His passage from the Oracle’s Cave to Moebius’ sanctuary had been mildly disorienting at worst, but this journey threw his senses into chaos with a sudden lurching wrench.  Glittering starlines streaked past his vision, producing a sense of vertigo that would have sparked violent nausea in a human.  Raziel, thankfully, was not prone to such weaknesses; however, the sensory distortions were enough to make the undead vampire wish desperately for travel’s end.  Finally, after what seemed like eternity, the world righted itself and cast him out on an alien shore.

     Staggering to his feet, Raziel turned around in time to see the portal close in on itself.  He looked around, trying to get some sense of where – and for that matter, when – that dratted sorcerer had placed him.  He stood on a rocky outcropping high in an unknown mountain range; to the west, jagged alpine peaks jutted skyward, defying Nosgoth’s ever-present smog.  The foothills fell away to the east, and the faint sounds of a river reached Raziel on a freshening breeze.  Ancient trees, dead and desiccated, lay tumbled on the slopes like fallen matchsticks.  Nosgoth’s wan sun was setting, its dying rays tingeing the rock a somnolent shade of rose.  Below him, maybe a half-mile distant, lay the pocked remains of an ancient volcano, naturally fortified.  Raziel’s suspicions immediately arose – what better stronghold for Kain? 

     Raziel began to scrabble down the mountainside, talons providing him excellent purchase on the treacherous ledges.  He had not gone fifty yards down before a brilliant flash of light caused him to step back, dangerously close to an edge.  The blaze died down, and there stood Moebius, uncharacteristically ruffled. 
     The vampire was the first to speak.  “Where is Kain, archmage?” Raziel demanded, carefully moving away from the precipice.  “After that masterful transfer, the least you owe me is an explanation!”
     “Listen to me, Raziel.”  Moebius seemed upset; this did not bode well.  “The timestream did not go as planned, and you are not where you are supposed to be.  Kain is not here.” 

     Furious, Raziel lunged out with sword and claw, aching to rip out Moebius’ lying tongue.  “You bastard!  You tricked me!”  Raziel’s anger turned to astonishment as the Soul Reaver passed through Moebius’ standing form – insubstantial, it seemed, as air.  A taish!  Nearly casting himself over a cliff with the force of his attack, he caught himself and whirled to face the apparition.  “What is the meaning of this?  Why did you bring me here, if Kain is not waiting?”  His talons clenched and released with emotion; it was clear that if Moebius had indeed been standing on the ledge, he would have been thrown down in pieces.
     Moebius spoke again, his manner conveying urgency.  “I do not have time to argue.  Control over this matter is out of my hands.  In short, you have been recruited.  Your younger brother Turel lives yet, and you were diverted to meet the threat by those afflicted by his presence.”
     Raziel’s anger turned to disgust.  Humans, most likely.  “Are you telling me that some upstart human sorcerer was able to wrest control from your capable hands?”  Contempt dripped from his voice; whether it was for humanity or for Moebius was not certain.
     The taish shook its head.  “Not human, not this time.”
     “Who then, Moebius?” snarled Raziel.  “Answer me!”
     The apparition began to speak.  “Saraf—“ was as far as it got before the sending was abruptly interrupted in a burst of static.  Before he could complete his words, Moebius’ image dissolved, the sending incomplete. 

     Staring at the empty space where the ghostlike messenger had stood, Raziel felt his fury burn again, white-hot.  To trust that mad oracle, to let himself be duped by machines and magic...  Surely someone with a millennium’s experience behind him would have, should have, known better!  Yet Moebius had seemed genuinely agitated.  Had the Sarafan survived?  Did they hope to bend Raziel to do their bidding?  If that was the case, Raziel reflected, they would have a very great surprise coming.  For all his noble words to Kain, he felt no loyalty to a race of priests who were no less bloodthirsty than the creatures they hunted.  Vampires, at least, took sustenance from what they killed.

     A shrill, piercing shriek cut the air, distracting Raziel from his reverie.  That sound had come from the direction of the caldera!  Resuming his scramble down the mountainside, Raziel decided to find the origin of the sound – perhaps the human sorcerer who had brought him here was even now meeting a grisly end.  If the vampire could have smiled, he would have; as it was, he took pleasure in thinking about devouring the soul of whoever had diverted him from his revenge.
     A few hundred yards’ drop, and he was upon an old lava plain leading to the mostly-eroded lip of the volcano.  The sounds of a scuffle reached him, and he turned to follow.  Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited.
 Raziel ran towards the source of the sound, pulling up short when he found a body rapidly crumbling into dust.  Vampiric?  His enemies in the Clan territories had all swiftly decayed once he had devoured their souls; once they were dead, Nature took over with a vengeance.  Kneeling to inspect the body before it was completely lost, Raziel discovered a gaping hole in its torso.  No doubt about it; this creature had been killed by impalement.  Sarafan work, certainly!  At least the unknown vampire had died fighting, thought Raziel, not without some measure of sympathy.  Of more interest was the trail of blood, faintly luminous, that lay splashed on the rock (but what manner of human has glowing blood? argued some rational corner of his mind) at irregular intervals.

      The trail led him for nearly a quarter of a mile into a protected alcove.  The smell of blood was stronger, and for a moment Raziel was sorry that he could not feed from what would have been an easy kill.  Something moved in the shadows – Raziel could make out a human form draped in a pale cloak.  He moved in, flexing his talons.  The figure took notice; metal rang against stone as it lifted itself to its feet, obviously in pain.
     “Stay back!” it – no, she – hissed, moving out of the shadows.  The fading rays of twilight caught the woman fully as she stepped forward, and Raziel stared at her, amazement rapidly replacing fury.

     The tricky light could have fooled a less discerning eye into thinking she was human at first; the hands and feet had not mutated into vampiric claws, and her skin, while pale, was not the dead white that his had been.  The face was almost human, but closer inspection revealed the upswept ears and angular profile of the more-than-human.  And no mortal would have ice-white hair, as well as the silver eyes that watched him now, half in despair and half in menace.
 But most startling of all – the drape and fall of shadow Raziel had initially taken for a cloak was in fact a massive pewter-colored wing, pressed tight against one side.  The feathers were stained with blood; a slow trickle dripped from the leading edge.  Her other wing was half-spread in a threatening gesture, and the hand that was not curled over her wounded side gripped a crystal-headed spear.  Raziel did not move away; she was too badly hurt to be much of a threat, and he was too thunderstruck at the moment to do anything but watch.

     “Seraph!” he breathed, hardly crediting his eyes.  The seraphim had been gone from Nosgoth for an eon and more; the humans told tales of them and decorated their holy shrines with angel wings, not knowing the nature of their bearers.  Even the Oracle’s Cave had been lined with murals of seraphim armed with twin swords. 
 Suddenly Moebius’ fractured words came back to him.  Raziel had assumed that Moebius had been trying to warn him about the Sarafan, but the word “seraphim” was so close that it would have been easy to mistake the two.  Had these long-lost immortals summoned him? 
     The seraph moved towards him, catching her foot on a rock and gasping in pain.  She leaned heavily on the haft of her spear for support.  Raziel could see blood seeping past her fingers through a hole in her chainmail.  Recovering, she steadied herself and leveled her spear at him.  Unhurriedly, Raziel brought the Soul Reaver up to guard and waited for the seraph’s attack. 
     At the sight of the sword, the already-pale seraph blanched.  Nearly dropping her spear, she breathed, “Truly, can it be?  The Archon has succeeded…” At once, she faced Raziel and bowed as regally as she was able, after carefully laying her spear at her feet. 

     Slightly mollified by her deference, Raziel lowered his sword.  Still, his patience grew thin, and he snapped, “Legend though you are, I have little care for your cause, whatever it is. State your business with me, and do it quickly.” 
Straightening, the seraph met his regard without flinching.  “Lord Raziel, you are welcomed to what remains of the lands of the Host Arelim.  The Archon begs your aid in the fight against your brother Turel.”  Ever so briefly, a plea ghosted through silver eyes.  “She has sent me to ask you to parley with us, since you, Lord Raziel, are our last best hope.” 
 At that, Raziel paused.  If the legends were to be believed, the seraphim rarely troubled themselves with the affairs of human or vampire, preferring instead to watch.  Theirs must be a desperate cause indeed if they had gone so far as to seek him out.  In spite of it, to be summoned like some common servant did not sit well with him – a pawn again, he thought bitterly.  Still, the seraphim were supposedly renowned for their healing and magical skills.  Perhaps this could be turned to his advantage after all. 
     Raziel watched the seraph, weighing her words.  Finally, he spoke.  “Who are you, that you speak for your Archon?”

     She drew herself up proudly, despite obvious pain.  “My name is Yahriel.”