Orbiting the Bynzanthine Moon, CATHEDRAL sits as the final training facility for all forces of the newly Unified Brotherhood. ARKANGELOS trains, eats and prays with TEMPLAR, HORSEMEN and other units as well in the facility. Equipped with null gravity training spheres, it is intended as the final step in the training of any soldier of the UB. Zero-G space combat and of course, Celestial Meditation.

To pray in the heavens, says the Prophet, is to be closest to Yehovah.

CATHEDRAL teaches it's students many things, but it is not as harsh as the training received on Bynzanthine itself. You are assigned a Centuria of 100 men and granted the rank of Centurion of the ARKANGELOS. Your first order of business is to assign ten men from your Centuria as Decanus, leader of each ten man squad...

You men are assembled in Cargo Bay 12 for inspection and assignment.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:20, Mon 20 Jan 2014.

Apollyon walked the hallways of CATHEDRAL, his footsteps echoing those of greater men. Of a greater man. It was Apollyon's curse, and his blessing.

The ARKANGELOS Centurion was fully outfitted in his wargear - a spotless ivory set of atmospheric combat armor. Its white plates were cut to the human form, giving a sense of the hardened musculature that rested beneath, shifting over a flexible grey composite beneath. Apollyon's left shoulder bore the scarlet wing of the ARKANGELOS, the opposite arm contrarily decorated with the red band and cross of a field medic. His chest was painted with two red vertical stripes: a symbol denoting the rank of Centurion.

The helmet he carried under the crook of his arm, too, bore the same two stripes... Running up and over its crest like a bloody mohawk.

Apollyon's face was still scarred, by fire and steel, as it had been when they escaped City 04. Proper medical attention and minimal reconstructive surgery had made him whole again, but he would always bear these scars all the same. That was fine. ARKANGELOS were warriors. They were not parade soldiers, they were meant to fight and die.

Apollyon made his way wordlessly into Cargo Bay 12, finding his men arrayed in formation in preparation for his arrival. He moved crisply to the fore, helmet still tucked under his shoulder, and took a moment to look over the assembled ARKANGELOS with the unnaturally blue eyes of a Kyp.

"The following individuals, post." Apollyon began. "Raphael."

"Ambriel, Camael, Daniel, Jequn, Kushiel, Remeil, Zephon, Cadomir, Emodias, and Sedon." Apollyon continued, waiting for the ARKANGELOS to shout 'Moving!' and take up position in a line in front of him.

"Raphael, I name you Sekondus of this Centuria." Apollyon announced, leaving his stationary position to stand before Raphael and return the warrior's crisp salute. Then he walked the line, eyes on the other ten called to the fore. "You others, I name to title of Dekarchos."

"Dekarchii, we will being inspecting your men now. Return to formation, make note any inconsistencies finding during inspection." When they had, Apollyon and Raphael would go row by row through the formation... Inspecting and noting any uniform deficiencies. It would fall on the newly minted Dekarchii to make certain these errors were fixed after the formation, should any be found.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:44, Mon 20 Jan 2014.

Newly appointed Sekondus Raphael was resplendent in his armor, a slightly less advanced version of the same sculpted plate Apollyon himself wore, alabaster smoothness set upon ashen clasps and undersuit. Void-sealed and equipped with a golden maneuvering thruster pack in the likeness of small wings, just like Apollyons own. His helm bore a single crimson stripe upon it's crest and the faceplate was adorned with the melanchony visage of a fallen angel of Heaven.

Each of the ARKANGELOS were girded the same with sealed white harness, but their small wing-packs were silver rather than gold and they bore only a dimunutive red cross upon their foreheads rather than the crimson stripes of a commander.

And they were armed, each had with him Heavenfall void rifle, useful in the depths of space and in the cold vacuum of a lifeless starship. On their belts they wore the ceremonial swords of their namesakes, though only the blades held by the Dekarchos, Sekondus and Centurion were vibro-bladed and could cut through a starsuit.

The Sekondus carried a blade called Judgement and it's twin rested in your scabbard, a beautiful golden broadsword named Redemption.

You lead your men through morning prayer and incense-filled meditation of the heavens and the saints as the red-robed Presbyters watched from their deep hoods with glittering thoughtful eyes.

"A spiritu dominatus," Apollyon began the prayer, voice resounding like thunder through the hangar. At his side hung a sword of Redemption, and on his lips a shield of faith. He wondered, if on in the distance of the astral realm, his brother could hear him through the void at the hallowed precipice of Saint Peter's gate.

"...Domine, libra nos." Came the resounding answer of his fellow ARKANGELOS, echoed in a storm of a hundred voices made as one.

"From the lighting, the void, and the tempest," He continued, the Presbyters' gaze on him from beneath their blood-red hoods. They Centurion felt their venerated eyes pierce him, looking into his soul for proof of his loyalty and worthiness. It had been so, ever since they arrived - gone was the simplicity of battle and survival through which they had battled what seemed an eternity ago.

"... Yehovah, deliver us." They answered.

"From plague, temptation, and faltering heart," But Apollyon's heart did not falter, for it beat with the strength of two. Two lives meant to be lived. Two burdens to be carried. A promise, and a legacy, to live to fruition. His own eerily blue eyes, tainted by the warped atmosphere of Kypos, ran the length of his formation.

No, a hundred and two hearts. To think anything else was a grievous sin, and a disservice.

"... Yehovah, deliver us." The ARKANGELOS agreed, a chorus of ascenting angels. A hundred heads shaved near-as-bare to the skull, bowed in prayer.

"From the scourge of the heathen and blade of the sickle," Apollyon continued, as the prayer reached its inevitable crescendo.

"... Yehovah, deliver us." Came the cry again.

"Laying a fire within your soul and another between your hand, and let both being your weapons." Apollyon declared, gruff voice laying clear both prayer and order. "For one is faith and the other victory, and neither may ever being put out. Amen." He finished, his accent much the same as the others in attendance - the same voice that all his brothers spoke, the same voice that marked them as believers.

"... Amen." A hundred heads raised in unison.

"Dekarchii," Apollyon announced to the assembled formation, his voice at once resounding and yet not shouting "Those deficiencies, if any were found, being among your men... Must be bringing to rights. You will be having twenty minute til you must return to formation for day's orders." Apollyon explained, laying out their temporary standing orders.

"Centuria, vnimaniye*!" Apollyon called out, coming to attention as he ordered his Centuria to do the same. Redemption clattered against his hip, its vibro-bladed edge ready and hungry in its sheath as Apollyon's armored hands struck the side of his starsuit's ivory metallic hide. His gaze stayed fixed forward, locked in the position of attention. "Dismissed!"

... And just like that, his men fell out, hurrying either to fix their deficiencies or mulling about while they waited for their fellows to do so.

Apollyon himself approached the Presbyters, to hear what his superiors in the Ecclesiarchy desired his men to accomplish on this day.

*Attention

"Blagvam."

The Presbyter who seemed to lead this clutch made the sign of the Holy cross as Apollyon approached

"Tell me, Son of Apollyon, (this is how they addressed the ARKANGELOS, for in their teaching you are the spiritual son of your name-sake.) after months of trials and testing here, you have learned the Sword, the Gun, the Prayers, the Flight, the Command and even some of the Mysteries. Do you believe you are ready to lead your men against the Enemy?"

Apollyon returned the gesture, tracing out the Holy Cross on his own chest after the Presbyter. When he approached, he did so proudly, though custom demanded that he bowed his head in humble supplication to the priests. They were, after all, men of God. His servants and the purest conduits of his will, or so the Presbyters themselves taught. In his armored starsuit, with years of hard-earned strength, and an unusually tall stature Apollyon seemed to tower over the Presbyters as he considered their question.

"We are ready." The ARKANGELOS answered simply. It was true - his men had mastered war-making during their time at CATHEDRAL. City 04 and the challenges before it had ensured that only the most tenacious of recruits survived to reach this point. They were born warriors all, and the extensive training received here had served to further hone a sword that was already sharp.

"We are instruments of his fury. Direct us, and we will make his will manifest on the battlefield." Apollyon assured them. "We will separate the seed from the chaff; the heathens have sewn the wind with their blasphemy, and now they will reap the whirlwind of Yehovah's blessed wrath." Apollyon intoned. His voice did not boast. Did not brag. He stated what would be, as plainly as if stating the time of day.

"What are your orders, Presbyter?" Apollyon asked, unnaturally blue eyes rising to meet the priests'.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:02, Sun 26 Jan 2014.

"The Prophet has spoken and we are his voice."

His eyes glowed a soft green, no doubt altered to appear as much like the Prophet as possible. Many of the Presbyters had their features surgically changed to match the visage of the Prophet and this was considered one of many ways to become more like Him.

"You will take your command, your ARKANGELOS, and you will board the Sword of the Martyr a battlecruiser from the outlands. From there you will be ferried to your first test of Faith and Might. Saint Commander Dmitri Kazov the Maimed will give you further instructions and through you, your hands will wield the Sword of the Holy Father against the unrighteous." His voice begain to tremble with anger at the end, as if thinking of the heathens infuriated him too much to speak.

"The Prophet has spoken and we are his voice" All of the Presbyters joined in this time, sounding like some concordant choir with the same exact voice.

"I hear his word, and I obey." Apollyon returned, bowing his head low in reverence for the Prophet and out of respect for the Presbyters. The words came to his lips easily: full of fire and zeal as they shook from his throat, ignited by the priests' hate. That flame licked at something deep within his heart, a seed of doubt and skepticism that Belial had once planted... But it was not a hesitation that touched on his features.

Apollyon wore a mask of duty. Of fealty. Of absolute surety in his faith and his Holy call to arms.

"I will drive the heathen before me, and in the eyes of Yehovah sunder him from root to stem." Apollyon promised, words like bright shining spear points - promising death. "I will salt his earth and laying waste to his cities, til all record of the faithless is riven from this galaxy's memory. All this I am doing with the steel of duty and the fire of faith."

"My men will being prepared to board at once, so that we may cross the stars and report at once to Saint Commander." Apollyon promised, bowing his head low again and gripping his idle sword's hilt with a free hand. Then, crisply, he turned to depart. A monolithic tower of armor and man, moving with inexorable purpose: to bring his men to readiness and prepare for the journey at hand. To the stars. To the enemy. To battle.

There was a ghost in those stars, eyes of blue that watched, and Apollyon's heart ached to not disappoint.