It begins.

Prologue
And Character Backgrounds

Michael Tydon Elysium is an ancient and a war hero from the beginning of an age. He existed during two of the three of the Angelic Tides and blames himself for the failure of the third. Since his last and most prominent appearance, he has changed a great deal.
In the third tide, Michael acquired a sword in which he set two stones: the Blood Raven and the Odin Heart. These somewhat morphed his appearance. Before, the stones became part of him – or rather he became part of the stones – he was 7’4” with white blonde hair and blue eyes. Now that the Odin Heart has begun it’s insidious corruption of Michael’s heart, he is 7’8”, his long silver hair had now become streaked with black and his eyes have become a ghastly shade of pale blue; much like the eyes of a corpse. His body became lengthened even more and his strength increased tenfold. His mind became split and he began to fight with the spirit of the Archangel, Michael, within him.
Dreams of his love, the Seraphim Kerrian, began to haunt him and he began to curse the sword and thus feed the Odin Heart with his hate. He became more and more confused and scared and finally the Hirad Empire rose and the angels were being hunted into extinction. All the angels made themselves scarce and made themselves to look like the remainder of the population. Michael as well did this; helping to start a struggling company. He helped to build the first steam powered airship and became a fine craftsmen of these vehicles. For many years he continued to keep his identity concealed and with his own personal funds he began to build a catamaran styled airship that his highly tuned senses told him would later serve in his escape. After the ship was built and now nearly complete, he docked it in a great forest on an island in the center of a great sea. There he slipped out of all knowledge until now…

*~oOo~*

Miguel “Chewi” Angel was born August 18th, 2982. His hair was black and his eyes were as blue as the clear summer sky. His skin was dark and his body was lean and strong; long and thin like a big cat’s. He was tall – about 6’ – and his heart was of solid gold. A creature so rare in this city, that he was one of only a few of his kind and might as well have been an endangered species. He had grown up in a rough family, and he was beaten regularly as a child, leaving not only physical scars, but also emotional scars so deep that they had never truly healed. His eyes told his stories better than he could. His eyes grew dark and hard, as did his heart.
He ran away when he turned fifteen years old. He was cruel to others, as his father had been to him and began to sell all manner of drugs to make money, eluding the authorities by dwelling with the drug lord whose drugs he sold. Though he himself never really used, he did smoke occasionally and drank quite a bit, (two things that were highly illegal in the Hirad Empire) he never spent more than he made. He had acquired a small fortune for himself in this way; squirreled away a hoard behind some rotten bricks in an old apartment building. Once this hoard had grown to a considerable size, he bought himself a gun. (Another highly illegal item) He hunted down his father and shot the old crippled man in his sleep. His father never had a chance to apologize, for he had found religion from a wandering traveler only months before.
The authorities, being the sluggish pigs they were, never came after him. He doubted they even found his father’s corpse. Soon after he bought himself a horse and rode into the next city, Mercia. With it’s towering cities and ancient ruins (left by some ancient race of mystic creatures) was perfect for him. Here he thrived and soon he had a new job from a greater known drug lord. He sold, he collected, he paid, he ate, and he slept. This was all he did anymore. Until he could buy himself a house by the Mercian sea. This was all he wished for. He told the drug lord that he was no longer going to deal; that he was going to sever all connections and go build the home he had always dreamed for. Suspecting that Miguel was going to desert to deal for another lord who would pay more, he hunted Miguel down himself and put a bullet in his stomach, promising that if Miguel survived his wounds he would never be hunted again. This is where our story begins, in the twenty-first year of Miguel Aureliano Angel…

I

Long thick locks of matted and knotted hair fell over Miguel’s face, fowling his vision, thus rendering him blind. He threw back the thick black dreadlocks impatiently and continued to run, dodging a chain-link fence that seemed to appear from thin air and spread its rattling metal wings to ensnare him. Heart pounding and shoes slipping on the wet pavement, he tore down another alleyway, skidding to a stop in front of an old wooden fence separating the alley from the next street.
Miguel fumbled with the lock for a moment then began to frantically tear at the rotten wood, giving it a sturdy kick every now and then, looking over his shoulder to be sure that no one was behind him. The drug-lords were vicious out here. Just as vicious as the mangy pit bulls they kept guarding their “territories”; and yes, he had learned just how vicious the hungry dogs were on this occasion. He gave the fence one last kick, the bottled up fury within exploding upon the fence, and with that the chunk of old boards he had been attempting to remove gave, and the bandage on his calf ripped. New blood flowed from the dog bite on his leg and it throbbed with the threatening heat of infection. Miguel would have to be very, very careful. That or he would have to pump himself with a lot of painkillers and antibiotics and hope for the best. He couldn’t go to a hospital; he was too well known for his explosive attitude and his current occupation.
He frantically writhed through the tiny hole in the fence, rotten boards digging into his back like cold claws, tearing his shirt to shreds. Blood stained the remaining pieces of his shirt and in the ally, the clicking of claws on pavement and the fierce barking of dogs began to grow closer and closer. Miguel slid up against the fence, picking up a large, flat piece of metal as he did. He knew that one of the dogs was just about to run through the hole. He thrust the metal plate in front of the gap and braced it with his leg. There was a thud and a wet snap as the big pit bull ran headlong into the plate, and Miguel was thrown back by the impact. He shoved the plate over, the dead dog with it, and took off running again.
Miguel’s blood was now leaving a very visible trail and his breathing was becoming increasingly ragged as he continued to race down the street. A few people who were still on the street would try to stop him, but he let their hands slide over his sweat slicked arms and let their pleas go unnoticed. He just kept running, blood spattering everywhere with each step until finally he collapsed on the sidewalk, curling up on the pavement. Now he heard footsteps. He knew very well the sound of those size 12, Dr. Martens wingtips. He felt the heel of one of those beautifully made shoes roll him over, digging painfully into his raw shoulder. He shoe now came down on his neck, cutting off the air to his lungs. He choked, blood exploding from his mouth onto that high polished black and white shoe with its perfect, precise stitches.
There was a flash of white-hot light and a sudden searing pain suddenly made itself known. Miguel’s scream of anguish and pain gurgled through a mouthful of blood from a busted lip. His body tensed, back arching upward, every muscle drawn tight. The foot left his neck and he went limp, arms and legs sprawled across the pavement. He was still alive but in severe pain now. The bullet hole in his gut was like a pit of fire. He could vaguely hear the drug lord’s warning to the onlookers on the street and those who were now hanging out of almost every window. Miguel coughed and groaned, blood running from his mouth. He grasped the drug lord’s ankle and asked, “I’m free… I’m free if… if I s-survive?” Though his voice was barely audible, the drug lord heard and nodded. Miguel knew that he had the man’s word. His vision darkened and his body went limp.

*~oOo~*

Michael’s long braids of white-blonde hair fell over his shoulder. It was peaceful in the city tonight. Or so it seemed. He could feel the rustlings of hidden power and a sort of unreasonable fear; not from himself but from another being… a fear of being caught. He caulked his sword’s hilt to the side nervously and continued to survey the area around him, still consulting the spirits he bore with him. He could feel the excitement of the steel as the Blood Raven woke and the Odin Heart burned with deep blue fury in the hilt. He could feel it slipping its black tentacles around his heart… but it couldn’t be helped. He had to bear the stone now because it was a part of him…
The risks of bearing Soul Stones… you just might lose your own…
He tossed his head violently and turned so that his back was to the city.
“I should never have come here… I should never have touched the stones. They’re killing me,” he whispered.
He unbuckled the scabbard that held his sword and carefully laid it on the shingled roof, looking at it with an amazing fury. He missed seeing the world with his own eyes and not with the wise eyes of the Odin Heart. He missed being naïve and most of all he missed his beloved. The woman who he had slain as he swooned in the blood lust of the Blood Raven. He never forgave the spirit of the stone. He never forgave himself either. He looked at the sword again and picked it up, intending to hurl it to its doom, but found that before he knew what he was doing he was buckling the scabbard back over his belt.
Michael felt the laughter of the ebon stone and its blue fire glinted like a winking eye. Defeated, Michael summoned his strength and called forth his wings. He felt the warm and peaceful presence of the archangel. Even though the pain of his wings breaking through the skin and morphing his body into the shape needed for flight was excruciating, this was what he missed… feeling that presence at all times. He spread his silver-feathered wings and soared off into the night. In search of the unknown fear, for beneath the fear there was strength and Michael knew that strength. This was no mere mortal.

*~oOo~*

Miguel woke but he did not open his eyes. Something was off… He still felt the pain of his injuries, but now he wasn't lying on the pavement bleeding to death. He was convinced also that he was neither in heaven nor hell. He continued to lay there, the sound of his own heart seeming loud in his ears. Nothing changed and he felt he must have been the only one in the room until he felt cool hands running over his chest. He shuddered and opened his eyes.  The woman that bent over him was careworn and laced with wrinkles, but her hands were still as skillful as when she was young. He watched her clean a large gash on his chest and carefully remove tiny pieces of brown glass - he guessed they were from a broken beer bottle - with little difficulty. He let out a shuddering breath and only then did she notice that he was awake.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she crooned, “the Crown is hard to come by even for the hospitals…” She looked about nervously then whispered, “I have some of the salve… but it precious and very expensive… I only have enough to rub on the bullet hole.” Miguel moaned softly, then took her hand in his.
“I’ll pay for it, and I’ll find you some more…” he coughed and squeezed her hand a little, then let her go. She stared at him, dumbfounded, then shook herself out of her trance, removing the little jar of creamy white salve from her pocket. She carefully twisted off the cap and scooped out a generous portion of the cream, rubbing it into the deep wound with the tip of her finger. Miguel sighed at the utter lack of pain as the salve absorbed into his blood stream, leaving behind a cold sensation. He lifted his head, with what little strength was left in him and watched as she picked up a pair of metal tweezers that looked unusually long in the dim light. She carefully ran them through a tin pan full of alcohol and left the room for a moment.
He laid his head back down, taking note of the room with its black walls and heavily curtained windows. The only source of light came from a small open window above his head. The smell of the city was strong in this place and the rush of cars could be heard through the walls. He guessed that the highway must be only fifteen or so meters above the ceiling. The floorboards were bear wood planks with a few carpets here and there and he guessed that beyond the door were a hallway and a stairwell. This was a typical design for most of the apartments for the poor.
The old woman returned but this time she was not alone. At her side was a graceful young woman, whom it seemed had just been wakened, and the old woman was forcing the cold silver tweezers into her hand. She stepped forward with a yawn and examined the wound with the tip of her finger. She grunted then fingered the ragged edge of the wound.
“By hand,” she said softly, “The bullet’s near the surface… something stopped it from going too deep… it doesn’t seem to have damaged anything important either…” She carefully slid her index finger and thumb into the wound and he felt her get a grip on the metal slug. “… not fragmented either…” she muttered as she began to pull. Miguel hissed at the pain but it was soon gone as some of the cream slid underneath the bullet. She tugged again, making sure he kept his hands down as she wasn’t in the mood to be hit by another junkie, and with that the bullet came free.
She tossed it aside and bent to examine the wound a second time. Blood was pouring over the sculpted ridge of his hip now and pooling on the linen beneath him. She deftly stanched the wound with her hand and requested that the old woman bring out “the sewing kit.” Miguel watched as her smooth hands worked almost effortlessly; passing the needle through the edges of the wound, and guiding the black thread. So primitive he thought. These are the techniques of our fathers. He continued to watch her and started the process of remembering what exactly had happened to him. He closed his eyes, trying to remember every little detail, as if he were writing it in a book. He could feel the young woman’s hand run up his chest to check the gash there, and then to his neck where she checked his pulse. He opened his eyes and gripped her wrist.
“Were you there?” he asked softly.
She looked at him as if he were some wild beast for a moment then replied quietly, “Yes… I was watching through the window.”
“Was the old one there?” he asked in desperation.
“Yes, she was. She watched it all and brought you in here herself… she says you’re skinny as a twig and she’s right too.”
He pulled her close. “Did she hear the man who shot me make me a promise?”
The young woman tried to pull herself away – for he smelled thickly of blood – but his grip was like iron on her bloody wrist. “He did… I heard it myself. He gave you his word. He shot to kill but he didn’t know about your belt.”
Miguel looked at her with confusion written plainly on his face. “You wear (or did wear that night) your belt off to the side. And he shot you where your belt-buckle was. The bullet didn’t go straight like he planned. If it had it would have gone straight through you, and it also would have severed your spine at the angle you were lying at.” She held up the belt-buckle. The star shaped buckle was dented on one side and the ring surrounding the star was broken. He reached out for it and she gently set it in his hand.
“My belt saved my life…” he said softly as he turned the warped metal in his hand.
“You need to rest,” the girl said bluntly. She turned back to him and asked quietly, “By the way… what’s your name?”
He started and laid the belt next to him on the bed. “Miguel… Miguel Aureliano Angel,” he replied, “but you can call me Chewi. That’s what most people call me…”
She smiled prettily as she washed her hands in a basin of water. She began to dry them and said, “I’m Marcie.” She let down her sparkling blonde hair and her blue-green eyes glistened like gems. It was safe to say he was smitten upon his first look.

*~oOo~*

Michael had been watching the boy heal. When he found the poor soul, he was bleeding and very badly injured, almost dead but an old woman was feebly attempting to lift him. Michael had swept to the rescue from an ally not too far away and helped he carry the young man up the stairs. He remembered very clearly that only his belt buckle and the gentle hands of the old woman and her granddaughter saved the young man. He now sat perched on a ledge on this cold clear night, watching the old woman feed the young man a stew of some sort and it didn’t seem to taste very good. Maybe it was some healing herb… but he wouldn’t need that – if Michael had correctly traced back his lineage.
The way he talked and acted… Michael knew he would have Gabriel as a spirit… and his soul would be that of his most trusted friend and most dangerous enemy… it seemed he didn’t remember those times yet. That would be good for Michael. He shifted hie weight to his hands and began to slowly lift himself into a cautious handstand on the edge of the ledge so that he was facing the flat ledge and his back was to the building he had been previously looking into. He stared straight down the lip of the vertical drop into the littered soil and sparse grass of an old lot below him.
With an unnatural grace he curved his body backward until his boots touched the ledge and he pulled himself up straight. A rather useless move but he dismissed it on the fact that he was just bored. He summoned forth his wings and felt the lovely jolt of pain as the wings’ “thumbs” and then the first three support bones, tear through the skin of his back. The forearm-like bones, the elbow joint fourth support bone and finally the upper wing finally emerged and the second shoulder blade slid into place. He spread the bones as the muscles laced over them and between the supports and finally the skin and feathers emerged. He smiled as the silvery feathers shattered the moonlight and sent it in broken patterns to the gravelly surface of the ledge.
Michael spread his wings and shook them out, testing to see if he had full control of every muscle and feather. He spread his wings to their full spread – about fifteen or sixteen feet in full – and let himself fall into the air. He preferred this much to actually taking off, the less work for him the better. His wing strokes began to even out as he soared higher into the cold night air, eyes always on the blue-green moon. It was his guide tonight. His powerful eyes searched the ground, for he knew that as soon as the old woman had began to care for the boy, she went out for groceries. He had something tat he needed desperately to tell her something…
He saw her and with amazing agility, he swept into the alley and slammed into the pavement, landing on one knee with both fists planted firmly in front of him. He looked up and stood to his full height, towering over the girl. She only stared up at him coldly, being a brave soul, and had she been tall enough, she probably would have slapped him senseless.
“The boy?” Michael drawled, not feeling in a very polite mood.
“He’s fine, no thanks to you!” she hissed.
“I expect him to be in good health. If he dies I will make sure you both pay for it,” he growled, “I’ll see to it personally.”
She tossed her long, hip length blonde hair aside and stepped past him hastily.
“Wait.”
She looked back impatiently and he turned to face her.
“What do you want?” she asked impatiently.
“The boy is special…” he said softly “I’m going to have to mortally wound him…”
“WHAT!?” she shrieked, “What are you talking about!”
“He is one of my kind. It is tradition. I’ll be giving him his spirit this morning. Be prepared.”
With that he spread his wings and shot into the air, before she could say a word. His thoughts were bitter.

*~oOo~*