, it had chosen to let him pass.

    Raziel lifted his gaze and saw that Yahriel had nearly outpaced him, and he worked his wings to catch up. As he approached the Aerie, he could see two more towers. They were several miles off, but the air around the seraphic Keep was surprisingly clear, clear enough for him to make out that the tower to his left was glowing slightly red and the one to his right was green. Another thing to ask Yahriel about, when the time came.

    The seraph was angling towards a wide, flat plateau set into the mountain, which was no doubt a landing space for a seraph. She backwinged neatly and gracefully settled onto the balls of her feet, fluttering her wings for balance, then pulled them in to complete the movement. Once earthbound, the angel turned and looked skyward for Raziel, who was still hovering overhead.

    Landing… he had not even considered it. Raziel flew down until he was only a few yards above the platform. He furled his wings just a little, intending to glide gently down like he had done a thousand times before on the tattered shreds of his old wings. It very nearly worked – he was only a few feet above the stone before he stalled midair and fell unceremoniously to the ground. Cursing, Raziel hauled himself up and glowered at the seraph, who was watching the Aerie instead of his unskilled display.

    She looked back at him and said, "I can see that you will need some amount of practice. Do not despair. It will come in time."

    To allay his embarrassment, Raziel busied himself with settling his wings. He was met with frustration there as well, since the large pinions would no longer twist under and settle upon his back, trailing edges upright. Not wishing to watch her companion struggle further, Yahriel approached him.

    "These wings are too large for that tack to be effective. Watch closely." She turned her back to him, and extended her feathers fully. She drew them in slowly, allowing Raziel to watch the mechanics of settling a large wing.

    Raziel groused as he repeated her movements. "I had no idea this was so complicated," he muttered, delicately folding the scaffold of bone and membrane so that it lay close to his back. The wing-claws nearly touched above his head, and he would have to adjust to the dulled sensation of flesh brushing against the back of his calves. Nettled, he resettled his clan-drape and followed Yahriel into the angel keep.

    The vampire's first impression of the Aerie was one of lofty pillars of gold-veined white marble and arching ceilings that would allow a seraph to fly through the corridors as easily as walk. Echoes from the rasp of his claws on the floor ran away into passages leading away from the main hallway. Hints of ethereally lovely singing and the sigh of feathers flickered through the halls.

    Raziel stared for a moment, rapt. The grandeur of these halls equaled the grandeur of the height of Kain’s empire at the time of his execution. It brought back memories that had lain dormant since his plunge into the Abyss – thoughts of his Clan and his fortress, and his glory as the firstborn of Kain’s sons. He clenched his talons and tried to stifle the centuries-old flood of images. The seraphim had offered a chance at rebirth, and it was time to leave the old behind.

    The seraph’s voice intruded on his thoughts, and Raziel looked up.

    "The Archon is waiting for us, Raziel. Please, follow me."

    With a start, he realized that Yahriel had started off without him. Her pace was quick, and Raziel hurried along behind her, still admiring the Aerie. The presence of magical power everywhere set his nerves to humming. The air sang with energy, and he knew that it would not take long for any eldritch energy he spent in glyph spells to be regenerated.

    They hurried through ancient halls, passing intricate tapestries depicting scenes from Nosgoth's past. Their passage was too swift for Raziel to study the weavings, but quick glances at each one left him with a momentary image of Nosgoth's past. He saw the establishment of the Circle of Nine, then the Sarafan purges, then the eventual rise of Kain to prominence.

    There was more history here than he recognized, though, for woven into the threads were depictions of vampire and human living in relative peace, and seraphim walking amongst both. It was a concept that was foreign, since humans were a mere source of food to his kindred, not neighbors. Then came corruption of the Circle, and the subsequent misuse of power. The vampires turned against their human hunters, and the seraphim retreated. There was little time to ponder these revelations, and a rushed glance at a scene of a vampire (Vorador? Surely not!) guesting with his hosts before he and the gray-winged seraph came into an enormous vaulted chamber.

    The chamber was immense and magnificent. The floor was inlaid with precious stone and gold in rich, incredible patterns. To Raziel's left and right, the entire Host was massed in an array of wings. As he proceeded into the room, accompanied by Yahriel, he could feel the weight of their regard on his rebuilt wings. A murmur from the Host grew in volume as the two of them walked to the center of the room. Before them, a throne cut from the bones of the mountain rose from the floor. It was worked in silver and gems, and draped with midnight-blue velvet all shot with stars. To its left, a doorway lay shrouded in shadow. Yahriel knelt and held her wings close, waiting.

    Raziel pulled his own wings in, but refused to drop to one knee. The last time he had shown obeisance to a superior, he had been taken unawares and sentenced to this torturous unlife. He returned the stares of the seraphim with his own baleful gaze, refusing to succumb to their unspoken challenge. You have summoned me, he thought, and now you will accept the demon in your midst.

    The low rumbling from the Host took on a new tone. They shifted restlessly, anticipating. The buzz grew to a fever pitch, then dropped off as a figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway to the left of the throne. A tall angel walked through and spread his wings, commanding the attention of the Host. The room fell to silence. The herald lowered his wings and announced in a resonant voice, "The Archon of the Host, Pistis Sophia!"

    The angel moved aside and bowed his head in respect. With a sigh, the remainder of the Host mimicked his movements, and waited for the Archon to appear. All attention, Raziel's included, was focused on the throne. The hangings at the doorway swept aside, and the Archon herself walked through, her pace stately and measured.

    A mortal human might have guessed the Archon to be in late middle age, but the strength of her presence and the power she radiated indicated to Raziel that she was much, much older, perhaps older than Kain. Only a thin circlet of gold and precious stones set on her iron-gray hair betrayed the Archon’s rank, yet the violet eyes held the depth of command that marked an extraordinary leader. Her wings were purple, edged with black. She settled them as she ascended her throne, turning to face her people as she reached the top.

    Stillness hung in the air, like the calm before the storm. Then the Archon's voice broke through the quiet hall, measured and powerful.

    "Be welcome, Lord Raziel, to my halls and to our ranks. Nosgoth's fate, and ours, hangs in the balance with your fate, reaver-of-souls. You are the salvation for a corrupted land, and our hope."

    The Archon bowed, drawing a collective gasp from the gathering of angels. A reigning monarch only showed deference to another monarch, and her respectful obeisance meant that she was recognizing Raziel, not Kain, as the ruling power in Nosgoth. Caught off guard, Raziel choked back his surprise and lowered his own head. He straightened up quickly as the Archon began to speak again.

    "As the Wheel of Time has slowed, so have the threads of life that sustain us. Though its effects will be cataclysmic, the Wheel must turn again. The Elder knows this; Moebius knows this; and Kain knows this. Each seeks to steer the course of Nosgoth's future to his own ends. We have no desire for power, Lord Raziel. We only wish to survive.

    "To this end, I offer you alliance. I offer you our might and our magecraft, but most of all, our knowledge. The Purges deprived your race of its Elders, and you know little of Nosgoth before the rise of Kain. We see all, and we remember."

    Raziel was silent, considering. Her offer was nothing short of incredible, since the seraphim as a race did not take part in the daily struggles of earthbound Nosgoth. How dearly this attitude had cost them! Noninterference had encouraged the Sarafan purges, which in turn paved the way for Kain's vengeance. Turning a blind eye to the struggles of the earth below had brought them to their knees in the end. It was a supreme irony that he was sure Kain would have loved.

    His quest was vengeance, not the salvation of an arrogant race. There was some part of him that argued that the lofty seraphim had gotten what they deserved. The Archon's offer had merit, though. The idea of an army at his back was not easily dismissed, and seraphic knowledge could keep him from repeating his master's mistakes.

    The Host waited. Raziel felt their desperation pouring over him like a tidal wave, and he laughed, silently. Such irony, and such power to know that the fate of an entire race depended on his simple whim…

    Still, he had no desire to condemn the seraphim to obscurity. His mind was made up. Raziel glanced over at Yahriel, who was still kneeling motionless on the floor, then lifted his gaze back to the Archon. The balance of power in Nosgoth was about to take a most unexpected turn.

    "I accept."