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Disclaimer: The characters, places, and general mystical laws that appear in the TV-series `Buffy The Vampire-Slayer´ are not my property. I do not claim property of said objects. Propery resides entirely with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and Warner Bros. I am simply borrowing these characters et cetera. I am not making a profit with the use of these elements for the `Buffy The Vampire-Slayer´ televised series. The storyline `Earthbound´, characters, places and general mystical laws appearing therein that do not fall under the previous disclaimer are MY property. Anyone who wishes to make use of same should contact me and ask. An agreement can be made.
Prologue
Sunnydale, 1997, 23:50, the highway.
Darkness had found the city. It found it every night, as the Master sent
up its minions every night, hoping for release. It found it every night,
despite the ceaseless prowling of the Slayer, Buffy Summers, who was
stalking the cemetery right now. It found the city and its paragons,
making one Mr. Flutie twist and moan in his sleep, making Rupert Giles
sit up in his office, weary but undaunted by loneliness, making Jenny
Calendar start up from dreams in sudden instinct every now and then.
The darkness was always there, always ready to engulf the streets once
the sun gave out.
A single sign stood at the edge of town, a sign reading: 'Welcome to Sunnydale!'
On the highway, there was silence.
And then there was not.
Not quickly, not slowly, a sound approached. The padding of booted feet.
Near Jerusalem, First Holy War. 24:00
The Knights Templar had overrun the small garrison town and were plowing
through its last inhabitants. Fazir felt his last strength leave him as
he charged behind a half-crumbled wall, a laughing Templar on a charger
right on his heels.
'Unfair,' he thought. 'I´m not a soldier, I just wanted to protect my sisters!' But that did not seem to matter at all to the infidel knights. They seemed to relish the kill, the slaughter, and they just wouldn´t stop. Now the one that was following came around the wall as well, laughing as if this was a jolly game. Fazir stubled on, around a building... and stoof face to face with another knight, this one on horseback! Terror rose up in his gut, only to meet despair crushing down on him halfway. His strength left him, and he fell to his knees, sobbing. The mounted Knight regarded him, motionless, quiet. His horse, an ugly old dun stallion, pawed at the ground and snorted, but the armored warrior remained motionless. The Templar came up behind Fazir, still highly amused, but fell quiet when he saw the Knight. 'Who the bloody Hell are you?' he barked, speaking Fazir´s own tongue.
The Knight did not answer, but raised his lance. For a moment, the sunlight caught a heraldic image engraved into his breastplate; a pouncing hawk, striking down at a snake coiled around a lamb. 'A Christian, eh?' the Templar said, still in Fazir´s own tongue, apparently reasured. 'Come on then, I´ll let you take this Muslim dog! Come on man, do your Christian duty, expunge the infidel!' He seemed to think that this was very funny, and he was still lauging when the dun lunged forward, moving with unexpected and deceptive grace, as the lance tore the air.
Fazir closed his eyes and tried to pray, but there was no time. With a sharp hiss! the lance pierced the air - and there was an almost animal scream.
To his surprise, Fazir noted that it wasn´t his own. He opened his eyes again, and saw the emplar, impaled upon the lance, screaming his head off.
The Knight spoke in the Christian´s tongue, words that Fazir did not understand: 'Servant of Baphomet, my duty is to slay you. Die, and tell your master that the Executioner is abroad.' And the Templar died, just like that.
With a snort of contempt, the Knight dropped him, lance and all, then turned his horse around. 'Hey!' Fazir shouted, his voice cracking with relief and confusion. 'Why did you save me?' The featureless visor of the Knight´s helmet regarded him. With a tone of voice, as eloquent as a shrug, as cold as the desert´s night, the warrior replied simply: 'Inch´Allah' and rode off into the desert.
Sunnydale, 23:52.
The padding came closer, and in the distance, a lonely figure could be
seen striding forth under the artificial street-lights. On one shoulder
rested the strap of a large backpack, on the other the belt of a rather
less common object. Dark fabric cloaked the whole figure, so that even
under the bright lights, its face and body were shrouded in darkness.
Bulgaria, Dark Ages, 24:00
Darkness had found this place as well. But how much greater was the
darkness here, out in the mighty pine woods, where there was no light
save that of the stars, the obscured moon and the torches borne by a
trembling score of serfs. The flickering light of those flames danced
upon the lone knight tied to a tree, the twelve knights who stood
regarding him, the as yet unlit pyre at his feet and the sad, torn
corpse of a young woman, placed between the knights and their prisoner.
Her body had been hideously savaged, nearly cut in two lengthwise, so
that her face had to be covered with a sheet. Even now, hours after the
crime had been committed, the sheet was still stained freshly red.
A sword had been jammed into the pyre, a sword of glittering grey metal,
well-kept, almost organical in appearance, hilt and crossguards flowing
into the blade without a division that could be seen. Countless foldings
seemed to have been performed, and no amount of time in the eldest
knight´s forges had been able to melt it down.
And no man present had cared to take the weapon for himself, not after the use it had been put to. Next to the sword lay a shield, its heraldic device scored through with a blunt knife, just as the design on the tied knight´s breastplate had been erased.
He did not seem to have taken these facts too seriously, nor did he appear concerned by his imminent death in flames.
'You,' the eldest knight called out, 'who stood with me at the very Gates of Jerusalem to cut down the infidels by the score, you who accepted my hospitality and refuge in my house, how dare you do such a thing unto my own blood?'
'She was a witch, and worse than a witch,' the young man, tied to the tree, replied.
His voice was... strange. It was cold, colder as the winter winds which brought wolves and snow, and made men freeze to death in their beds.
'You are the witch!' a younger knight roared, his face streaked with tears. 'You wield a blade that is protected by black sorcery, you sacrificed an innocent maiden awaiting her fiancée´s return by studying and helping the poor! Blasphemer! Devil!'
The prisoner gave the young knight a stare that would have turned lava to rock in a matter of seconds, and then ignored him further. 'Prithee, Lord Knight,' he said to the eldest knight, 'continue. I grow weary if this charade and other matters await me.'
'So be it,' the old man said, angrily. 'Unrepentant and in a state of sin will you meet our Maker! May he damn your soul to the blackest pit of Hell!' He gestured at one of the serfs, who gulped fearfully, and then threw his torch onto the pyre. The wood was dry as toast and went up with a roar, engulfing the doomed killer in an instant. But as the knights and serfs looked on, the young knight merely stood there, his face strained in an effort to control the agony, but never crying out. His skin did not burn, did not melt, his eyes stayed in their sockets. Then, to their horror, the ropes snapped, consumed by flame. Unhurriedly, the ex-prisoner strode forth from the flames, only pausing to draw his sword from the deluge of fire. It glowed, not red, but white, like the sun at high noon, as he exited the burning pyre. For a moment he regarded the knights with solemn dignity; the serfs had already fled screaming. Then, without further comment, he turned and walked away, into the forest.
'Devil! Devil! ' the elder knight screamed at the lone figure, which was being obscured by darkness. 'Never are you to be welcome in my lands again! Never be you welcome in the homes of men again, wherever they be! Devil! Your crimes will become known throughout the world!'
Sunnydale, 23:55
The lone figure stopped under the sign, looked up. Nodded its head,
making its dark hood saw ever so lightly. 'Yes,' it said, its voice
colder than the polacaps´ ice, colder than the darkness and the
creatures of the darkness stalking the land.
Vietnam, during the Vietnam War, 24:00
Captain Strongyeard was still up in his tent, poring over the area´s
maps. His small detachment was hopelessly lost in swamplike territory,
of which Vietnam had an ample supply during the wet season. But still,
they´d managed to do the enemy a lot of damage. It was af if the good
old Captain had the gooks´ scent, the soldiers whispered to each other,
almost reverently. He always knew where to strike, and when, and when to
hide, when to fight. It was phantastic.
It was phantastic, Strongyeard thought. Phantastic that he´d inherited the Stone from his father, the Stone that let you see faraway places, the Stone that showed you whatever you needed to see. Maybe the orange flames inside the quartzlike lump were a little disquieting, and maybe the thing was addictive, like Dad had told him, but he could handle it. Definitely. Just a little looksee every night, another one every morning, maybe just a peek on the road, and he was fine. Yeah. Absolutely.
His tent flap opened. Without turning, he said: 'I said no disturbances of any kind. Now what is...' He turned. And went pale, babbling: 'Who´re you? How´d you get in here? Whaddaya... no. No! No! Nooooo... !'
There was a sharp, slashing sound, and then there was no more sound from the Captain. A heavy boot was raised and came down on the stone, smashing it to rubble.
'Cap´n?' someone said outside the tent. 'Cap´n, are you alright?' To the surprise of the inquisitive person, a hand in a metal gauntlet came out and handed him something. He didn´t recognise it for a live grenade until he had it; this discovery made him yelp and jump, drop his gun and stand tremblingly still, his eyes glued to the hideous object, his mind focused on holding the cap closed with all his might. A dark shadow passed him, and a cold voice said: 'Call for help.' Then it was gone.
He did yel for help, and he got it. But the next morning, after they´d cleaned up the mess, they met a party of hostiles. And then they got theirs...
Sunnydale, 23:57
The stranger started walking into town, one hand on the not-so-common
object on his one shoulder. And with good reason; a solitary vampire had
watched him coming from behind an acacia bush, and got up slowly to
follow him as he turned a corner.
Its face twisted into demon guise, and, mouth watering, it accelerated, ready for the kill.
Woodstock, 24:00
A circle of thirteen flower children sat around a stone statue, a
crossing between a fertility idol and a toad, chanting such sounds as
are naturally produced after consuming bulk amounts of finest, sweetest
licquor and strong marihuana cookies and cigarettes.
In the corner sat a somewhat elderly hippie, amusing himself with a stick of weed and a bottle of cheap bourbon, watching the kiddies for their own safety, and his own hand for the beautiful colours it made when moving. He grinned happily as the air over the idol suddenly turned gree and started turning in on itself, accompanied by a strange, descending chord.
He did not grin at the sound of approaching footsteps; this attic had been zoned off for the `groovy old ritual´ as the fellow that found it had called it. Nobody was supposed to come up here and disturb the kids. The knocking on the door was also less than pleasing to his dope- and alcohol-fogged brain. Something about the rhythm reminded him of the time his old appartment building had been raided by the cops, same time when he´d bee sharing it with some cracker that liked heroïn. His body quaked at the memory of being roughed around, shackled, then questioned under hot lights, trying to keep up his denials of knowing anything at all about heroïn traficking and wondering if his idiot roommate had flushed his poison or not. In the end, it turned out that he had, and the hippie had been free to go. But that beat... it did something to him, scared him.
'Go away!' he shouted. 'Love-in in progress!'
This did not deter the person knocking. Instead, he changed his rhythm. Now it sounded like he was trying to break the door down!
'Go away, you sonofa...' the hippie said as he tried to stand up without breaking his face.
The door seemed to just explode; wood dust and splinters rained down on the happily oblivious flower children, on the hippie´s feet - and got sucked down the green hole in the sky, which was starting to hum like a kicked nestful of hornets.
A stranger walked into the room, raising his hand... and the thing that was in it.
'Oh no, man,' the hippie whined, edging back. 'Oh no, Jesus, no, I ain´t into this! I so ain´t into this, oh Jesus, man, for Christ´s sake...'
'Your tongue defiles the names it speaks,' was the only reply, and it was colder than the mornings when you woke up and the dope and the booze had lost their glow, colder than the eyes of cops, colder than the eyes of parents that caught you smoking pot, colder than beer bottles you´d hung over the side of a boat... Colder than the thing that tore the air, cleaving the old hippie nearly in two, lengthwise.
'For the sake of sanity,' the intruder said, looking at the mindlessly babbling children, 'by the authority of my command,' and it swung its weapon. Soon, all the children were dead. A booted foot was raised and came down with a crash, smashing the idol into rubble. Accompanied by a mournful howl, the green hole in the sky closed with a small thunderclap.
Sunnydale, 24:00
The vampire turned the corner,and the intruder was waiting for it. Just
for a moment, a streetlight shone within the hood, and the vampire
caught sight of the stranger´s face.
'Go away,' spoke a voice, colder than the grave.
With a howl of terror close to madness, the vampire stormed off...