Various Illustrations of Elara are Available on Patreon!
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In the winding labyrinth of the Outer Ring, a new figure emerged from the shadows. A small figure, cloaked from head to toe, darted out from one of the many hidden passages that burrowed like veins beneath the city. She was a phantom, all but invisible in the dim twilight, her presence barely causing a ripple in the chaotic life of the slums.
Her steps were light, barely kicking up any dust as she navigated through the narrow, winding alleys. Despite her swift pace, there was a stealthy grace to her movements, honed by days of relentless pursuit and evasion. Her body was obscured by a brown cloak and her face by a black mask.
For days, she had been running, hiding, surviving. The underworld passages, a secret network of tunnels known only to the most notorious of the city's underworld and vampiric society, had been her sanctuary. But now, they had ended, spitting her out into the sea of humanity that was the city's most impoverished district.
As soon as she stepped into the open, the clamor of pursuit echoed from the underground passage she had just vacated. The muffled thuds of boots and the clanking of weapons reverberated through the night, punctuated by the curt commands of their leader. Hot on her trail were ten masked pursuers, each of them possessing the strength equivalent to Knight Vanguards, and a single formidable figure with the might comparable to a Knight Captain in the world above - all members of The Night Stalkers, a notorious mercenary organization that thrived in the underworld. They were also masked and clothed in identical attires.
But the girl did not stop. She did not look back. With a deep breath, she merged with the ebb and flow of the slum life, disappearing amidst the crowd of people. She had managed to evade them for this long; she was not about to be caught now. The hunt was on, and she was the prey, but she was far from helpless. This was her world, and she would use every bit of it to her advantage. Some of the pheasants around there have already begun waking up.
Elara's breath came in ragged gasps as she wove through the labyrinthine streets of the slums. Her mind was slowly filled with hopelessness. Her original plan had been to surface within the city's interior, amidst the heart of the Valthoren territory. There, amidst the patrolling guards and watchful eyes, she hoped the Night Stalkers would abandon their chase, fearing exposure. But they were relentless, driving her instead towards the city's edge, into the destitute expanse of the Outer Ring.
Her body ached from numerous wounds, a testament to the harrowing pursuit. Her cloak, once a pristine garment that hugged her slender form, was now torn and stained with grime and blood. Beneath it, her exotic features were marred with cuts and bruises, her once vibrant eyes now clouded with exhaustion and desperation.
Despite her injuries, she moved with a certain grace, her every step a testament to her will to survive. Yet, the relentless chase had taken its toll on her. She had been on the run for days, her reserves of mana dwindling dangerously low. As a figure with strength equivalent to a Knight Captain, she could have held her own in a fight, but against eleven opponents of similar or superior strength, the odds were undeniably stacked against her.
The dwindling mana within her felt like a flickering candle in the wind, its light threatening to extinguish at any moment. Each step she took, each spell she cast to deter her pursuers, was pulling her closer to the precipice of her limits. The realization was a cold, hard knot in her stomach, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the path ahead, her will to survive fueling her onward.
Despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins and the desperate will to survive that burned in her chest, Elara's body was reaching its limit. Each step she took was a battle, a fight against the exhaustion that gnawed at her bones and the pain that screamed from every wound. With each passing moment, her pursuers closed in on her, their relentless chase finally cornering her in the heart of the sprawling slums.
The dark figures finally surrounded her, their menacing forms casting long shadows on the dirt-ridden streets. There was a sinister symmetry in their formation, a tight circle closing in on the weary girl. Elara's heart pounded in her chest as she came to a halt, her back pressing against the cold, rough wall of a nearby building.
Her eyes darted around, her mind racing to find a way out, but their formation was impenetrable. The grating laughter of her pursuers echoed in her ears, their triumph apparent. The chase, it seemed, had finally reached its conclusion.
But Elara was not one to go down without a fight. Even as she stood cornered, her body battered and her magic nearly depleted, her spirit remained undeterred. She leveled a defiant gaze at her pursuers, a silent vow that she would not be easy prey.
Elara was a striking figure, her long, flowing purple hair cascading down to her lower back, with a few loose strands framing her delicate behind the mask. Her red eyes, a distinct feature of vampires, were usually hidden by a special method that changed their appearance to dark blue, allowing her to blend in more easily among humans.
Her body was athletic, with toned muscles and an alluring figure, accentuated by a full chest and buttocks that drew attention despite her attempts to remain inconspicuous.
Elara's clothing choices reflected her need for stealth, flexibility, and style. She favored dark, form-fitting clothes that not only highlighted her figure but also provided her with the freedom to move silently and efficiently.
Her typical attire consisted of black leather pants, thigh-high boots with hidden compartments for her weapons, and a tight, long-sleeved top that allowed for unhindered movement during combat. A brown-colored hooded cloak she was now also wearing helped her blend into the shadows and hide her face when necessary.
Rythe, the leader of the pursuit, drew himself up to his full height, his formidable presence emanating a tangible aura of menace. His gaze, cold and unyielding, rested upon the worn figure of Elara. "Have you exhausted yourself at last? Do you finally yield?" His voice was a threatening drawl, each word articulated with a chilling precision that echoed ominously in the silent alley.
He allowed his eyes to rake over her figure, taking in the sight of her tattered cloak that had failed to protect her modesty. The once full-body cloak was considerably torn, revealing the alluring figure beneath. Elara, despite her current predicament, still held an exotic charm that was hard to ignore. But Rythe's gaze wasn't one of admiration; it was a predatory assessment, devoid of any humane considerations.
"I advise you, Elara, for the trouble you've caused us, it would be more merciful for you to end your own life. If you force us to waste any more time on you.", Rythe's voice dropped lower, a chilling promise lacing his words, "I swear on my name, I will personally make you wish for death. I will subject you to torments you cannot even begin to fathom.", His threat hung heavily in the air, a sinister conclusion to their relentless pursuit.
Elara gritted her teeth in indication, her face also full of killing intent toward the group surrounding her and their leader.
A harsh realization swept over Elara as she stood cornered. Her expression was a grimace of self-loathing and bitter regret, 'I should have known better than to seek refuge with my family. To think I'd find an ounce of compassion in the underworld, particularly among vampires, was nothing short of naive.', She thought, her mind echoing with the painful truth of her folly.
Only a few days ago, she had slain her own family in a fit of rage when they betrayed her to the Night Stalkers. The merciless organization had swiftly assembled a squadron of twenty to hunt her down. They had even prepared a magical array, designed to end her life. However, Elara's survival instincts and skills had kicked in, allowing her to escape and decimate half of their force. That act of defiance, while victorious, had drained her, slowing her down and allowing the relentless Knight Captain and even his remaining Vanguards to catch up.
Her survival until now had been due to her wit and resourcefulness, employing an array of strategies to shake off her pursuers and buy herself some respite. But her efforts had been in vain; the underworld had a long memory and an even longer reach.
She cast a desperate glance around, seeking an avenue of escape. But the once bustling slum had turned into a ghost town at their arrival. Families had fled, leaving their homes empty, their narrow streets eerily silent. It seemed the inhabitants of the Outer Ring were all too familiar with the deadly dance of the underworld and had wisely chosen to steer clear of it.
"Dream on!", Elara spat, teeth gritted in anger, her pretty face, behind the mask, was twisted with madness and killing intent, "You'll pay for driving me to this point, Rythe. If I'm going down, then I'm taking you with me!", Her thoughts, however, raced, a frantic analysis of her current predicament, 'These expendable pawns are maintaining their distance, probably preparing to cast another one of their damnable magical arrays. They are aware of my vampiric nature, of my ability to gradually recover strength by consuming their flesh. That's why they dare not confront me directly or venture too close. My only chance of survival is to discreetly feed on this Rythe standing before me, to imbibe his blood and feast on his flesh to regain vitality. I have nothing to lose either way, I must gamble everything on this one opportunity...'
"Then so be it!", Rythe declared, making a dismissive motion with his hand as he unsheathed his weapon, steeling himself for the imminent clash. Yet, beneath his bravado, a hint of disappointment lingered. He had half-hoped she would surrender, despite his outward show of confidence. Her strength was a factor he could not ignore. She had, after all, single-handedly decimated half his Vanguard squad, and managed to stay on the run for days. Despite their high similar ranks within the organization, he was painfully aware that in a true one-on-one fight, she might hold the upper hand. And even now, in this situation, she was dangerous so he thought, 'Damn these vampires and their vitality and durability, it isn't fair!'
As Elara shed her cloak, her lithe and enticing figure was fully displayed, adorned in a black outfit that, despite being bloodied and cut in places, accentuated her allure. The mask hiding her face was removed as well, revealing full lips, a small nose, and well-proportionate and symmetrical features that framed a countenance of remarkable beauty. Yet, the unfolding spectacle held a deeper purpose.
In the heart of the unfolding tension, Elara began calling forth a unique organ nestled within her body—the Sanguine Core. The organ served as a reservoir of strength, its power derived from the consumption of human flesh and blood.
The Sanguine Core began to glow ominously beneath her skin, pulsating like a second heart. The glow spread outwards, a network of bioluminescent veins running beneath her fair skin. It was a terrifying sight, reminiscent of a macabre constellation brought to life on her body.
Her body responded to the call of the Sanguine Core, her vampiric cells dividing and incorporating foreign cells in a breathtaking display of biological manipulation.
Elara's Sanguine Core was finally unleashed completely. It was a crimson wing-like structure that emerged from her back. However, rather than being a thing of feathered grace, this manifestation was entirely more terrifying and sinister.
The wing-like structure was an extension of her body, a physical embodiment of her vampiric power. It was composed of hundreds of blood-red tendrils, each capable of independent movement, and each ending in a razor-sharp point. These tendrils, akin to bloody tendrils of flesh, moved with an eerie life of their own, waving and twitching in the air as if sensing the hostility around her.
In essence, it was a shield and a weapon rolled into one—a testament to the deadly allure of vampiric physiology. The sight was simultaneously mesmerizing and horrifying. The bloody red tendrils, illuminated by the soft glow of the Sanguine Core beneath her skin, were a sight to behold, an alluring spectacle of power and terror.
With a forceful thrust of her wing-like structure, Elara launched a barrage of her crimson tendrils toward Rythe, who was momentarily taken aback by the sudden assault. The 'feathers' rocketed through the air, their sharp points gleaming ominously under the dim light, and headed straight for the Knight Captain.
However, this was merely a distraction—a cunning ploy designed to divert her opponent's attention. With Rythe's focus drawn to the incoming attack, Elara seized the opportunity to close the distance between them.
Propelled by her vampiric strength, she moved with a speed that was nothing short of blinding. In a fraction of a second, the space separating her from Rythe was covered. Her body, a blur of motion, was upon him before he could fully register the situation.
In the underworld, where battles are often decided by the slightest margins, vampires were truly terrifying adversaries. Their superior physical abilities, combined with their unique powers, made them formidable opponents. And now, Rythe was experiencing firsthand the true extent of a vampire's prowess as he found himself within striking range of a determined and desperate Elara.
The air crackled with raw energy as Elara raised her hand, palm open, and let loose a surge of electricity toward Rythe. The vampires were considered naturally gifted at lighting elemental-based spells. The blue arcs of energy danced along her fingers, casting a harsh glow on her twisted, maniacal face. Her fangs were bared, a thin trail of saliva dripping from them, her eyes bloodshot and wild. It was a sight that would freeze the blood of even the most hardened warriors.
Rythe, however, was no ordinary soldier. He was considered a Knight Captain level, a title earned through countless battles and trials. His eyes, while holding a hint of fear, were steady as they met Elara's frenzied gaze. Drawing on his years of experience, he suppressed his initial panic, steadied his breathing, and focused on the imminent threat before him.
With practiced ease, he reached for the mana coursing within him, channeling it through his veins and into his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. This was the art of the full body mana enhancement, a technique that only those of his rank could master. His sword began to glow with soft, ethereal light, signifying the infusion of mana.
But to be a Knight Captain meant more than just sword and armor enhancement. It required the ability to project mana, to form it into tangible slashes of energy, and to marry it with the elements. Rythe, having specialized in wind elements, had honed this skill to near perfection.
Just as Elara launched her lightning attack, Rythe made his move. He swiftly channeled mana into his hidden black chainmail, forming a barrier to shield himself from the incoming electricity. Simultaneously, he swung his mana-charged sword with all his might, unleashing a powerful gust of wind, shaped like a sword slash. The wind attack whistled through the air, colliding with Elara and slowing her advance.
With Elara momentarily impeded, Rythe seized the opportunity to evade. His movements were fluid and swift, a testament to his training and experience. His armor and sword were also already coated with both mana and wind right now.
Elara staggered under the force of Rythe's wind slash, a searing pain radiating from her wounds. Her once pristine, black outfit was now shredded, revealing the multitude of cuts that marred her skin. Yet, her resolve remained unbroken. Though her mana reserves were depleted, she still had her Sanguine Core. It didn't rely on mana, but instead on her innate vampiric strength.
Rythe's smirk widened into a cruel grin as he watched Elara struggle. He reveled in her pain, a twisted sense of satisfaction coursing through him. His sword, now enveloped in a whirlwind of mana-infused wind, sliced through the air with an ominous hum.
Striking swiftly and mercilessly, he began to carve into Elara, savoring each cut that he inflicted upon her. Her cries of pain were music to his ears, a symphony of suffering that fueled his sadistic pleasure. Each slash of his sword sent a spray of crimson in the air, staining the ground beneath them. Despite the gruesome sight, Rythe's satisfaction only grew. He was winning, and he intended to draw out this macabre dance for as long as he could.