A Compassionate Soul: To an uninvolved observer, the entire event became more intense as the moments passed. The predator interrupted, some would say foolishly, by a man claiming to be the son of Satan, and now the mortal lay cocooned in a web of magical mist, preserving him in his present near-death condition. Such a sight would invoke such pity, such compassion, that one would almost want to, in a moment of bravery, rise from their chairs and boldly rush to his aide. However, the huntress was far from pleased and her frightening presence prevented any such witnesses to attempt such a thing. All, save for one. Acting on impulse, unable to be an idle stander-by any longer, a man dressed plainly in a fresh white cloak, with it’s cowl pulled low, hiding his face, abruptly rose to his feet and rushed over to the mortal. The prey. He chose this moment when the vampiress appeared the most enthralled with her distraction, and while the assassin had her attention. Before any were able to so much as utter a word of resistance, the man scooped up Jacen, cradling him gently in his arms as the last syllables of an ancient, arcane spell rolled off his lips, and with a brilliant, blinding flash, the duo disappeared, being whisked away to safety. Once the man reappeared within the sacred walls of a cathedral, he carried the stricken man swiftly to the front pew, where he gently laid the unconscious man. Separated from the vampire now, her spell had broken and Jacen’s life force could be seen draining from him again. Working with obvious urgency, the man lifted his hands to his cowl and pulled it away from his face, revealing the concerned visage of Isaiah Pureheart. Closing his eyes, his mind drifting through the communion with his holy host, he willed the words of the prayer that would aide him now to the forefront of his mind. His hands hovered over the mortal’s unmoving chest, his fingers splayed wide as his brow knitted in concentration. Soft mumbling could be heard as he began the prayer, and immediately his outreach was responded. His hands began to illuminate a soft white glow, and as the words fell easier from Isaiah’s lips, the spell intensified, and his hands shone brilliantly. If any had been present, they would have had to look away as the awe-inspiring sight of this angelic figure kneeling before the stricken man, his hands glowing with an aura of unspeakable purity, humbled even Isaiah to the omnipotent master whom he called Lord. Gently resting his hands upon Jacen’s still chest, the glowing aura seemed to seep into his flesh, as though the angel were willing the heart to beat with vitality once more. Isaiah’s prayers were answered, and Jacen’s chest lifted slowly as he sucked in a small breath, a faint red tinge gracing his lips as blood began to flow once more. Caressing the man’s soft skin like a loving mother to a infant, Isaiah gently ran his healing hands up Jacen’s bronzed chest and up to his neck, were he lightly touched the twin puncture wounds, which were more like nasty gashes, signs of just how frenzied Nich had become. The wounds slowly pulled closed, the skin pink and healthy in it’s place, as though the embrace had never occurred. With a final determined utterance, Isaiah rested his hand lightly atop Jacen’s forehead and then whispered a soft “Amen.” as he opened his eyes once more. Leaning back on his haunches, small trickles of sweat running from his brow from his exertion, he nodded in silent praise to his Lord for willing this man to continue his life. He would not die tonight. It had been close. Very close, otherwise Isaiah would not have had to make such extreme effort. As it was, he was probably not a moment too soon. He was only glad that he had decided silently lay in wait at the tavern that night. Isaiah knew of the three involved in the incident rather well, and had been keeping individual tabs on each of them. When it had seemed to the angel that all their paths were about to cross, he had made the decision to be present when they did, and he was not sorry for his choice. It took but once glance at the still very weakened Jacen Silvermoon to quell the strong urge, and desire, to return to the tavern and intervene. The man’s life was still hanging in the balance, and his duty was here, with the fallen. He was an angel. Sworn to protect the one’s in this realm still possessed of true good, first and foremost. Though he would like nothing better than to let his holy blades tear into the flesh of the despised vampire, and maybe even settle a score for his Master with Satan’s son, he had to make sure Jacen would survive. So, rising slowly to his full height, he stood vigilantly over the resting man, his head lowered, his angelic gaze gently watching the mortal’s every rise and fall of his chest, and only his thoughts drifted back to the two left at the tavern. A soft chuckle, a rarity for the angelic being, escaped him as he thought of how utterly confused the two would be with the sudden disappearance of the source of all this fuss.::