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Light, day, sun, even the moon held no sway or meaning in a place where time stood as still as the stars in the night sky. A place of solitude for those cast out and cursed, despised by mortal men and holy angel alike. Its dark depths reduced to a hovel for the lowly and a den of death for the naive and adventurous. The cavernous monstrosity wormed its way half a mile into the Ironheart Mountains. It's general shape, ovoid, the walls upon a ridge smoothly curved to the floor, its walls above arched another hundred feet up to giant stalactites and the bat roosts. 

Despite its massive size and morbid countenance, only one being served as it sole inhabitant. Lit by a small fire in the corner of the cave lurked a hunched figure of once great prominence. Its pale skin sparkled in the moonlight and its dark eyes matching the night sky above perfectly. Its once brilliantly-colored mane now soaked in darkness like the stygian depths of the ocean. Snow-white wings now stained black gave heed to its origins. Demon-like fangs marred its flawless face, once a defining marker of it's creators craftsmanship.

Now, it only stood as a husk, an abomination to its creator and a failure to its people. Oh how the mighty Lars had fallen! 'Lion Cherub' Lars of the great angelic legion, a valent warrior who dully set his life on the line for his Mother, and a wizened father no more than four hundred years of age. So quickly though had the brilliant light faded, swatted out of the air like fly in the war to end all wars, and left to rot like rubbish. A warrior of great pride, a man of such accomplishment, so callously cast aside, a corpse unfit for glory in his Mother's memory. 

A gut wrenching scream belched from the haggard warrior, old memories scathing his already brittle psyche. For how long had he hid here? To Lars, all time had lost its meaning as fleeting thought became like close companions. But like pangs of distress, memories of the past became anathema to his eyes, painful reminders of past failures and great disgrace. A warrior, shamed for his inabilities by his very Mother, Lars clang to solitude, a desperate plea for forgiveness that yet show itself. 

For what did Mother punish him too? Lars himself, lacked the answer to the question. Much led the fallen angel to believe that the curse was cast on the day of his receiving the greatest blessing. Like a coiled cat Lars pounced upon the enemies of the Holy One, not just seeking his own glory, but the glory of the angelic race against the darkness of Chaos. Such was a privilege that Lars took with gusto and forthrightness, willing to so much as lay his life down; and that he did. With his body broken beyond repair, Lars fell asleep in death, satisfied with his life's work. But somewhere, somehow, he failed and sinned against the Holy One for he awoke, healed yet consumed by darkness. Had his valent efforts on the field of battle failed to impress the Holy One? A question he himself sought the answer to.  

Cursed by his Mother to roam the lands as a predator to those wingless, Lars thought himself to be an abomination, a failure in Her eyes, and sought for atonement each and everyday, yet, forgiveness never came. For years uncounted he forged ahead in solitude, seeking recognition for his repentance, but only found hunger. Like a youngling searching for the teat of his mother, Lars sought for blood, its crimson sustenance a byproduct of Mothers wretched curse. Yet, he remain steadfast, refusing to succumb to his primal hunger, starving himself day in and day out. But with each raising sun and moon array illumination, his marble pillar-like determination ebbed and eroded like a canyon assaulted by hurricane waters. 

In all the Holy One's wretched glory, did she find his service lacking? For so long he pondered on the question, but no answer surfaced. For such an evil yoke to be thrust upon him; for such a curse to be so wretchedly devised, one had to acquired a mind so disgusting that Chaos itself feared its very thought. A fiend, an evil mastermind masked by the brilliance of holy light, a demon in disguise, a cretin forged by lies. 

Struggling to his feet, his weakened legs shaking under the weight of his torso. An epiphany! For hundreds of years, unknown to them, Mother played the double, a demon shrouded in goodness, for no being of light could devise a curse so wrong. Shuffling out of his cave, Lars gazed upon the mountain range, its crosswinds and snowy caps a sight to behold.
 
[color=MistyRose]"Mother! The yoke thrust upon me I have accepted! But I shall expose you for you for your evil, and free my brothers and sisters from your evil ways; for today, you have unleashed a beast of vengeance upon the world!"[/color] he croaked, his haggard finger pointed widely into the air as spittle flew from his lips. Within moments, he fell prey to the curse.

One this day, the vengeance of Lars would begin.


[hider=Summarino]
Just an introduction, meet Lars, once a pround angel in the angelic legion, he dies vallently during the battle against Grot. Unsually, he wakes up on the battle field confused and for 20 years hides and contemplates his curse, thinking that Nicel cursed him cause he died without honor or without completing his service. Because of this he has resfused the urges of his Vampirism. Eventually he comes to the realization that Nicel he secretly evil and swears his revenge, and relinquishes himself to the Vampirism.
[/hider]