((ever wonder what Malachite was like back in the Dark Ages? When he still worked for Victorrio? Well screw you I'm posting it anyway. :P

[b:e4ade800e4]Beloved[/b:e4ade800e4]

The air was pungent, filled with all the delicacies one might expect from the Italian countryside in early fall. The valley, warmly held between two gentle slopes, was silent. A gentle mist rolled across the green pasture that lined the flatland, sparse yet lush trees emerging from the natural blanket. With the onset of dusk, everything had taken it's natural setting with one unsettling exception.

Atop either hill, stretching like a pair of living walls, sat opposing lines of horsemen. The eastern most hill was occupied by the forces of Frodrick Ritter, a land baron from the far north. The armored soldiers were perched on top of their steeds, who moved uneasily about, the tension even clear to them. From the depths of the line various flags and banners protrudes, exclaiming their loyalty to their master.

The men, whose true desire was to be home, were feifs and servants dug up. The bitter land struggle between Frodrick Ritter and Victorrio Venetti had cost them many lives, and had spilled blood across most of the countryside. Despite their losses, they fought on, like animals locked in a feud to the death.

As the moon began it's arduous scaling of the night sky, a lone figure rode down the hill towards the opposing force. Glistening, yet damaged, armor clad his body. He bore the scars of many battles both won and lost across his face. As the trollop of his steed echoed across the silent valley, the commander of the opposite line looked on.

Gigantic in comparison were their enemies, who sat rigid and statuesque on the western-most hill. Their armor was blackened and thick, too thick to weilded by mortal warriors. Their horses, their eyes sunken and hollow, remained motionless, fulfilling their purpose with no regard to their own animalistic instincts.

High black and blue flags flapped in the twilight, the blades of pikes and broadswords accompanying them. The men's faces were pale and skeletal, the expression of lust and want strewn through their features. They were souless.

In the midst of them sat Malachite, his armor almost as black as his skin. What was once human had almost been completely erased, long ago lost to the glories and savagries of war. Even the whites of his eyes had disappeared, the blackness of his pupils and soul devouring them. And so he sat, motionless, breathless, lifeless.

"Ho! Malachite!" the commander sat within the field, alone and vulnerable, a sign of his faith. "Thou may tell thy master of thine victorious day, for Frodrick Ritter has surrendered, and requests thy master's mercy." the speech did not suit the knight, who was bred for conquest, not pleading.

Malachite was silent for a long while, and took in the orchestra of the crickets, who chirped merrily where men dare not speak. The caw of the birds in the trees, preparing to hunt once more. Throughout the valley, the cycle of life and death was about to start anew.

The black knight nudged his horse forward and began the descent down the slope of the hill, stopping only several yards from his opposing commander. He rested his hand on the hilt of his blade, and allowed his horse to wander back and forth and if sizing up his prey.

"HEAR ME!" he bellowed, his voice resonating through the pasture. "For thy humility we shall be mercifull, as is the will of my Lord, the great Victorrio Venetti! We shall kill thee quickly!" Ritter's commander stuttered and wavered in his saddle, utterly aghast at the reply, but a glance from Malachite demanded his silence. He moved closer, his black deserted eyes peering into the being of the knight. He whispered harshly and gutterly, "We shall kill thee quickly for thy humility.....but for thy cowardice, we shall kill thy families and burn thy village to the ground!"

With the last hiss, he wretched his sword from it's jeweled scabbard and thrust it deep into the belly of the war ravaged General. Doubling over, the fatally struck soldier fell from his saddle, one of his legs getting caught in the stirrups in the process. Malachite laughed uproaringly and slapped the horses hindside with the broad of his sword.

As the horse careened through the valley with it's lifeless rider in tow, Frodrick's men watched in horror.

"KILL THEM!!!" Malachite cried, raising his bloodied sowrd into the air, "KILL THEM ALL!!!!" his voice joined the cries of his men as they washed over the valley like a pestulent wave, rapidly overtaking the enemy force. Malachite, and the last shreds of his humanity, were lost in the tides of battle.

+++++++++++++++++

"My Leige...I implore your forgiveness." the words stung like hot coals in the warriors mouth, and he knelt before his master in the great hall. In the exansive depths of the hall, his words boomed out over the stonework, no matter how quiet he attempted to be.

The hall itself was a long room, carpetted with thick red fabric, hand crafted by foreign merchants. Tapestries fell from the ceilings, their embroidered scenes depicting the glories of Ancient Rome and the exploits of their owner. The moonlight toppled through high windows and fell across the floor like rivulets. That same moonlight accentuated the drying, somewhat encrusted blood on Malachite's ebony armor.

"Our forgiveness is not to be expected Malachite, nor is our leniancy." Victorrio sat atop a high backed chair, robes draping across his form. The moonlight did not, whether by chance or by sheer will, touch him. His long thick black hair served as a crown over his shoulders. Slowly he stood, the blood of centuries flowing through his body and reverberating in Malachite's head. "With each passing night, thy grows more and more boorish. Tis a wonder that thou has any soul to be considered."

"My Lord, I assure thee..." Victorrio turned, his eyes dancing with the flames that flickered from the candelbras.

"Thou assures us NOTHING...not even loyal service. We never ordered thee to turn down thine enemies surrender. But thou hast all the same."

Malachite nodded, his hatred growing within him like a storm.

"Thy anger is misplaced, and should be focused not on us, but on thineself. We shall consider thy punishment, leave us now." Malachite stood and walked out of the great hall, his breath still heavy with the blood of his enemies.

As he tore off his battered armor and cast it aside for his squires to collect, he muttered with suppressed rage.

"I am thy Childe...and am treated as so...." Fuming he approached the window of his sizeable bedroom and cast his gaze out over the landscape. The night was clear and the countryside was visable for miles, the stink of the dead carried on the night air.

The sun had not rested yet an hour the next night when Malachite emerged from the gates of his master's keep. The keep was rough and solid, built soley for the purpose of defense. The granite walls stretched around a sizeable courtyard, where several smithies and various merchants sold their goods. In the back of the courtyard, next to an expanse of stables, the main hall stood.

The hall itself served as Victorrio's throne and ballroom, where he entertained foreign dignitaries and various clanmates. Above, and accessable by several spiraling staircases, living quarters for both the nobles and Victorrio himself. Behind the hall, various servants toiled away creating feasts for his master's guests, meats and ales of all kind were served. Wines and fruits, and other foodstuff were prepared.

Outside the stonework and high watch towers, beyond the walls of Victorrio's keep, a city stretched far below. The Roman Ventrue owned and controlled the town, encompassing both his keep and the city within a single set of city walls. In the center of the hamlet, Victorrio's keep loomed high and dark, as if keeping a watchful gaze over it's serfs.

And so, with the moon freshly planted, Malachite emerged into the city, passing the narrow streets and the stink of humanity. His muscular horse plumetted through the dusty alleyways, seemingly as enraged and short tempered as it's rider.

The townspeople, who had long since come to fear and hate Malachite, scurried for cover in the shadows. As he approached the inn near the outskirts of town, Malachite slowed his horses dash to a trot. As he dismounted he tosses a single gold coin to the stable boy.

"Mind you take care of her..." he grumbled, brushing by the youth and making his way in the warm hearth of the inn. His dead skin was unaffected by the firey cheer, yet he willed it to be so. He heard the whispers of several as he stalked the room, his large black eyes scanning the room.

"Malachite the black devil.....Victorrio's murderous knave...." Malachite paid them no heed and instead planted himself near the back of the room, where the fire's flickering lights seemed not to reach. He waited silently for his companion to arrive, entering a trance-like state. Ultimately, a finely clad pair of feet stopped at his, drawing his attention.

He scanned the young man up and down, his physical features were average in most respects. He was of no distinctive height or beauty, his face plain and pale. Locks of curling blonde hair fell upon his shoulders, which were thin and unbuilt, a sign of nobility. His facial features were thin and drawn in, green eyes peering out from beneath a sloped brow.

He wore a light jacket over heavy robes, golden medallians bouncing on his chest with the rythm of his breath. A small, jewell encrusted dagger rested on his belt, apparently unused. It was a wonder the youth had been stripped of his belongings by some bandit.

The answers to Malachite's query strode up behind him, two powerful beasts of men approaching from behind. They both were clad in hard leather jerkins, and wore broadswords on their belts. Each man had the look of an experienced soldier, and cast their eyes about the room suspiciously.

"We wish to sit here." the youth stated simply, failing to meet Malachite's gaze. "Thy would do well to remove thineself from our sight."

Malachite, unsure of who the youth was, stood and vacated the seat, unwilling to put himself in further trouble with Victorrio by murdering someone of any importance. The youth took the bench, and went about ordering a drink.

As the night passed, Malachite found himself resenting the boy further and further, his anger from this night's pressures and the wrath of his master driving him to the limits of his patience.

"'Ere now, look at the pretty young lad!" Malachite glanced up towards the source of the voice. In the center of the room a drunkard swayed back and forth, a tankard of ale in his grasp. He held a wavering finger in the direction of the youth, who sat dumbfounded, amazed that any "commoner" would have the audacity to address him in such a manner. "'E certainly is a looker! Wouldst thou give me the honor of this dance?"

With the completion of the sentance, the drunkard began to dance, his white hair falling from beneath his raggetty hat and swaying with the motions. Spinning round and round, the old man purused the room. As he did so, a darkness fell over the hall.

The men grew silent, their hearts slowly filling with hatred. Several angry growls were directed towards the youth, who seemed to be growing increasingly alarmed.

"We wish to leave. Guards." the young noble stood, and escorted by his henchman, approached the door. A townsman, just then, leapt in the front of the door, blocking their escape. One of the guards barked.

"Remove thyself, or feel my steel!"

He received no response, save for the gathering of several angry peasants behind him. Surrounded, the youth looked desperately for any way out. Finally, his eyes fell on Malachite, who sat watching the events with increasing alarm. Should his master find out that he sat by idly while a noble was slaughtered...well it wouldn't reap any benefits.

Finally, the tower of a man stood, brandishing his own blade.

"Tis enough good townspeople....thy Lord would be ashamed of thy actions."