The Angel Of Death- Last Of The Rift Kin

Please note that I am a first time writer and I'm dealing with dyslexia so please excuse my spelling and grammar mistakes. I'm looking for feedback on the storyline and also feel free to point out any spelling and grammar mistakes just please don't be an arse about it. Thank you and enjoy.
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Our story begins in a time before time, in the ancient lands of Rinthera. Rinthera was once a symbol of hope and unity between races a beacon of light for new life to be acknowledged and above all accepted.
Five kings and Queens ruled over the five sections of Rinthera. To the north the great mountains of Dognar, Caster land founded and originally ruled over by King Doganar. These creatures are known for their profound desire of treasure in what ever form it may take, although greed is often overruled by pride for they are the only creatures to master magical essence and have so became the Magic Kin they are few in numbers and thus are raised with pride and bravery for the world which dwells beyond the snowy mountains. 

West lurk the Blood Kin or otherwise known as the Vampires, creatures of the night. In the west it is said the sun never raises, eternal darkness creeps over desert plains and rivers of lava run freely through the black sand. In the centre of the west sits the great city of Vampirum where sat atop her throne the dark lady dwells. Vampires are immortal but not invincible, their curse is their strength and their strength their curse they are forever damned and taunted by the thirst of blood.

East prowls the Werewolves, the Gemini Kin; although never strong in number the Werewolves have strength and stamina which could never be matched. Born and breed as warriors till the last breath is drawn from them, within packs the werewolf is unstoppable but singular they will still prove a very vicious opponent. Alas their few numbers and lack of intellect has seriously crippled the werewolves, the city of Wooktrus which once stood upon a magnificent hill which rose above the lush thick forests and beautiful valleys lies burnt and broken of the scorched grass it once dwelled upon. And the great King Frances Ironheart lay dead without an heir.

South bordering the great sea macerates the Origin Kin or Humans, known as the Origin Kin because Humans are the place of origin the building blocks for the other Kin’s that calls Rinthera home. Humans are very jealous creatures, they envy the Vampires immortality, they crave the Casters magical essence, they long for the werewolves’ strength. Because of this pettiness the current King Henry victor Garrison knight of the light walkers has cut off all trade links between his fellow kings and queen and the Humans have declared open war on all that do not tread the holy path.

Finally the Rift Kin, long thought existent the Rift Kin were known for their immense combat knowledge calling upon a second conscious mind which dwelled inside their brains enhancing everything about them; this was known as the Rift. The Rift would often take on their own names very dangerous creatures but all the same magnificent. Century’s ago the Rift Kin rose to power under the influence of the ‘Rift Knights’ led by King Hyplin Aontius Limbuto Mane of the third crusade whom mastered the art of Dragon riding. The Rift Kin almost became the rulers of Rinthera but the combined forces of King Dognar of the Casters, King Herod of the Vampires, Queen Looyu of the Humans and King Garren of the Werewolves and an army of millions left the Rifts with insignificant numbers to maintain the population, slowly they died out. Or at least they died out to everyone’s knowledge. Alone a voice spoke to him, alone a voice became him, and alone he shall stay. The last of the Rift kin

Chapter one- The Angel of Death.


‘Your lord is Omniscient
I am knowledge.

Your lord is Benevolent
I am Hate.

Your lord is Omnipotent
I seek power.

Your lord is Omnipresence
I am here. 

Your world is infected
I am its cure.

I am the Angel of Death.’

With the howling of the frost bitten wind beating at his thick fur, and the bleach white snow, fresh but vicious, hammering every painful, blood stained weary step he took William Vontus Garimus, last of the werewolf clan, drew his final tainted breath from the Earth.
‘A curse be upon you Death!’ roared he, clutching his open flesh, wincing towards the one who robbed him of precious life.
‘You curse that which has no mortality? A plague be upon your wretched kind, I have purged your beastly filth from the land, leave the lords creation and wither with the Demon below.’ Death spat at the beast forcing it to growl instinctively, bearing fangs which leaked saliva and fell to the blood stained snow below. William was forced to his knees as his legs gave way, weakened by lack of blood circulation. His eye lids as heavy as lead, he was fighting to maintain his vision, absorbing the surroundings of the natural beauty. The snow littered valley was, during the summer season, a picture of beauty, fresh green grass would compliment the lush healthy trees and make tall the flowers of multicolor radiance which sat amongst it, nature would then dance to lady wind as she blew through the land and out into the vast crystal oceans.
‘Am I not of the lord’s creation? Do I not belong?’
‘You are the Demons work, sent to taunt what the lord has done in his infinite wisdom. You are a manifested thought, made a reality through dire cruelty; your very being makes ill my insides and sickens my conscious mind.’ No remorse, no pity. Deaths long white fingers curled around the thick handle of his sword, not yet, the abomination must suffer further.
‘If my being is of an evil nature then why must my heart feel for all that surrounds it? Why am I the more gentle of the two that stand atop this hill, why be it that you, a messenger of the lord, strike me with no arm, simply for being?’ William’s breath was heavy and rare his eyes were draining of their spark which kept his heart beating, he stared at Death through his faded yellow eyes, although he store with pride and strength of that possessed by a truly noble being. Death, in all his power and knowledge had never anticipated a werewolf who would retaliate with words rather than fangs and claws, never would the thought of a literate monstrosity such as he drift through the conscious or unconscious mind, stranger still were the words he spoke full of question and desire like that of an infant eager to learn. 
‘Enough!’ Death drew his blade causing an echoed ringing, he pointed the tilt to William’s neck ready to ram forward.
‘William Vontus Garimus last of the werewolf clan, with your death this land shall be cleansed, make your next thought one of peace, for it shall be your last.’ Death lunged forward and William, the last of the werewolves was at rest.
‘Go forward, and face your afterlife.’ Death withdrew the long, solid silver blade from Williams’s throat. Blood ran freely from the wound, it travelled down into the thick mounds of brown fur a deep red colour, almost black. William toppled forward face first, his arms sat limply beside him, and there he lay in a pool of warm deep red blood.       

The Angel of Death knelt besides his victim and looked the beast up and down, its huge mass was engulfed by fur, one might mistake it for a bear if it did not take the stance of a human.
‘The deed is done.’ Death stood back up right; he slid the blade back into its scabbard, he tilted his head left and then right, his long black cloak mimicking his real movements. Death was no ordinary slayer, although slightly deluded; he places truth in his own words to justify his actions, murdering in the name of God presenting himself as the sword wielded by he, the messenger of actions the lord can not perform.
Death removed his hood revealing shoulder length hair, grey and ruff parts tied in small pony tails decorated with golden rings. Like his hair Deaths eyes sat grey and miserable old before their age, for the man was not aged, on the contrary his skin was stretched across youthful bones creating chiseled handsome looks. Upon his face Death fashioned a small neatly trimmed beard of the same colour grey as the hair and eyes, the right cheek played host to a long deep scar semicircular in shape, it was one of many littered across his body caused by countless duels and battles.
Death turned his back on William’s corps and wearily started to tread his way back up the snow covered hill back to the path where he had tracked the beast; from there he would find his steed and ride onwards towards Vangash Inn.       

‘Easy Swift’ Death whispered into the ear of Swift Black as she reared on his icy touch, a confusing notion for an animal, to feel both affection and fear for the same person. His cool voice calmed the horse compelling her to stand proud for her master; she shook her magnificent mane clearing it of snow, and snorted, treading her hoof into the snowy dirt. Death searched through his packs securing them to the saddle tighter so as they wouldn’t fall, he removed his scabbard complete with sword from his brown leather belt and slid it securely into a pouch, he then took his dagger from the open pouch and secured it around his waste, his crossbow would remain fastened to his back next to its quill but he found the sword slowed Swift from her long journeys and if he was ever ambushed a weapon is always handy.
‘Yah!’ Death dug he heels into Swift when he had hold of the reins; she reared again before setting off at a galloped across the still white mountain paths. 


Since time began the world has been plagued by predators of some sort, feeding on the weak, surviving where others fell, treading the path of immunity. As for the prey, the prey has ran instinctively for countless centuries. But what happens when the hunter becomes the hunted? Do the tables really turn? Or does the process just start anew? Humans have hunted Vampires, Werewolves and other ‘creatures of the night’ to show his power over them, but when the prey realizes it is stronger, fitter and faster then the predator, warriors are born, hero’s are forged and death riddles their path.

With werewolves out of the picture Angel set along, riding lazily through the town of Vangash. Drunk on the taste of blood and victory. He would spend tonight drowning his achievement with ale until he forgets the woman and children he slaughtered in his long tiring campaign.
‘They were mongrels.’ He spoke aloud, Death returning to his conscious mind filling it with hate. Several heads turned in the busy marketplace looking up at the hooded stranger and parting to let through his steed, the crowds made Swift Black nervous, she trod cautiously as she was navigated through it by the owner she adored, Angel. Just beyond the town bordered a cliffs edge where the deep red sun sunk below in a semicircle, scattering its last rays of heat onto the Earth.
‘It’ll be night soon it will.’ Angel overheard a worried sigh.
‘You locked up for the night?’ Another asked more casually, he became out of earshot as Swift moved uneasily through the crowds. He maneuvered her round a bend and was surprised to find a deserted road, every house was boarded up, he could now see them in detail, made of a very old design although once beautiful in their prime. Each was identical with a wooden door and matching window shutters all embedded in a hollow white brick shell. To add to the alikeness each door was either on its hinges or splintered in some way, each with a red doted centre triangle shape pained, with haste it seemed, on the direct centre of the door. Angel frowned, he could feel the hate of Death boiling inside him and he could not understand why. The shape, it must be. He told himself wincing and grabbing his head, Death now longing to be set free, beating with violence at the cages which held him so. Swift, unfazed by the surrounding destruction, relished in the absence of noisy humans as she trotted happily down the brick road.

‘I know you.’ Whispered he dazed and alone. Voices echoed through his mind, empty thoughts, forgotten memories of his peers, a light shone but it remained dark, the voices again rang out through his mind, noisy but silent.
‘Who am I?’ He spoke aloud not expecting an answer.
‘That is not the correct question.’ The deep but calm voice made him jump, stranger still was the girly giggle that followed it mixed with other noises he remembered possibly from his childhood, if he’d had one. Confused he decided to ask another.
‘What am I?’
‘Correct- You are the Rift Kin.’ The voice almost sounded mechanic although its answer raised more questions.
‘Wait, “the” Rift Kin. Implying singular?’
‘That is not the correct question.’ More familiar noises followed the response.
‘Ok, what is a Rift Kin?’
‘Correct- A Rift Kin, a Rift in the so called “normal” cellular structure who possesses not one conscious mind but two.’ He remembered something, a huge battle; he remembered fighting along side his own, his Kin. Dare he ask?
‘Who or What are you?’ 
‘Correct- I am God.’ 
 

Angel sat accompanied by a vale of ale in a grubby badly lit tavern, next to him was the door, bolted shut and a few boards nailed into its wooden frame. The barkeep stood on the far end behind his little safe keep carelessly scrubbing at a glass, he store at Angel through his faded blue eye the other was hidden behind a black patch which stretched across his wrinkled forehead and through his greasy black hair, tided back in a pony tail, its tip reaching his waste. He was constantly masticating; Angel assumed he was chewing on some tobacco judging by the brown saliva he produced from his mouth.
Angel finished his ale and raised the glass towards the barkeep signalizing for a refill, the keep gritted his teeth as the laws of gravity dramatically changed. Suddenly everything was ten times heavier as he dragged his feet across the wooden floor over to where Angel sat; he walked hunched forward huffing all the while his arms hung limply by his side. In his right hand he carried a large jug fall of the rich golden beverage and in his left hung the tattered dish cloth which had never once in its existence been washed. He grunted as the vale was again full, holding out his left hand.
‘Two silver three copper.’ He said greedily eyeing Angel up as he reached into his cloak pocket, Angel handed the man three silver pieces.
‘Keep the copper.’ The barkeep grunted and again grudged off back behind his counter. Angel shivered, the air had suddenly became icy cold he could see his own breath linger before his eyes then disappear again just to be replaced by more. Curious he stood up and cautiously walked over to the door.
‘Don’t you be opening that there door!’ Angel ignored the old man; he ripped the boards off with minimal effort, he heard the keeps angry cries from behind him, within seconds Death had maintained control.

Death casually stepped out into the brick road, every house was on complete lock down not a soul was to be seen. The supposed nights sky burnt an angry red, cloudless and mesmerizing, amongst the red hung the dim moon in its complete circle. Something moved in the shadows. Death drew his blade without fear he stepped forward, more movement followed his actions, a low blow to the legs spent Death as he toppled to the floor landing hard on his face. He’d never seen such speed.
‘Brave little slayer, fancies his chances?’ a cruel voice snapped wickedly through the shadows taunting the fallen warrior.
‘Draken does not like this, oh no no no.’ The creature, presumably known as Draken laughed as he leaped through the air gaining incredible height.
Death had found his feet and was again wielding his blade.
‘Coward, show your face.’ He demanded searching the shadows without success.
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ laughed Draken, the voice sounded close. Too close. Death rolled narrowly avoiding the tilt of Drakens sword; he caught a glimpse of his attacker as he recovered. Draken was tall and thin, dressed in a long black hooded cloak which hid his features although red pupil less eyes shone through it.
‘Vampire.’ Death breathed in amazement.
‘Correct!’ Draken heckled ‘this Drakens town slayer, Draken won’t let you change that!’ he lunged forward sword held above his head, Death parried the attack but Drakens sheer strength knocked him back to the floor.
‘Draken tires of your games slayer.’ The playful tone in the vampires voice had gone and left him sounding cold and deadly. Death, still dazed from the last blow, started to crawl backwards as Draken walked over to him sword in hand; blood trickled down his broken forehead tainting his grey hair with a deep red. He felt the attackers sharp claws dig into his aching back, he groaned in pain, Draken flipped him so they were face to face, the vampire smeared its fingers through Deaths bloodstain forehead and licked them smiling cruelly.
‘Sour, but sweet.’ Draken bend down and whispered in Deaths ear ‘now, embrace the coming darkness. Prepare to never know sunlight, become what you have sworn to kill.’
Draken dug its fangs deep into Deaths neck; blood ran freely from the impact trailing down onto his shirt. He started to lose consciousness; he felt his mind being dragged into swirling darkness, evil tainted thoughts creped into it replacing everything, he felt coldness sweep over him but more he felt power, incredibly power. Suddenly Draken screamed, his sharp fangs pulled out of Deaths neck as he was dragged from his feast, Death himself could only make out the sound of muffled voices and what felt like hot ash all over his body finally he lost his subconscious battle and drifted into tainted dark nightmares.

‘Correct- Your life is not over, I am here to guide you back to the mortal stances and again return Rift Kin’s to the land. But if I return back to you your life you must slay those who deserve not to have one, you shall see the creatures through my eyes. You are Angel, your Rift is Death. Together you are The Angel of Death, last of the Rift Kin’s the only Rift Knight.’