And in those days men will seek death and will not find it;
they will long to die, and death flees from them.

The appearance of the locusts was like horses prepared for battle;
and on their heads appeared to be crowns like gold;
and their faces were like the faces of men.

They had hair like the hair of women;
and their teeth were like the teeth of lions.

They had breastplates like breastplates of iron;
and the sound of their wings was like the sound of chariots;
of many horses rushing to battle.

They have tails like scorpions, and stings;
and in their tails is their power to hurt men for five months....
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Praise be to the Son of Apollyon!
Praise be the chosen of the LORD!

Praise be to the Son of Apollyon!
Praise be the sword of the ARKANGELOS!

His Name is the Shield of the Prophets!
His Name is on the Tongue of the People!

His Name is a Curse to our Enemies!
His Name is a Prayer to the LORD!

He stands alone and drives before those who would destroy us!
He leads the Hosts against the heathens and the idol worshipers!

It was the Son of Apollyon who climbed out of the Abyss to knelt before the Heavenly Throne!
It was the Son of Apollyon who survived in the Holy City and Ascended to the Heavens to sit at the LORDS left hand!

It was the Son of Apollyon who took the Sword of the Martyr to the Outlands and purged the wicked from those lands! Exalted be our LORD!
It was the Son of Apollyon who lead the HORSEMEN and ARKANGELOS against the heathen outworlds and purged them with fire and atomic sword! Exalted be our LORD!

The TEMPLAR have killed their tens of thousands! But the Son of Apollyon has killed his hundreds of thousands! Heaven favors the ARKANGELOS first and foremost!
The HORSEMEN have killed their tens of thousands!  But the Son of Apollyon has killed his hundreds of thousands! Heaven favors the ARKANGELOS first and foremost!

Redemption is his Blade! He redeems the souls of the heathen soldiers at its edge! He baptizes them in blood and frees them from the Great Enemy!
The Mysteries are his Guide! He leads us in righteousness, purity and worship of the LORD! He baptizes us in the water and free us from inequity!

The Son of Apollyon has conquered worlds! Taken their lands for Yehovah and his faithful! Praise be the Son of Apollyon! The LORDS gift to his chosen!
The Son of Apollyon has conquered moons! Taken their lands for Yehovah and his faithful! Praise be the Son of Apollyon! The LORDS gift to his chosen!

Praise be to the Son of Apollyon!
Praise be the chosen of the LORD!

Praise be to the Son of Apollyon!
Praise be the sword of the ARKANGELOS!

---The Litany of the Son of Apollyon---

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The first woe is past; behold, two woes are still coming after these things.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:24, Sat 26 July 2014.

"Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer."


The invaders had arrived in orbit four days hence, Radiant Prince Marduk Nar Rakasa IV recalled wonderingly as he brought a goblet of gold to his lips again. The wine within was bitter and scarlet, ringed by thin ochre at its edges where brilliant gold showed through. He swirled the cup again in his left hand, watching as the ruby-red liquid danced with reflected torchlight. They had smote the bare flotilla in orbit and slaughtered its skeleton crew in short order, making landfall on the dawn of the second day, seizing Nergal's spaceports with mercilessly coordinated orbital bombardment and wave after wave of alabaster-armored warriors. Marduk pulled a long draught from the cup again, beckoning for a bare-breasted serving girl to approach and pour him another.

She did without hesitation, gods bless her loyalty, even if there was a hitch to her step - a shake to her hands as she poured. He was tempted to have her, having sent his harem to safety a day ago. There was no time, not at the rate these demons made war - no time, not even for making love. Prince Marduk waved her away, bright jewels and precious metals glinting from his many-ringed hand. She bowed low repeatedly, shaved head bobbing until she had retreated all the way across his audience chamber: past columns of black opal and statues of silvered skin and sapphire eyes.

The third had seen them pressing in hungrily, like wolves baying at the smell of fear and taste of blood. In all his years, Prince Marduk had never seen warriors so ferocious - nor a campaign so effortless. His men had been tossed aside, at the plains of Hermunz. Even the Holy Temple of Gorum had disappeared beneath their advance silently, without so much as a moment of respite for its blood-crazed chaplains to howl in anguish... Despite the steel of their faith and their vaunted martial skill. Their march was unyielding. Like a pitiless machine, grinding and destroying at a deliberate but alarmingly hastened pace.

Did they not sleep? These men of ivory? Had their twice-damned three-headed god stolen their souls too? The Prince ran a hand over his curled beard, rolled into perfect ringlets much as the hair atop his head had been: dangling ornaments of gold and opal at the nape of his neck. A crown of silver ran above them, across his forehead, studded with precious black stones.

Outside, Marduk was certain, he could hear screams. Let them gnash their teeth now if they must, it is too late for sorrow, he knew. This was the fourth day, and now these barbarians overran Irybae itself: capitol of planet Nergal and his dominion, home to the Garnet Palace of Eternal House Marduk. Perched atop the Ziggurat of A-Thousand-And-One Steps.

His chamber sat exposed to the skyline of Irybae, its darkening horizon lit with fire as the war raged at his doorstep. Smoke rose in twisting columns, plumes of scarlet erupting from shattered spires as manmade thunder roared, rolling ever closer. A fighter met his end in the sky above, wings clipped as his fuselage caught fire and split from his craft's wing - two trails of bright flame tracing their way toward the obsidian spires and ziggurats of Irybae below. Radiant Prince Marduk Nar Rakasa lifted his goblet and drank to the brave man's memory.

And then, over the precipice of his Palace's uppermost steps, the sound of barked orders and the shrill scream of laser rifles as they sounded their victims' death knells. Marduk would have a better dirge than that, he thought, as the dozen Bloodguard ringing his chamber readied their wickedly curved blades and laser pistols anxiously. The skirmish below seemed short-lived: silence fell in moments, and the Radiant Prince leaned forward curiously on his throne of carved onyx... Violet robe swishing and golden chains jingling at the movement.

Then they came, cresting over the rise: men in alabaster-armor with sickly-hued eyelets the yellow of a feral hound's eyes. Scarlet wings painted on their ivory shoulders, golden flightpacks in the shape of angelic wings behind. A few stepped over the uppermost step, under a hail of azure laser fire from the dozen men of Prince Marduk's honorguard. One of the marble-skinned demons fell, tumbling backwards like a ragdoll from the Prince's heavenly domain... down A-Thousand-And-One steps... But they returned lancing rays of red, and more yet came from the sides, rocketing upward and falling among them with their flightpacks of gold - trailing jetwash as they fell like a storm, sewing death amongst Marduk's faithful with blade and rifle.

The Prince's men were capable. They were brave. They were loyal... and they died, like dogs. These demons fought unlike men: their sinews trained to war and chaos with a proclivity no sane mortal should ever know. Vagrek, his most competent guard and a foreigner with skin like snow from the Aesgar homeworld, rallied to his side: drawing a scimitar of silvered-steel, as much a thing of ceremony as battle. Marduk held a bejeweled hand to hold him back, noticing that the white wolves had not closed in for the kill.

Off to the side, one crouched over a squirming bloodguard, slamming his ringlet-curled head into the ziggurat's stone as gold-banded arms flailed... then went still. Still, they did not press in.

Then, he came.

A figure crested the Ziggurat's Thousand-And-First step, though he could not have known him, if not for the other demons' reactions. They ceased their struggles, dropping weapons to their side, and fell to one knee reverently. Each traced two lines across their foreheads, in the shape of a "t", murmuring a single word that the Radiant Prince did not know: "Apollyon".

This Apollyon was bedecked in bleached armor too - like the rest. A single blood-red stripe ran the course of his helmet, from the brow of his eyelets to the back of his skull, ringed by a filigreed wreath of olive leaves painted across his helm. White metal clasps - polished like pearls, held a scarlet cloak to his shoulder: one that covered the right side of his body, but trailed to nothingness between his golden flightpack and his ivory back. Instead of the frenzied yellow of his minions, his visor glowed an unearthly blue: bright like distant starfire. He was tall, but no taller than the rest of these infernal invaders.

There was another man at his side, similar in appearance but for the lack of a painted wreath. Both carried vibroblades at their sides, in white sheaths the color of their armor.

Vagrek roared, launching unexpectedly from his side with his curved blade of silvered-steel in hand. The "Apollyon" did not slow his step, nor move to defend himself: the man at his side, instead, leapt into action. Drawing his own blade, he interceded between his master and Vagrek. Sword meeting sabre, as the two dashed their steel against eachother. Vagrek was the second finest swordsman on all of Nergal, inferior only to himself Prince Marduk knew, but as he watched the demon out-maneuvered him: stepping in close, and sliding his steel up and over Vagrek's own, vibroblade grinding against metal as it swung low to cut an arc of splattering scarlet across Vagrek's gut.

For a moment, Vagrek teetered sword in arm, til he fell with the others. The other demons muttered a few unknowable words in a dozen upon a dozen voices made one, while making the sign of the "t" across their foreheads again as they remained knelt. The Apollyon's second cleaned his blade off on Vagrek's resplendent spider silk-woven armor.

Meanwhile their leader, the one with the haunting ghostlight in his eyes and the ring of gold round his head, had stopped a few feet before the Radiant Prince's onyx throne. Behind him, fire laced the skyline of Irybae: sparks dancing and swirling around ashen columns of smoke risen heavenward. The gunfire though had gone suspiciously quiet. This Apollyon said nothing, white-clad fingers of composite metal hanging motionless at his side as he looked to the seated Prince. He made no move to finish what his men had begun.

The Radiant Prince flashed a knowing smile, seeing now an escape from joining Vagrek and the others in death. He downed the remnant wine in his cup - the dregs, and little more, and stood from his throne to stand before the Apollyon. Only then did he realize how massive this man was: and all the others with him. A full head and a half above what a man ought to be, in the Prince's mind. Swallowing back his fear, Prince Marduk drew his own curved sword: a scimitar like Vagrek's, its edge forged from the bones of star's heart... And he took it by its blade, directing its handle toward the silent statue of a warrior to his fore.

The Apollyon did not move. He did not speak.

"I yield the planet, Nergal is yours, by right of conquest." The Radiant Prince professed with growing confidence. "I and my line will swear allegiance to you and your god, as we did to the Aesgar. We were theirs. Now we are yours." Marduk promised, bowing his head low expectantly, his voice reverent.

No words.

The Radiant Prince looked up questioningly, to his conqueror's unknowable alabaster mask. Then, in hushed words that came across his lips on the back of growing fear and rising bile, he asked: "Do you accept my surrender?"

"NO." Came the answer, loud as a trumpet and piercing as a dagger - spreading terror and reckless anger through Prince Marduk's heart. How dare this barbarian? This infidel!? To reject the service and faith of one so beloved of the heavens? His House had stood millennia beyond count - since the Old Fathers raised this Ziggurat from the midnight seas of Nargel. He was eternal! A god, in blood!... And he would not die at the hands of some twice-damned zealot...

Prince Marduk turned his blade over, taking its handle in both hands - then raised it in front of his face, in preparation to defend himself. The demon did not reach for his own blade. "Then we fight as men!.. And when I have dashed your broken body upon the Garnet Palace's steps your -" He stopped, voice shocked, as the Apollyon's hand snapped up with bizarre alacrity for a man so big: ivory fingers wrapped around his blade. Marduk attempted to pull it free, tried to wrench it loose, twisting and turning... But it was no good. This devil was too strong.

"NO." He spoke again, that accursed word.

A single bead of red ran down the Apollyon's wrist, forging a trail where followed a streamlet of the same: a thin red line. The demon's other white hand strayed to his waist, and the sheath hanging there, drawing a dazzling vibroblade worked with inlaid inscription. Marduk had little time to appreciate it, however, as it ripped upward from its sheath - humming as its keen edge arced through the Prince's wrist, severing it from his arm.

Pain. So much pain. It hurts, hurts, HURTSHURTS SO BAD! My hand, where's my hand, give me back my hand! Put it back! PUT IT BACK! His mind screamed, or perhaps his tongue did, Marduk couldn't tell. He writhed, fingers grasping his ringlet hair and dragging him forcefully on his knees across the bloodied floor of his palace - past Vagrek and a dozen other corpses, grey lifeless eyes cursing the Radiant Prince as he screamed, kicked, and whimpered. Trailing behind a thick red line. He felt the wind, as the Apollyon dragged him to the precipice of the steps and shoved his face down over the edge - looking down, to a white roaring sea with raging golden eyes. The banners of his house put to the torch behind him, replaced in the city streets by ivory standards bearing a golden "t".

Above, engines roared, and the demons' warlord shouted in a strange and ugly tongue. Then, Prince Marduk felt a cold line of steel on his outstretched neck: and he screamed. For mercy, for his mother, for anything. He knew so many things. So many useful secrets! Spare me! Spare me, I will tell you anything! Everything! The words came out in a blubbering mess as the steel left his skin, the hair on his back standing on edge as he cried to the gods above for mercy and heard only the roaring din of applause.

And then there was pain again. For only a moment. Then Marduk was falling, falling down the stairs with his body tumbling behind him, though he felt so light as his eyes closed to darkness. Like a feather.



This message was last edited by the player at 03:09, Sun 27 July 2014.

Apollyon tipped the Fetid Prince's Radiant Corpse down the steps casually with his white boot, stained with red at its tip, sending the body tumbling down after his painted skull - jingling with gold, errant links scattering as his dozen necklaces broke apart across the pyramid's face. He spared it not another glance, as it rolled down, coming to rest haphazardly at the base of the obsidian ziggurat like a discarded doll.

"Thus always, for all enemies of the True God, Yehovah, Three-In-One!" Apollyon announced in the sacred tongue, voice resounding like clapping thunder through the vox-enhancer of his armor. Sounding through the canyons between the ziggurats, the twisted alleys, and the smote spires of Irybae. This "Prince" creature was just one more heathen, in a black list without end in this twisted galaxy, destroyed by his own blasphemy. The tales of this Radiant Prince's debauchery had reached Apollyon's ears from afar - that Marduk Nar Rakasa IV was dead, and damned to whatever purifying scourging awaited him in the afterlife, was a justice to the ignorant masses of this heathen world.

He would not have pitied him regardless. His death was a necessity... And now, besides, a pleasure. There was only one True Prince, the Lamb of God.

"I am claiming this planet in the name of the Faithful, the Prophet, and Yehovah Almighty. I name it Anatoli, and this city Angelspire." Apollyon declared, atop the Garnet Palace, as a banner depicting the sacred crucifex was unfurled at his back by his men. Gold-trimmed cloth of purest white flapping in the soot-stained sky, amidst the cleansing fire of conquest. The ARKANGELOS below resounded in their thousands, voices beyond count raised in praise to the Almighty.

Apollyon flipped the vox-enhancer off, turning to the pallid shadow at his side: armored in ivory as he too was, with a bloodred stripe down his forehead devoid of golden olive branches. It denoted him as Tribunos, Apollyon's most trusted brother. Secondus, and next in command should the unthinkable happen and Apollyon fall.

The other ARKANGELOS proffered Apollyon a torn violet silk rag, no doubt pulled from one of the previous ruler's standards. Legatos Apollyon took it in hand and carefully cleaned the edge of his blade, speaking as he did.

"Tribunos Raphael, gather my Tribuni here." Apollyon ordered, turning to regard his men as they ferried the dead from within the ziggurat. The prince's guards. They too were tossed down its steps, like refuse. "We will set into action the ordering of this world." Then he set off toward the ziggurat's interior, his eyes of eerie blue ghostlight looking over pillars of exotic black stone as he passed through them: like the darkened trunks of some cursed forest. Redemption, his inscribed vibroblade, hung easily at his side. Clean of the prince's cursed blood.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:53, Sun 27 July 2014.

It took the better part of a month to subdue the populace on what was now known as Anatoli. The House of Marduk had been purged, the palace halls ran red with the blood of the Radiant Prince's wives and children, his brothers had been beheaded and their heads set on spikes in the Great Square in Angelspire.

Local defense forces surrendered once the ziggurat was taken and it became clear what the "Archangels" would do with anyone who resisted. Reports were always coming in of hold-out cells up in the mountains or deep in the jungles, but that was for LEGION to handle now, mopping up after the glorious Assault.

The ARKANGELOS had torn down all graven images, all idols and pagan symbols, their libraries burnt, computers smashed, crowns and goblets of gold and silver taken back to Byzanthine for the glory of Yehovah to be given to the Unity Council of Presbyters. All Byzanthinite Brothers spoke of how Apollyon had cast down the False Prince, just as the True Prophet cast down the Holy Emperor all those centuries ago on Byzanthine and exalted the Unity Council in his place.

Crucifix Interceptors filled the skies above, their cruciform presence reminding all the heathens who ruled here now. Presbyters had arrived on-world, standing in iron pulpits, preaching the Word of Yehovah and his Prophet to the pagans and demanding they convert. Many did, and those who refused were made into examples. The firespikes burned day and night in the streets, immolating witches, unrepentant pagans and infidel priests alike.

Anatoli represented something new for the Unified Brotherhood in this, their 7th Crusade. It was the first major world taken from what they now knew was the "Indaris Hegemony." Millions dead from atomic bombing, pitched battle and the final assault on Angelspire. Reports had it that it was a Core World for their empire and with this success they were finally close to their capital world and their Infidel leaders. Soon, they would all be freed from Ha-Satan's grasp and join the Unified Brotherhood as all mankind must.

The ostentatious throne in the main chamber had been melted down and replaced with a simple seat of steel. A warriors throne. Your Secundus approaches, offering you a respectful salute as is rightful of your station. He drops a heavy sack onto the floor and heads spill out, staining the marble floors again.

"My Lord. I have put these infidels to the sword as instructed. Their confessions were most informative. There is now much I can tell you about our enemy, this 'En-Dar-Ess Hegemony' of theirs. What would you hear of it?"

The month was a time of suffering for the stubborn and unfaithful of Anatoli - those that repented their blaspheming were spared however, and welcomed into Yehovah's blessed flock. It was a choice freely offered. Men made what choice they would, and Apollyon pitied those too ignorant to embrace the Truth of His Mysteries.

Already he had issued orders for his men to begin refitting for war: the ARKANGELOS did not rest easily, and their sword would not rust in its scabbard - they were instruments of the divine, forged for the glorious purifying flames of Holy War. Others would come to finish this world's pacification. LEGION, HORSEMEN, and TEMPLARS. Apollyon's eyes were set on the stars, the same that he and Belial had looked on together when his most beloved brother drew his last breath.

So it was that Apollyon sat the rough-cast throne at Angelspire's heart, atop the vast ziggurat that had once housed its black-hearted False Prince. It was uneven and uncomfortable, its steel armrests rippling with imperfection - but Apollyon had requested as much. When they had asked him, 'What of a cushion?' he'd scoffed: a righteous man never ought sit a throne too comfortably. Responsibility, not excess, defined leadership. There would be no cushion here, and whoever sat this throne after Apollyon would know as much long after the Legatos had departed to continue the 7th Crusade.

So it was that Secundus Raphael found Apollyon, armored in ivory and silver, back ramrod straight, with his left hand rested atop his combat helm - its eyelets dun and grey now, lifeless when disconnected from his armor. Not so Apollyon's own eyes: the Kyps gaze glimmered with faint azure starlight, so blue that they looked inhuman, both eyes fixed on Raphael's form as he approached. His face passive, but for a subtly welcoming smile. He watched as Raphael presented his "gift", nodding in understanding when the other ARKANGELOS had spoken. The Legatos' hair was shaved severely short - nearly to the skull. His own face, now exposed, was crisscrossed with scars. Most of them faded with age, gained two years hence as he and his ascended from the Megiddo of City 04.

Banners of white and gold, affixed with Yehovah Three-In-One's holy crucifix hung from the Garnet Palace's obsidian pillars, stark against the austere columns. Gone were the silver and sapphire statues, offerings to the Unity Council.

"You have done well then, Brother Raphael." Apollyon suggested, pushing himself up from his seat and striding across the distance between them. His steel boots sounded loudly against the dark stone, each footstep punctuated by a metallic clack. He came to a halt before Raphael and looked down, bright gaze searching through the assemblage of heads. Finally after a moment, he continued. "Though I would not have expected otherwise from you." The Legatos suggested, his steeled voice utterly sincere.

Eyes ascended back to meet Raphael's as Apollyon's ivory-plated right hand went to rest easily on Redemption's synthetic-wrapped handle. "I want to know all of it. Everything about our great enemy... But let us start simply. Who rules the heathens? From where?"

"Who leads their armies? From where do their supplies come? Their rations? Farm worlds? Where?" Apollyon continued, indicating with a nod that these were the sort of things he desired to learn. With him it was always the next battle, the next conquest: his gaze was ever fixed ahead. Heavenward.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:49, Wed 30 July 2014.

Sekundus Raphael remains at attention, clutching his own alabaster helm beneath his arm he focuses on your clear and intense gaze. He too has the look of a warrior, having fought beside you since City 04. His respect for you was absolute. He was your Belial.

Raphael does not resort to a holo device or any records. In his very memory, he has committed the details of their foe. He begins to recite what he knows from his own recollection, adding his own analysis as necessary, in essence providing you with the raw data and his interpretation of the information. His gauntlets and boots are stained with fresh blood and you assume relates to the questioning.

This Hegemony, he spits the word out as if it offended him, is ruled from a planet they call En-Darr-EE Prime. They say, the Family of En-Darr-Ess rules them. A Prince, they say, Vain-Ray En-Darr-Ess the First holds dominion over their star systems. Beneath him he has four other "Great Houses" Lee-Ann-Drey, Aahs-Gar, Soh-Loon, Reh-Vak. They are families, nations, he has subjugated through conquest.

They are a divided people, but for this, each of the Five Houses leads their own forces. They appear to tithe some of their men to the Hegemony itself, but also maintain their own space and ground forces. I believe they have fought each other in the past over resources or territory.

They have several manufacturing centers, corporations appear commonplace in their Hegemony, lacking our more centralized authority. Most manufacturing appears to come from their core worlds, while agriculture seems to be primarily the focus of frontier planets with minimal populations. There are certainly exceptions to this rule, but we can conclude that our attack on the planet they call Toasaa to be a critical blow against their food supplies. Of particular interest, a planet known as Serntiaari is within two jumps from here. An ice world, it is known primarily for producing their Gorum worshipers, and they claim, some of their best troops. Additionally, it is used as a source of frozen and liquid water for much of the Hegemony.

My projection is that our next attack should be one of the following:

Serntiaari: To crush their water reserves, infantry and their spirit. They seem to hold these people in high regard for their warrior skills. If they were subjugated, it would strike a blow to their whole empire. We expect the planet to be well defended.
Gatharta: Another agricolony like Toasaa. Poorly defended, it would further cripple the food supplies of the entire Indari Hegemony and weaken their morale with minimal risk.
Gryphon: Heading further into the Core Worlds, we have identified this as a key manufacturing and infrastructure world. Defenses are unknown, but assume they are high to protect this strategic location
Indaris Prime: with four jumps, we could be at their homeworld. We believe this information is accurate, due to our techniques, but we know next to nothing about what to expect when we arrive. We may not have the numbers to launch an assault on their capital.
Stations: We have the locations of a number of space stations in the surrounding systems. Any of them could be useful from a resources, territory or intelligence perspective.

[Make your decision, Apollyon.]

Apollyon considered, his grim features stoically unreadable. In the dim interior of the Garnet Palace his eyes seemed to burn from within, bright blue as the most intense of flames. They stared into the distance, beyond Raphael, past columns of defaced opal that shined and shimmered in dancing torchlight. Far and beyond all this, as if seeking counsel with the Divine himself in the heavens. For a long moment he stood still and thoughtful - alabaster grip wrapped tight around Redemption's synthetic-wrapped hilt. Behind him, the Legatos' scarlet cloak stirred with the whispers of a soft breeze... And Apollyon closed his eyes tight, listening to the silence intently.

For word from Yehovah. No, for word from Apollyon. The first Apollyon. How he wished his brother were here now. He would know. He had always known.

"Heaven's sword falls next on Gatharta," Apollyon announced, his eyes of ghostlight opening again "We will strangle their Hegemony... And when their bread turns to dust in their mouths, when the locusts descend upon their fields, they will know want. Not enough for all mouths, and the mouth that grows hungry will be discontent." Apollyon raised a white-armored gauntlet to eye-level, exaggerating the slow motion of crushing a throat.

"... And they will be forced to choose, too. Do their fleets and armies cling to these Core Worlds and starve as the Chosen reave their fields? Or do they spread their grasp and defenses, to provide protection for the agriworlds?" Apollyon spoke, voice like steel. "... And then..." He nodded, seeing the path ahead clearly for what it was.

Apollyon turned to his beloved brother and Secundus, Raphael. "Prepare the shipyards, and commandeer all the ancillary mercantile vessels that were moored in this system upon its conquest." The ARKANGELOS Legatos commanded, turning on his heel with a sharp metallic click and making his way back for the warrior's throne he sat at the precipice of Angelspire. "I have purpose for them." He suggested.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:30, Wed 30 July 2014.

You had a disturbing dream. You recall but one part, a tall figure with a golden face led you among the dead as though through a wedding celebration. You heard the sound of many tongues, but no mouths opened, no lips moved. You struggled to breath, yet your body did not inhale. The tall figure spoke with each form as it passed among them, laughing amicably and joking with them, but they made no reply. You tried to cry out, but your lungs were empty and your tongue could not speak.



Woken from your nightmare, you receive the morning reports. Two weeks since you gave your orders, the repairs are well under way. This morning, the fleet detected an Indari ship appear on the edge of the star system. It lingered for a few hours as your ships scrambled to reach it and then jumped back towards their capital world. The Captain's Council chose not to pursue a single ship, in case it was a trap.

Another twenty-two rebel fighters were killed late last night in a distant province after fierce fighting with the LEGION peacekeepers in the region.

A listening post was destroyed in sector 9-297 at 0400.

These reports have become commonplace and dull.

More and more each day, new supplies arrive from Lynius II, the staging ground from your invasion in the Lynius system. New LEGION troops, HORSEMEN warmachines. The TEMPLAR have begun to arrive to carry out trials for heresy and to assure the security of the world. Officially, they are to take control of the planet and lead the next part of the invasion. This morning, ten of their ships arrived in orbit lead by Sanctified Commander Valruz of the First Order. He claims to have papers declaring himself Lord Regent of Anatoli, placing the ARKANGELOS under his temporary command for "The critical endgame of the invasion" on behalf of the Unity Council.

Hundreds of Presbyters have now taken up residence on Anatoli, establishing offices and beginning the construction of the churches and Grand Cathedral.

Raphael comes to you after you morning report is delivered.

"The task force is all but ready, my lord." He gives you a curt salute. "2,700 ARKANGELOS are ready for the mission. Who of your Tribuni do you wish to lead the mission? We'll be ready to launch in two cycles. We estimate eight cycles until we make our move."
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:15, Tue 02 June 2015.

The dream troubled Apollyon more than he desired to admit. It seemed to carry with it a weight of significance, and purpose, that was hard to fathom. The ARKANGELOS only wished that he could interpret it, if it truly was a vision sent by the divine.

Apollyon returned Raphael's salute, his armored fist clenching and slamming into his breastplate with a sharp 'clack'. It hung there for a moment, over his heart, before dropping again to his side. They met still at the top of the Garnet Palace's Thousand-And-One steps, before the throne of iron and surrounded by a forest of thick-trunked obsidian trees. The Saint Commander had not sought to press his claim to the planet so far as this, as to unseat Apollyon, though the Legatos knew it must be coming. He would let the man have it: a chair was a chair. He need only come and claim it.

"Brother Camael will assume command," Apollyon began "His standing orders will be to destroy Gatharta's strategic value. To burn their fields and sunder their machinery." A pause, as Apollyon began to walk forward through the chamber - long-legged stride carrying the eerily white-armored specter through the black of the ziggurat. He gave no order, but continued speaking, clearly expecting Raphael to follow as he approached the precipice of the ziggurat's steps.

"... But, he is not to destroy its people." Apollyon spoke sternly, blue-orbed gaze ahead on the sprawling cityscape of Angelspire. "He will smash their false idols. Tear their temples down, stone by stone... But there are to be no firespikes by our hands, no tribunals to ferret out the unrepentant among the heathens. I have seen enough men burn, and I will commend no more to the ashes." The Legatos suggested. "Let the Presbyters seek to surround themselves in the fires of hell if they will. We Chosen who have known the bitter inferno of war, have no need for more flames."

The burnings and the trials had begun to disturb Apollyon, for all their pageantry and claims of divine purpose. The Presbyters seemed ever more eager to find hidden heathens, to find more tinder for their bonfires. It had begun with Anatoli's false priests. Then, with traitors. Now: Apollyon witnessed men damned to the pyre for the smallest of insubordinations. For suspicions. Mutterings, without a wisp of evidence. Apollyon had personally torn a man from the firespike moments before his execution, the other day: the Presbyter claimed him for a heathen and a traitor. The citizen claimed that his only offense had been in not willingly opening his daughter, in addition to his home, to the priest.

Apollyon had taken the man and his family into his own service, promising him protection. When the presbyter had sought to question his judgment and authority, he had also had the priest, a young firebrand with a grating sense of arrogance, lashed upon the steps of the Garnet Palace. He prayed that every bite of the whip had stung as much and more as what the twisted creature had done to that peasant girl. Apollyon had ordered the priest stripped of his robes, and sent a full report to Anatoli's fledgling Bishopric, suggesting his disbarment from the ecclesiastical ranks. An example, and a warning. His men had carried it out without hesitation: mighty warriors of silver and steel, meting out the reaping that this black-hearted weasel had sewn. Judgment fell upon the mighty as well as the meek, both conquered and conqueror - this was a world ruled by the will of The LORD, and not the depravity of false gods or twisted men. His Law and His Justice would prevail here. The ARKANGELOS were instruments of His Will, and they did not bend to the whims of wicked men. Not even if that wicked man disguised himself in the robes of a priest.

Perhaps too little, at too late an hour though.... But you would not have permitted it in the first hour, Apollyon thought, would you brother? For all your greatness, you were a gentler soul: as righteous in mercy as you were in wrath. Apollyon thought whimsically.

"The Saint Commander," Apollyon began "Extend a summons to him. If he wishes to make this Palace his own, it is his: he must only come here so that I may render it to him." The Legatos suggested, voice like cold iron. "He may command the war for Anatoli, now that the war is over. He will sit the throne he did not earn..." The ARKANGELOS' baritone voice increased in tempo if not passion, features stoic as his face remained free of the righteous anger he felt welling in his heart. "... But I see this for what it is, and I know that you must too brother. They supplant us, in the wake of our victory. Demanding that we surrender what we had no desire to claim."

"That they fear the righteous worries me more than I can say, brother." Apollyon spoke at last. "What age do we live in, that a holy man fears an instrument of the divine?"
This message was last edited by the player at 05:29, Sat 02 Aug 2014.

Camael the Chastiser exited orbit, making for the Gatharta system with with a full fourth of the Holy Fleet. Frigates, Arks, freighters, support vessels, gunships, a full fighter squadron and the Cruiser Damnation's Rebuke an adjutant provides Apollyon with the final figures. 2,700 Arkangelos brothers with supplies, munitions and equipment to hold the planet for at least 2 months until supplies arrive from Anatoli. They would arrive in system in about seven days and send a FTL message pod back through the void to Anatoli. In two weeks he would know the fate of his fleet and brothers.

The decoy fleet was prepared and ready. Harbormasters had them scheduled to launch in less than one day. The trip would take just over 4 weeks to reach their destination and from that distance there is no returning via FTL message pod. They would have to refuel and undergo the length journey back. Your advisers assure you, there is no need to wait for a response. Your main attack must be ready within 2 weeks, no later.

It was not until your forces parted ways that the TEMPLAR fleet broke orbit from the nearby moon and took up station directly over Angelspire in a geostationary orbit. Unlike the Holy Fleet, carrying with it Arks loaded with LEGION, HORSEMEN and ARKANGELOS alike, the TEMPLAR had their own warships. Beautiful golden things, fashioned in the visage of saints, presbyters, sacrevicars, martyrs, mystics and prophets. These were not idols, but icons of the Faith. It was an important, but distinct difference spoken about at least twice a year during Mass. They were meant to remind us that every man and woman can serve Yehovah faithfully.

The TEMPLAR were once the greatest of the Church's warriors, until recently supplanted in popular opinion by the ARKANGELOS. They wore golden armor, with Iconic painted masks, bearing the face of a saint or the scene from the Holy Word. Armed with sabres and falchions, they are known throughout the Unified Worlds as unmatched swordsmen and they have access to the finest equipment and weaponry known to mankind. It is said that they were founded by the Prophet himself, and the first of their number were his bodyguards and closest, most trusted warriors. From such esteemed and glorious beginnings the TEMPLAR were formed. They have the sacred duty to guard the Presbyters, the Heavenly Cathedral-Stations and the Relics of the Faiths. When they go to war, they are often the leaders and champions of battle, first in and last out of the melee.

But now, their songs begin to fade into memory, for new songs are being sung of The Angels of Man....

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saint Commander Valruz is not an enormous man. His eyes reach your chin and he has a thinness about him that should make him seem smaller still, yet in the eyes of all who view him, he strides about as Goliath of old. His golden plate covers him, plastron decorated with a scene from Exodus, showing the Pharaoh and his men drowning in the seas as Moses looks on. His helm is clutched to his side, in the crook of his arm and on the face is painted the Martyr-Emperor, Isapostolos Constantine, who was betrayed by his own son, Brutus the Forsaken. The skin is cracked with grief and blood runs from his eyes down to the chinguard.

Flanking him are no less than a dozen TEMPLAR, equally resplendent in their war-dress, shining sabres glinting in the red-glow of the evening son atop the Thousand-And-One steps. He makes approach to you with no sign of hesitation or falter in his steps, despite behind surrounded by your men and guard. No salute does he offer, nor obeisance of any kind and the ARKANGELOS, particular Raphael seem angered by this display of arrogance. Yet, the TEMPLAR are known to be second only to the Presbyters and a Saint Commander is a Living Saint...

His eyes are watchful, probing, dangerous. He speaks loudly, with the sharp intonation of Bynzanthine Nobility. "I, Living Saint, Commander of the TEMPLAR, Guardians of the Unity and First Servants of Yehovah and his Prophet, Alexandri Russensk Valruz come to this world to claim it in the name of the Unity Council, the TEMPLAR and the Lord of Lords, Yehovah and his Prophet. Are there any here who would challenge my rightful and holy claim?"

"Brother, you are mistaken." Apollyon spoke, voice patient but firm, seated at the Throne of Cold Iron. His eyes of blue starfire burned feverishly beneath a torn and scarred brow, one of his battle-marred alabaster gauntlets gripped lightly about an armrest. The other sat perched atop the crest of his helm, white fingers resting on its olive leaves of gold and its stripe of blood scarlet. Legatos Apollyon did not wear the resplendent gold of a TEMPLAR Commander; his armor bore scars, rends, and scuffs from two years of tireless warfare. He had come through fire and steel. He had proven his faith. They were the bleeding edge, and how he had bled...

"You speak to me as if I were a conquered heathen, rather than a triumphant brother." He continued, voice thick with the lowborn accent of Kpyo. Marking him for an outcast. An outcast born of exile's blood. His people punished with torturously slow death for generations - til they, and even those punishing them, had forgotten their crime. "... But I am no Phillistine, and you are no Joshua." He did not stand from his seat, nor did he raise his voice: the intensity of his gaze said all his words did not. Those traitor's eyes of his burned through the Saint Commander's suspicion, through his presumption, past his hate.

"So, tell me now brother, how many worlds have you offered up on His altar?..." He asked. "That I must be turned away, cast from the world I offer to the Brotherhood in His sacred name."

His voice low, reverberating with thunder, Apollyon spoke his own sacred name: "I am the Son of Apollyon, he who is named 'Destroyer', Legatos and Commander of The ARKANGELOS - Crownbreaker, Conqueror of Worlds, and Shield of The Prophets. I am the White Rider and the Fifth Trumpet... And I tell you now: if you have come for a war, there is none to be found here. We, the Angelic Host of our Lord, brought the heavenly sword to Anatoli. The pagan prince of Nergal is dead. His people subjugated. There is nothing left here for you to conquer."

Apollyon leaned forward, Redemption's ivory and gold sheath shifting at his belt. "This world was the Brotherhood's long before your vessels moored in orbit. So why did you come? With your suspicion and your guns... To rebuke those who would name you brother? To demand that which was already freely given?" Does the Lord command you to turn away from your brother in the face of his foes, he wondered, or rats, clad in the temple's gold?

Apollyon shook his head, back going ramrod straight again as the venerable warrior reclined back into his twisted and barbed throne. "The Throne is yours, if you but embrace me as your brother."

Valruz watched the Son of Apollyon for a long hard minute, shifting his stance as he grew increasing uncomfortable at his words. His armored fingers, idly caressing a matched pair of silvered and ebony laser pistols from the Workshops of Turke, no doubt a gift for some great victory accomplished in the dueling circle years ago.

His men seemed at ease though, confidently standing around him in what you recognized was a well rehearsed defensive formation that would provide them with interlocking fields of fire against your own men, should things turn violent. Each of them was armed with well crafted plasma culverins, ancient and sacred weapons believed to have been used by the Prophet himself when he slew the Palace guards of the False Holy Emperor.

They too, were armed with curved blades and chainswords with rending teeth. From what you knew of TEMPLAR, they would not resort to hand to hand unless they had no choice, they lacked the honor of the ARKANGELOS and instead chose to be ruthlessly efficient in their death dealing. If they could drop atomics on a planet and cleanse the enemy with radioactive fire, they would do so rather than step foot on the soil and draw a weapon.

It made them, to the ARKANGELOS way of thinking, dishonorable, but also dangerous and unpredictable.

Living Saint, Alexandri Valruz, smiled uneasily, chuckling and looking back at his men. "So... the Kypo bastard wants me to embrace him as a brother? Me? Who, when I was born, the bells rung on a dozen worlds, the presbyter-augurs spoke of my role in the coming wars? The Saints received visions from Heaven that I was to lead the next Crusade, the TRUE Crusade! You dirt born sinner, tainted by the touch of the Ha-Satan. Born of sinners, of traitors to the church and Yehovah. Do not think that eternal penance puts you on a pedestal next to the Chosen." His voice spit articulate hatred and derision for you and yours. "The ARKANGELOS are peasants, heretics, traitors, tainted sinners all. That we name you angels is a joke! The TEMPLAR will always be the TRUE warriors of the Prophet and of Heaven." He spits upon the ground and places his helm upon his own head.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:55, Thu 21 May 2015.

"Brother," Apollyon spoke quietly, his hushed voice nearly a whisper "Do you not know?" The ARKANGELOS stood, his imposingly tall musculature girded with silver and ivory. Scratches glinted in dimmed torchlight along his shining chest, shadows flickering from beyond pillars of obsidian. He brought his helm up and over his head, slamming it in place with a resounding 'cli-clack!' "When I was born, bells rang too... His helm hissed, rejecting Anatoli's oxygen in favor of its own internalized atmosphere: a jet of tainted air pouring from its rebreather at the base of his neck.

Like the dirty, wet, real air of Bynzanthine so long ago...

"... A thousand upon a thousand death knells across a hundred worlds..! Crying shrilly to a chorus of widow's wails!" Apollyon yelled, his voice resounding through the cavernous halls. Free of untempered rage, but somehow wroth and imposing all the same. Cold iron, like the throne he had sat, rather than molten. He stood tall above Commander Valruz. Above his guards. An angel, come alive from the book of Revelations: wrapped in terror and majesty both. He drew Redemption from his side, the sanctified blade humming in murmured anticipation. It's bared edge shined, washed and polished with sacred oils blessed in CATHEDRAL's Sepulcher Militant. The blade sang as Apollyon raised it on high as its tip came alive with reflected fire, hand of ivory gripped tightly about it's synthetic wrap, behind a guard emblazoned with the visage of the Archangel Michael, standing poised with spear in hand above the prostrate form of Lucifer.

"The Lord will judge us, and in our martial struggle reveal His judgment. If I am victorious: withdraw. If you are, my men will surrender this world and depart for war on other distant worlds. As we always intended to do, before you brought betrayal to this world." He continued. "And you will reclaim the glory, for which you so hunger."

The same glory you would sacrifice every one of your goldenclad paladins for, Apollyon thought painfully, how far you've fallen. If only I had known... that you were lost, to the great enemy, before ever I saw you.

"If you will not be my brother, then do me this lone courtesy: man of noble birth and pure heart." Apollyon's synthetically-enhanced voice intoned, metallic and inhuman. Yet pure and crystalline, just as it was born of steel, like a clarion trumpet call. The voice of a being not of this realm, nor of any mortal ken. "Tell your men that this bleeding is for us alone. You and I. That they will not seek vengeance, and neither will my own. That they will not interfere..." He spoke, the eyelets of his helmet dun - grey and lifeless...

Til they burst alive, burning with blue ghostlight, shining through the Garnet Palace's gloom. "Unless you have need to fear a tainted peasant. Unless you realize, now, that you face His hand. The Fifth Trumpet calls, for you, Commander."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:01, Thu 07 Aug 2014.

When Saint Commander Alexandri Valruz responded from behind his mask, it was as a choir of voices, amplified and echoing from his sanctified armor.

"If this is the path you wish to take, I will not sway you from it, heretic." In the fading light of the sun and the dancing flame of torches, the patterns on the TEMPLAR's armor seemed to swim and twist, acting out their ancient seemings, blood poured in rivulets from his eye sockets, the Martyr's Sanguine Tears for the betrayal of kin.

"Kruzki, stand back. I will fight this dog and gut him. Do not interfere, on the honor of the TEMPLAR. This is MY fight." A thousand voices called out in echo to his words, shaking the throne room with a chorus of agreement. He stood back, unclasping from his shoulders a cloak of white, letting it fall to the ground.

The TEMPLAR stood aside, silently obedient, backing away towards the steps, still at guard, but in a ceremonial formation now.

Valruz pulled from the sheath at his side, a curved and vicious chainblade. The Fangs of Leviathan it was called and even children knew it's tale. It had slain demons, brought foul beasts low, heretics and pagans had wept as it cut down armies single handedly. In a moment, you can understand their reverence; as it revs to life, the sound of the drive chain is that of wailing angels, crying out to high heaven in anguish. It screams with purpose and hunger as he takes up a battle stance, left hand forward, right hand away to the side, holding the ravenous weapon.

With his empty hand, he gestures at you, fingers curling towards himself as if to say "Come."

Throughout the city, the bells began to ring on the new Unity Chapels...
This message was last edited by the player at 23:57, Thu 21 May 2015.

His men stood aside, a choir of observant angels. All in absolute readiness. They donned their own ivory helms, golden lights alighting in a dozen sets of angelic eyelets. They stood their vigil without moving. Without speaking. Gaze on the combatants and Saint Commander's honor guard, white helms swiveling to watch as their counterparts altered formation.

Apollyon strode forward, lowering his blade to his side: point to the earth. Silver tip skating along the ground. It hummed, tracing a thin and shallow line of grey along the ebony surface of the palace's stone floor of rippled black marble. Each of his footsteps echoed, heavy with incalculable weight: each bringing Apollyon further along a treacherous course. One that might change the fate of billions.

When Apollyon spoke, it was with only one voice. One, amongst a chorus of opposing thousands. Still, the angel's voice demanded to be heard. Rising above untold others. "... Words." His luminous eyes, gleaming with azure light, latched onto Valruz' bloodied mien - softly glowing orbs silent in their appraisal of the scarlet streaming down the Commander's golden mask.

"Too many words." They stood in opposite: a figure of gold, wrapped in trappings of nobility and purity. A Living Saint, beloved of the Unity Council... And a warrior all of silver and white, trailing a cloak of scarlet: born of war and tempered by Megiddo. The aristocrat and the exile, carried on heady tides of fate towards the inevitable.

"Let your blade sing its own hymn!" Apollyon demanded, vox-enhanced voice booming. His free hand, his left, leapt to his shoulder: grabbing hold of his blood-red cloak's clasped edge and tearing it free. The warrior tossed the cloak aside, scarlet tumbing through the air... Floating on vespers as Apollyon pressed forward, unrelenting.

Apollyon's muscles tensed, his breath caught, as he closed those final meters. Bearing down on the Saint Commander. Slow, methodical, and full of glowering purpose. The alabaster giant tore his sword from the obsidian stone, guiding it forward along an arc that ascended towards the heavens. Towards Valruz, towards his resplendently armored legs.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:44, Thu 07 Aug 2014.

The Living Saint was fast, fast as any man alive. Retribution came up in a swift arc that would have severed a lesser man groin to sternum, but the Sanctified paladin pivoted to his right, pulling his left leg back until he brought himself perpendicular to Apollyon, in the same twisting motion, his left hand, up to taunt, caught your shoulder, pulling you forward off balance as his own weapon, The Fangs of Leviathan sang hungrily into your shoulder from behind, teeth ripping and fraying skin and muscle, showering the floor in sparks and gore.

The agony consumed your arm like fire, burning away and making your left arm weak, useless. You managed to curl into a roll, tumbling away from the vicious bite of the chainsword and it seemed to cry out in frustration as you freed yourself from it's caress.

Valruz himself begin to sing. His voice, joined with itself in vox choir, rings with the words of "Sviatïy Bozhe." His tempo is that of a battle hymn, in time with his movements and the pace of single combat. He raises his bloody weapon above his head in an high guard.

A lesser man would have screamed. Apollyon roared, like an embattled lion. His ARKANGELOS did nothing: they did not turn away, did not intercede, but only watched silently. A dozen angels, standing in judgment. Quiet, as these two men battled for the soul of the Crusade. For the soul of the Brotherhood.

Apollyon rolled away, left arm limp at his side as he came to his feet - torn and sundered by the Fang's bitter teeth. Agony coursed through him, like a fire in his flesh. Agony as he had not known, not since Byzanthine. Not since Kpyo. Still, he stepped forward, silent and resolute: eyelets burning with terrible untempered ferocity. Blue fire, stolen from the stars, like shining sapphires set into his helm of ivory and silver. Blood splattered across his ragged shoulder, draping it in a wing of scarlet: rivulets winding their way down his back, delicate streams like feathers of blood.

Apollyon's left hand twitched, fingers slowly clenching in sullen defiance. Though his arm hung ruined, he would not be knelt so easily. Not now. Not after he had come through fire. Through void. Through blood. This Saint Commander was faster than him. He was better, his hand trained to the sword - a lifetime, Apollyon guessed, of tempering to draw on. He should win. If all things were equal, he would.

But they were not: Apollyon's will was iron.

He did not care if the Saint Commander had held a sword every day since his birth. Did not care if he was raised to glory, while Apollyon had been parented by ignominy. Valruz sang, voice beautiful and terrible: a hymn, glorying Yehovah Three-In-One.. But Apollyon said nothing, wading into combat again. Footsteps heavy as he swung his blade high, bringing it crashing down towards the other man with terrific force... As if he meant to cleave the golden warrior root and stem. His legs tensed behind him and Apollyon surged forward with the force of the blow. Towards Valruz. Towards the precipice of the Garnet Palace's Thousand-And-One steps.

The Saint sang on, glorifying Yehovah, the Most High, his voice drowning out even the call of the Fangs and echoing throughout Angelspire that all might hear the voice of TEMPLAR.

He was still swift, stepping easily aside from your errant blow, as it was slowed by the burning pain. He begin to circle you, chainsword still above his own head, unmoved. Not attacking just yet, careful in his footwork and keeping his painted gaze upon you from behind the face of the dead. An odd movement with his left hand and his sword came down to his side, held out just above the palace floor with sharp teeth nicking hungrily at the stone.

His other arm flexes out towards the ground between you and even as his voice continued unabated, a holographic image appeared on the ground, aligned to your view.


Why do you continue to fight? I could slay you now, but the LORD has use for you yet.

Thus read the words, their glow projected before you. In this way, he could speak to you and sing to the heavens.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:34, Thu 07 Aug 2014.

You are right, brother. He does.

"...Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Apollyon whispered into the lonely confines of his helm, head bowed as the TEMPLAR circled around him - resplendent and triumphant, his haunting voice glorying the Majesty of Yehovah. Redemption hung loosely in his hand, its glorious edge murmuring in silent approval as his hand tightened around it's synth-leather. Plasteel finger plates biting, deeper, holding tighter... Refusing to surrender the sacred blade. His arm screamed in silent agony, torn flesh and shattered bone protesting the tightening of his shoulders.

Apollyon felt the warm blood trickle down his arm within his armor, pooling in his deadened fingertips. Through the din, he heard it dripping from his ivory gauntlets: spilling across the ebony hollow of the Garnet Palace. He felt the coldness growing in his body, as blood loss took its toll. Felt the lightness of his head, the clouding of his vision, and the inferno of pain as it lanced across his side.

With dutiful solemnity, Apollyon's cerulean-starred helm rose. Slowly, inch by inch, til its gaze met the bleeding Emperor's mien. "I SHALL FEAR NO EVIL." He spoke, in resolute answer, his vox-enhanced speech echoing through the palace's columns and out into Angelspire's streets. Redemption ascended from its place at his side, shining tip toward the Saint Commander as he held the flat of its blade parallel to the ground. Outstretched, challenging his foe once more - reaching out in abject defiance, from his one hale arm.

"FOR THOU ART WITH ME." He stepped forward, a single blue eyelet flickering for a moment before coming to life again, rerouting power from a damaged cell and burning all the brighter.

"THY ROD AND THY STAFF, THEY COMFORT ME." He leapt forward, blade bared - slashing for the Fang of Leviathan. Catching it by its toothed edge, and holding it there as Apollyon pressed in closer.. Baring down upon the Saint Commander with all his strength, pressing him back and downward with but a single arm. Then he batted the blade aside, drawing back Redemption and laying into the Saint Commander with fury like a storm - hacking and slashing, steel biting and tearing as it hummed: seeking some exposed vulnerability. Some mistake. Some slip.

"THE BELLS, BROTHER." He intoned, all steel and wrath, his shining armor splayed across its side and back with his still wet lifeblood. The bells of the Unity Chapels rang out, their cries sharp against the furious din - distant, but piercing. "DO YOU HEAR THEM? ARE THEY THE SAME?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:58, Fri 08 Aug 2014.

To his credit, the Saint Commander only faltered in his song as your blade struck him, the vibro-edge slicing through the ornate breastplate, marring the once beautiful imagery with blood and oil, slicing a shallow but vicious wound into the left pectoral muscle of the Living Saint.

Blood wept from his eyes and chest now, falling to the obsidian floor in quickening droplets. A sweep of his leg and a twist of his torso turned your own might against you, sending you stumbling towards the iron chair off balance.

He leaped after you, song renewed, but the pain put edge to his notes and verse. He lunged, Fangs screeching with rage and missing easily, the wound ruining his chance at a graceful counter attack.

Readying himself, he begins to circle again, song thrumming in the evening air. Upon the floor, his words resolve for your eyes.

I know thy works: behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it: for thou hast a little strength, and hast kept His word, and hast not denied His name.

"DO MEN BREAK THIS EASY? WITH BUT A PUSH AND A WORD?" Apollyon demanded, raising his blade before his visor: it's edge perfectly perpendicular to the ground. Blood, freshly drawn, gleamed along the murmuring sabre's length. "... BUT WE ARE NOT MEN." He declared, swinging Redemption's pale steel to his side, its bleeding edge poised down and out in his right hand. His other hand, his left, still hung useless at his side. Though the alabaster fingers there tensed and clenched, refusing stillness.

As before, the ARKANGELOS came on: heedless and unafraid. Each step echoing with finality, like the ringing of bells. A dirge.

Then he swung his blade, forward and upward: rising, like Abraham unto heaven. Probing, nibbling where before he had bit savagely. "THE LORD IS MY LIGHT AND SALVATION; WHO SHALL I FEAR?" He intoned, thunderous voice inhuman as it crashed through the palace. Again the blade came, its length a flash of silver in the gloom. Fire dancing in the pale reflective ivory and silver of Apollyon's armor. He strode ahead, momentum growing. He did not circle, but came on, a hungry lion loosed on a lamb.

Though, the lamb had teeth too.

"THE LORD IS THE STRENGTH OF MY LIFE; OF WHOM SHALL I BE AFRAID?" He shouted to the heavens, voice raised in praise to Yehovah as he bore down on the false priests' champion. His blade cut to the quick, toward the Saint Commander's leg - to its side, towards the man's hamstrings. To still his leg, and leave him stranded and hobbling. Perhaps.

"YOU NEED ONLY EMBRACE ME AS YOUR BROTHER, AND THIS WILL END." Apollyon promised, echoing the sentiment of Valruz's own offer.

He also will keep thee from the hour of temptation, which shall come upon all the world, to try them that dwell upon the earth.


His voice faltered again at the resounding steel of your words, the singing became disjointed and quickly was terminated, leaving only silence now, the clash of steel and the heavy breathing of warriors engaged in mortal combat.

The Fangs of Leviathan swung wide, easily parried by Redemption. He was getting sloppy, tired; he was wounded and it was costing him in reflexes and timing.

Redemption came down like a bolt of lighting, and were it not for Valruz's sudden reaction, deploying a gauntlet shield which was shorn in twain by the vibro-sword, his arm would have been severed cleanly at the elbow and the fight would have been over.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:02, Fri 22 May 2015.

Apollyon's blade bit into the gauntlet shield, sundering it and casting the bulwark aside in a shower of sparks and torn gold-leafed steel. His eyes of ghostlight coming to rest again on Valruz' mask, where blood and oil had soiled in celestial countenance: splotches of red and black smeared across its edging.  Redemption murmured in agonized anticipation then, its length coursing with latent strength. Apollyon felt it in his fingers, his arms, and his heart. He felt the blade's spirit, calling him; to wade forward, amid spark and fire, and cast their foe down.

The ARKANGELOS fed on the tiring of his foe, on his weakening step, though his own ragged wound sapped his body all the same. He felt the battle-lust take him. The deafening roar of life and pounding of adrenaline coursing its way through his veins: the need to live. To triumph. To conquer.

He had not climbed from the hell of City 04 to fail here... Had not marched through Megiddo, waist-deep in ash, blood and snow... To break here. To damn his Legion back to infamy. To let them be relegated to slaves, bound to the wills of their betters.

Apollyon brought his sword in again, its tip crashing forward: dancing with Valruz's guard. Humming vibro-blade clatter against roaring chainsword. Seeking an opening. A chance to still him. A riposte to the Commander's devastating opening attack.

Apollyon's shoulder throbbed, and his vision swam, but still his sword came.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:12, Fri 08 Aug 2014.

Something in the Living Saint reignited, anger, fury, pride. He stood up for all the galaxy looking like a giant towering over Apollyon and all other men, cold eyes surveying his prey as it leaped in for the kill.

His blade met with the Redemption, tearing into it, scarring its edge with ripping teeth. With a twist he sent Redemption clattering to the floor and surged in. With a mailed fist, he struck the Son of Apollyon in the face, cracking helm with a stunning strike, forcing you back as he raised his blade again to the heavens, roaring in anticipation of the flesh-feast to come.


"YOU HAVE TURNED YOURSELF AGAINST YOUR BETTERS, AGAINST THE CHOSEN OF THE LORD OF LIGHT! RENDER UNDER CAESAR THAT WHICH IS CAESAR'S!"
His voice was thunder, his eyes lightening and his weapon the promise of a swift death.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:06, Fri 22 May 2015.

Apollyon reeled back, his angelic visage shedding sparks and silver shards of debris as he tumbled backward. His blade, it was gone, he realized: the emptiness in his hand more painful than any wound he had ever known. My sword, his mind screamed in protest I NEED MY SWORD. His feet found their place beneath him, skidding to a stop as his body came to a crouch: one fist extended below him, knuckles biting into the black stone of the Garnet Palace's floor. He looked up, towards the towering figure of the Saint Commander, his helm's eyelets flickering as the blue light in them slowly died. Sparks shot from his sundered mask, sputtering servos working desperately and with great futility against their ruination.

"CAESAR WAS A CONQUEROR." Apollyon pronounced, voice damning. "I SEE NO CAESAR." His vox-enhancements failed, voice twisting and corrupting itself as systems faltered. His voice came out more metallic than man. Inhuman. It's synthesizers rising and falling chaotically.

Even if I die, you will fail, the thought burned through his mind. Scion of destiny and child of prosperity, you are not the 'Destroyer'.

Apollyon's one good hand splayed out, fingers spreading from his clenched fist on the floor. The muscles in his weary arm tensed, and his legs found their own strength beneath him. His thighs burned with fire... And Apollyon ran. He ran towards Valruz, counting on the sudden and unexpected nature of his attack to buy him a hair of a chance. He prayed, silently, that Yehovah saw - that the Three-In-One God rushed forward with him.

But he did not strike the other man. He clasped him, gripping his alabaster and silver arms as tightly about the Saint Commander as he could... Tortured sinew screaming in his left. He fought, desperately. Intent on activating his flightpack's engines, and taking the two of them heavenward.

To both their deaths, if necessary.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:48, Sat 09 Aug 2014.

Apollyon's hands found purchase on the Saint Commander's golden armor, one set of ivory fingers gripped tightly about his gilt pauldrons as the ARKANGELOS' other hand held back the Fang's bitter bite with a tight grip on the other man's wrist. Halcyon steel bent under the pressure of his grip, gold and silver figures struggling amidst smooth-hewn ebony columns of garnet. Gone were the songs of glory. Gone the sacred words of divinity and the pledges of purity. Now two men, not titans, struggled against one another. Booted heels shifted, seeking leverage, as Valruz's golden arms struggled against Apollyon as he attempted to free himself. He fought, like a man against an unrelenting tide, as Apollyon pushed him further and further toward the precipice. The fire that had awoken in him surged against Apollyon, trying to hold the Legatos at bay...

... But it was not to be. Apollyon's arms, bound tightly with bitterly earned muscle and possessed of equally desperate purpose, overcame him. His white-armored arms wrapped tightly about the Saint Commander. Crushing, squeezing, but this was not Apollyon's aim. He did not intend to crush the life from Valruz.

"BROther," Apollyon began, his voice's volume rising and falling as his synthesizer failed "I told YOU, you would EMBRace ME!" The ARKANGELOS pronounced, bright sparks dancing from his crushed helm from flickering lenses of dying blue ghostlight. In the distance, heavenly bells cried mournfully: so distant, so far away. There was a brief moment, where the Legatos said nothing - where the bells rang, and his choir of silent angels only looked on in inscrutable silence. It dragged on, longer than it ought to have: a single breath that seemed an eternity.

... And then... "broTHER," Apollyon spoke, his voice a whisper though even here it crested and plummeted uncontrollably "FLY with ME." As the words left Apollyon's lips, echoing metallically from his ivory visage, his flightpack roared: bright crimson and ochre flame dancing at his back, thundering like a tempest come to life. The fire grew at his back, propelled from angelic golden wings.... And then they were headed heavenward, rocketing upward. Apollyon's helm cracked and sputtered, under sudden and terrific force as he soared. Wind tore at them, battering against the Saint Commander's battered form - reopening the bout's wounds, and biting at exposed flesh with fangs of ice.

Low-hanging clouds licked at their armor, as they pierced the heavens like an ascendant spear. On the distant horizon, Anatoli's pale orange sun hung in a miasma of deepening violet and red - saying its final goodbye to Angelspire as it slowly disappeared. All about them, on every side, the metropolis of Angelspire sprawled out. Ziggurats and highrises superstructures buttressed against tenements and canals. Glittering and black, shining in the dying sun.

Then Apollyon simply let go. The arms that had secured Valruz released him as they rushed above the gap between two massive ziggurats. Many hundreds of feet below, men marveled: who were these radiant figures? What purpose did they have to cut through the skies so? Valruz's grip weakened. How long could he hold on? To fall was to die. To perish. The pitiless angel he clung to cared not.

His golden fingers slipped farther. "THe bells, BROTHer, the BELLS." Apollyon intoned, voice barely audible above the howling wind. "ARE THEY THE SAME?"

They were, and the Saint Commander fell.

Saint Commander Valruz did not scream, not did he cry out. He struggled, wrestling with the larger stronger man, his weapon long since fallen to the streets below. Struggling for his pistols, he could not free them from their ornate holsters and his fists could not halt Apollyon's ascent. He held on for as long as he could, but his body was wounded, weary and he did not have wings.

His vox-amp sung to life and he spoke once more, one last time in response to your lilting words over the sound of the bells and the winds. "For God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into hell!"

With that, he let go, and even Living Saints cannot fly.

But angels? Angels can. From above clouds the world of Anatoli was laid bare to you and the stars and moons above seemed to beckon, to call to you. Too long have angels dwelt with their feet on the ground. Too long had their flaming swords been sheathed. Too long has wickedness gone unpunished in the galaxy.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


They never found his body. No doubt it was dragged into some hole by rebellious locals looking for any victory they might have over the Brotherhood. By the time you returned, the other TEMPLAR were gone. Their shuttle carrying them back to their now silent ships. They refused to speak to any but the presbyters council on Anatoli and that communication was now done in secret.

The bells rang all day and all night in Angelspire and all knew the name of Apollyon.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:46, Thu 21 May 2015.

The wind sung through the ruined husk of Apollyon's helm, shattered plasteel shaking beneath the force of the gale. It howled and bit. Like a ravenous demon of ice, its brutal caress tearing at his skin. Broken wires danced and sparked, cast asunder and severed by the shattering of his mask. His face had begun to sting long ago, the beginnings of frostbite nipping at his exposed and torn flesh... But it mattered not. Apollyon had seen the Living Saint fall. Had seen his golden form tumble and flail, helpless against the unyielding pull of gravity... Had seen it twist as it landed, contorted and unnatural, his broken golden carapace sundered and broken.

Behind him, Apollyon's jetpack thundered - wings of scarlet fire propelling him forward. Toward the Garnet Palace, where his men awaited him, over ziggurats as ancient as time. Heathen towers built in the shadow of heathen gods... Though now the flag of Yehovah flew over them. Pure ivory and gold, fluttering in the same wind that seemed intent on rending Apollyon's already torn and bloody face. He approached the Garnet Palace directly, his body turning from horizontal to vertical as his jetpack bled off its heat... Til he had nearly crashed down to earth, plasteel greaves and boots extended beneath bent legs of shining blood-stained silver. Positioned to bear the tremendous force of his landing, as his jetpack released one more triumphant blast of searing and thunderous force. Buffering his landing as plasteel boots slammed into ebony granite and marble at the top of the Thousand-And-One steps.

The stone shook beneath him with the weight of his landing, legs buckling with near bone-breaking force. His armor's compensators filtered and redirected it, though the strain was still great - it took all of Apollyon's last reservoir of strength to keep from falling to his knees. His already torn body, bloody and ragged from Leviathan's keen edge, stood on the precipice of the Garnet Palace with all of Angelspire laid out behind him. His plasteel armored fingers climbed to his ragged helm, taking hold of it and ripping it from his shoulders with a tearing of wires and screeching of broken plasteel. He tossed it to his side, spider web-cracked glass and plasteel fragments scattering out as it spun and rattled to a stop... empty eyelets staring outward as Apollyon's alabaster boots started forward. He reclaimed his blade, Redemption, where the Saint Commander had tossed it aside and set it in its place at his waist. Having first wiped it clean on his discarded scarlet cloak.

"ARKANGELOS," he intoned, voice blanched of passion and pain both as he took his seat on the Throne of Cold Iron "We are betrayed by those we named brother. They have forsaken Him who is called I Am, while still cloaking themselves in his sacred vestments... And there are none more wretched in His eyes than the Pharisee and false believer. There is no greater threat to his church." With great effort, and some assistance from his other hand, Apollyon raised his broken and limp arm to lay across the armrest of his throne. Thin rivulets of ruby red droplets of blood coursed down his arm, freed from the reopened and ragged tear across his shoulder. Dripping down the Throne of Cold Iron to the ebony dais below.

"There is much work to be done, to make safe the faithful..." He continued. "And there will be more blood, before the end."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:26, Sat 23 May 2015.

Hearing I ask                        from the holy races,
From Heimdalls sons,        both high and low;
Thou wilt, Valfather,                 that well I relate
Old tales I remember                of men long ago.

I remember yet                the giants of yore,
Who gave me bread                in the days gone by;
Nine worlds I knew,                 the nine in the Tree
With mighty roots                 beneath the mold.

Of old was the age                when Ymir lived;
Sea nor cool waves                nor sand there were;
Earth had not been,                 nor heaven above,
But a yawning gap,                 and grass nowhere

The Revelation of Yeshua Kristos, which Yehovah gave unto him, to shew unto his servants things which must shortly come to pass; and he sent and signified it by his angel unto his servant Ionnes:

Who bare record of the word of Yehovah, and of the testimony of Yeshua Kristos, and of all things that he saw.

Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand.






After your orders are given, the light fades from your vision and only darkness remains for what seems like an eternity. You hear voices you cannot understand or make out, like whispers in a crowded room.

You also dream:

         In your dream, a tall figure with a golden mask greeted you, saying, "There are many rooms in the house of the Master. Be easy, for from the hands of your enemies I have delivered you." It seemed you had died and could see yourself laid upon a table lit by candles. But with your hands you touched the figure, and the figure drew breath, opened eyes, and rose from the table. Then the room was gone, and the world filled with light, and you awoke.

You awake to the faces of the Presbyters



Hooded and masked as in ceremony, icons and symbols of faith and worldly authority dangling from their necks and belts. Your body still burns with pain and you look down upon your naked form and see the blows rent upon your body by the weapon Leviathan

You know from your time as a medic that you should have received treatment long ago. Your flesh already begins to blacken with rot and the agony of the injury is almost unbearable.

A presbyter with the face of a cherubim leans down close to you and you find that you are bound to the table. Candles burn around you and the air is thick with incense. The sweet voice of the presbyter sounds softly in your ear: "Apollyon, you have not kept the Faith. It is not for the Servants to question the Masters, but only to Obey. The wages of Sin are Death, child. But we are merciful, as Yehovah is merciful. Be thankful and rejoice: We offer redemption through suffering." With that, he gestures towards one of the others.

A tall presbyter with the face of a bronze lion reaches out his sleeved arm over you and with a twisting gestured and a murmuring your flesh begins to twist and bubble, erupting into boils, lumps and pus. The pain is unthinkable.

There are no words to describe that feeling as the Presbyters use the Divine power of Yahovah to torture you for what seems like days. They ask no questions, nor respond to your questions or scream of agony. They only speak benedictions and prayers as the Lion-headed one warps your body into a mass of quivering agonized flesh.

Many times you pray for death, but Yehovah does not answer you.

After what seems like forever, the Lion-headed one leaves and the first one, with the Cerub face stands in his place. Raising his bare hands above you, he chants over and over in the sacred tongue: "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

Though you do not understand his words, you begin to feel something within you. Your flesh no longer boils or swells unnaturally, you no longer bleed onto the table and floor. Instead, your boils and welts are cleansed supernaturally, your wounds mended as if they had never been struck. The pain vanishes too after a while and you finally lapse into sleep once more to dream...

         You dreamed that a tall figure with a golden mask spoke to you, but you understood not a word. He smiled, and seemed pleasant, but when he reached to touch you, it terrified you, and you tried to escape, but you couldn't move. you tried to cry out, but you couldn't make a sound. The figure kept smiling and talking, but you felt sure he was trying to cast some sort of spell on you. When you woke, you couldn't recall how the dream ended.

You awaken again, lying unbound in a bed. The orangish sky of Anatoli shining in through the windows and the poised figure of Raphael stands at attention by your door, as if guarding you. His eyes widen as you stir.

"My Lord?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:15, Wed 01 July 2015.

The torture felt eternal. Agony seared into his flesh by unnatural means. Boils and rot gnawed at his mortal form, and Apollyon knew pain. His mind danced with fever and delirium, as cherubs and lions hovered at his bedside - hungry and vicious, their tongues barbed and their touch clawed. Apollyon did not understand. Could not. His wordless screams prayed for his brother's arrival. For the first Apollyon to rescue him from this torture... but he did not come. How could he? His soul wandered the aether above now, amongst the heavens at Yehovah's side. His death had saved the man who now called himself Apollyon. Had torn him from the blood and fire of Megiddo.

... But was this him? In the mask of shining gold? Why did the figure terrify him so much as the Presbyters fled the room. What power did he possess that even his touch held such dread? Apollyon did not know. Did not understand... And somehow, that was worse still....

... Apollyon's unnaturally pale blue eyes awoke from the dream slowly and seamlessly. So much so that he did not understand at first if this was just one more of a mosaic of nightmares, or the end of them. The warrior's hands stirred at his side, the back of his hands quivering in sudden effort as fingers clenched tightly. His shoulder ached with dull and faraway pain where Leviathan had bit into his flesh, tearing with its serrated fangs of steel. So many other pains greeted him - a thousand and one aches and searing lightning-borne twinges dancing through his tattered flesh.

Slowly, his head rose, eyes falling first upon his limbs. They were not blackened with living death, as he had dreamed, Yehovah be praised. That he was intact at all, he supposed, was more than a minor miracle.

Raphael stood beside him, as always, his unswerving loyalty as remarkable now in recovery as it had ever been in conquest. Apollyon put one heavily-muscled arm behind him, using it to push his tattered and scarred body upright to sit where he had once lain. Flesh protested, fire burning through newly knit tendon and mended bone. The dappled orange of Anatoli's sky shone through painstakingly wrought black iron window frames, casting patches of his pale skin in ochre as he paused to reflect. Silence held reign for a few minutes, hesitantly dripping by with a slowness born of sudden and blinding realization. He had succumbed to the darkness, following his bout with the Saint-Commander. He had lain idle while their enemies maneuvered to supplant him and his brothers. While they sought to brand the ARKANGELOS as traitors.

"How long have I slept," Apollyon spoke finally "And what have I missed, brother?" A new scar, little more than a line of red bridged by black stitching, ran a half circle beneath his left eye. As he spoke, it twinged in freshly reawakened pain.

"We only found you a few days ago, my Lord." His eyes are filled with sorrow as he speaks to you. "You were... left upon the steps of the palace. We feared you were dead."

He offers you a golden cup, filled to the brim with water, holding it to your lips that you might drink. Raphael gestures to another ARKANGELOS in the hallway who runs off for fetch something.

"We will bring you food, my Lord. You can eat and return to strength." He seems hesitant to tell you what has happened, but once you seem insistent...

"My Lord... I... we have been cast out of the ARKANGELOS. We are now... the Presbyters call us FALLEN. We are now merely shocktroops under the command of the TEMPLAR and thus, the Presbyters. We... we no longer have command authority, my Lord. Even the LEGION is above us in the hierarchy..." He looks down in shame, unable to meet your piercing gaze.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 03:19, Thu 02 July 2015.

Apollyon was still, his voice silent. The warrior's scarred face locked in place - frozen and inscrutable. His bright cerulean eyes stared ahead as if focused on a distant fixed point. "So," he began, his voice quiet "It was not a dream." Then his eyes fell, to his newly ruined flesh - spiderwebbed as it was with fresh scars and burns. The unimaginable agony, racing through his body. The masked presbyters, arrogant and merciless. Blood. Fire. So much pain. So much. He had prayed for death, a hushed whisper begging for mercy... But it had not come. Only more suffering.

It had been... real?

There was a part of Apollyon that could not reconcile it. As if the torment has been so great that he had only half-known it. Had watched another body suffer, rather than his own... But the scars did not lie. He inhaled deeply... feeling cool, wet, and dirty air fill his lungs.

"What of Tribuni Camael, and the 2,700 brothers who crusade to Gatharta?" Apollyon asked, his eyes rising to meet Raphael's. The other FALLEN's gaze did not, however, dare to lock with his own. It darted away, ashamed, recoiling like a beaten dog. It pained him more than he could describe - to see his brothers, victorious conquerors all, reduced to this by the men who ought to thank them. Ought to revel in their victories... Ought to walk beside them as brothers.

But no, that would never be - Apollyon saw that now. The Presbyters saw them only as slaves. Less than slaves. Deplorable, unworthy, and ultimately expendable. The Saint-Commander had made that clear. That Yehovah's will was carried out in the desolation of his most faithful and capable servants was unthinkable. Apollyon knew that this was a failing of men. One he would correct.

"Where lies the next battlefield?" He asked, pushing himself off the bed and making an attempt to stand.

Sekundus Raphael's voice trembled like never before.

"It... it was an ambush. The entire 4th Fleet was waiting there at the edge of the system and they emerged right into their guns. Tribuni Camael was able to assault one of their cruisers and destroy it from the inside, over-loading their main drives. He attempted to ram it into the Havenspire, but was unable to carry out his plan. The rest of our attack fleet was destroyed and everyone aboard perished. Only one ship escaped. Barely more than 100 of our brothers survived. They have been... taken into questioning by the High Presbyter for their failure in this mission."

He sees the pain in your eyes holds up a hand placatingly. "Wait, there's more... the remaining ARK-"he stops himself "FALLEN have been reorganized into our new formations. We... have been stripped of our armor and weapons. Judgement and Redemption have been taken from us. Our replacement equipment arrived this morning but I have yet to see it... no doubt it will not equal our former weapons and armor."

"As for where we go next... your ruse to their Home system is underway. The Presbyters could not stop that, so they instead prepare us for Gryphon... it falls to us to be the tip of the spear. To open the way for the TEMPLAR. They will sacrifice us as shocktroops against the heathens."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:39, Sat 11 July 2015.

"Camael..." Apollyon's voice grew quiet, a hushed whisper barely audible - like a thin wind, dancing the obsidian eaves of Angelspire, forgotten the moment it was gone. Apollyon's scarred hands rose to his face, cradling his forehead as it bowed low. His shoulders hung low, hunched as the mighty warrior hid his face... And his pain. For every ARKANGELOS that had escaped Megiddo, a dozen recruits or perhaps a hundred had perished. It had taken all of those deaths to temper them. To make them into the warriors they were. Peerless, without fear, and merciless. They carried those dead boys with them, each and every brother of the ARKANGELOS - together, they bore the weight of hundreds of thousands of ghosts. For two thousand of his brothers to perish was to Apollyon as if twenty or two hundred thousand had fallen all in a single stroke.

His imprisonment. His punishment. It was all predictable, if not bitter all the same... But this fresh wound... It was too much. They had taken everything from him. His command. His brothers. Everything.

"I should have been there." He muttered to himself quietly, as his hands finally released his head. Guilt traced its way through each word like venom. Apollyon's fiercely blue eyes stared ahead, an errant eyelid twitching of its own volition. "I could have turned the tide. Somehow... somehow, if I had only seen.." He trailed off, to nothing.

"Damn them all... Damn them all to the depths of hell!" Apollyon roared suddenly, his voice that of a lion as he rose like a storm from his bed - though all his tortured body screamed its protest. "They'd bleed us and remind us of our chains before they'd face the heathen... The cowards hide behind us even now, a shield to stymie their own bloodletting..." He was rage given form: his wrath pouring from every inch of his being, his indignation, his hate, his sense of betrayal. He felt laid bare by the knife. After the Presbyters had pulled it from his back, ofcourse... And when had they lost their way? When had they abandoned their faith?.. Becoming more wretched than even those whose lips had never known Yehovah's name. Apollyon's heavily muscled form made its way across the room, his face a thunderhead.

He dressed, simply, in whatever had been left for him. He had never been a material man... and he expected that they would leave less than the finest for him, especially now.

"Well, let us see it then: the funeral costume they've prepared for us." He suggested, intending to survey their arms and armor. Then, he supposed, to see what more he could assess of their situation... Which seemed more dire by the moment.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:22, Sun 12 July 2015.

Raphael leads you down into the depth of the ziggurat. There, one of the old hanging gardens have been converted into a landing platform and hangar. A half dozen Unified Brotherhood shuttles await, cold and glittering in the pale ochre morning sun.

There, you see the remnants of your brothers, aligned in rank and file for you. They have not forgotten you, and despite their newfound shame, they look upon you with pride. Each and everyone one of the ARK- no.. the FALLEN look up to you. As a brother, a father, a leader, a commander. Not a one has abandoned you, not a one turns his eyes to the ground or averts his gaze. They all look to you for the next step.

Around the edges of the disciplined block of FALLEN, dozens of Brotherhood technicians flit about, carrying gear or weapons, inspecting armor and equipment. They seem nervous, though they try not to show it.

Your men... nay, your brothers, wait for you to speak. They seem anxious or perhaps eager that you might address them and say something.

Apollyon walked to the fore, a slight hitch in his step - masked nearly entirely, through an exertion of extreme effort, but present all the same. Even so he stepped lightly, unburdened, his strides purposeful and deliberate. The warrior's scarred face bore no sign of pain. No disquieted uncertainty. A funeral mask, somber and unreadable, its eyes ablaze with hot blue cinders of angel's fire. He took his rightful place there without question, arriving coolly as if by happenstance: his gaze turning to meet the assembled formation a moment before the rest of his body did the same.

One of the scarred warrior's brows raised itself questioningly. "Brothers... Who was it that climbed from Megiddo and ascended to the heavens?" Apollyon asked of the assembled. There was quiet, for a moment, as row after row of FALLEN looked on stoically.

"THE ARKANGELOS!" Apollyon returned, voice low and fire in his belly. "... And who brought the Sword of The Martyr against the heathens?.." He continued, his eyes straying to the Brotherhood's technicians as they scurried beside his brothers like rats. Apollyon saw them. He knew he ought not hate them, but they were not his blood. They knew only the Presbyters' will.

This time, they knew the answer all: "THE ARKANGELOS!" They shouted, the reverberating voices of thousands of men made one echoing across the desolated garden. The place shook with the weight of their passion. Each and every man's voice joined the chorus, the same voice that had been stolen from them on Holy Byzanthine at Camp Mikael. The same fire that had refused to be extinguished there: not with the burning heat of the desert, not with the biting chill of the snow plains, and not in the devil-spawned depths of the jungle.

"WHO SUNDERED THE HAVENSPIRE WITH FIRE AND BLOOD? WHO BROUGHT THE BLACK GOD-KING OF NERGAL TO HIS KNEES?" Apollyon roared.

"THE ARKANGELOS!" Came the chorus.

"WHO RAISED UP THE PEOPLE OF ANGELSPIRE FROM PAGANISM? WHO SPARED THEM FROM THE PYRES?" He spoke, the dull thrum of interstellar engines a distant storm behind him. Obsidian ziggurats and burning orange skies at his back beyond even them. A planet of souls. Souls they had brought to Yehovah's light.

"THE ARKANGELOS!"

He turned to Raphael, his eyes intense - the pain he had shared earlier with his Sekondus gone. This was the Apollyon who had done battle with the Saint-Commander. Who had led them from the purgatory of Byzanthine. "WHO REAVED TOASAA? WHO SPILLED THEIR BLOOD FOR THE FAITH IN THE HEAVENS ABOVE GATHARTA?"

"THE ARKANGELOS!"

"And we are named FALLEN! Dishonored! Slaves! Betrayed and discarded by those we would name brother!" He continued, pacing now in front of the formation like a prowling mountain cat. Apollyon's hands clenched at his side, his knuckles bone-white, as his eyes looked ahead to the sprawling jet cityscape beyond. Then he turned back to them, stepping forward suddenly and aggressively - righteous indignation and rage pouring from his lips. "I AM NOT DISHONORED! I AM NOT A SLAVE! I AM A CONQUEROR - A CRUSADER!" Roars of agreement met him, a wave of zeal that threatened to bring the garden shaking to its foundations. "I CARRY THE CROSS!... AND IF I HAVE FALLEN, IT WAS ONLY TO WREST IT FROM WHERE THE PHARISEES DISCARDED IT!"

"I will resecure the tenets of the Faith in His name... I will remember our fallen; I will fight for the living - til there are no more slaves, no more pharisees, and no more pyres." The hardened warrior intoned, his oath unbending steel. "No matter how they burn my flesh, no matter what dishonors are heaped upon me, the Great Enemy's servants will not endure where men of Faith and angels tread! I will burn the stars away and paint their systems red, til the unfaithful have no rock left to hide beneath!"

Somewhere, in the distance, bells sang - tolling low and mournfully.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:16, Thu 23 July 2015.

The ARKANGELOS - The FALLEN watch enraptured at your speech, their words, echoing yours. Remiel steps forward by the end of your speech and shouts "DEUS VULT!"

The other thousands of the FALLEN echo him in kind. The angelic choir of thousands of angels resounds through in the massive hanger and the minions of the Presbyters seem to recoil in fear from the voice of resolve that holds dominion over this dark and heathen place.

Another FALLEN shouts out "RETRIBUTION!" and there is a roar, a cry from the angels, from the men of the ARKANGELOS, the FALLEN.

They turn upon the technicians and the scribes. With huge hands and rippling muscles they grab, throttle and tear at the hapless subjects of the Presbyters. Brought here from a distant world, only to die at the hands of their own. The FALLEN let no man or woman escape. Each and every one is choked out of their life, or crushed beneath a blunt object. The thousands of your warriors have no difficulty asserting themselves to be the rightful masters of this domain.

However, in the blood and broken flesh that follows, that is not the only conflict as the loose end is tied up. Remiel steps up onto the platform with you. A light spray of blood covering his face and naked chest. He too is scared and burned from battle. You remember him from before, one of the battle leaders of your ARKANGELOS. His hair is long now, discipline flagging.

"Come now, Ah-Polly-UHN... you do not think you can rule them without challenge? I want this for myself." He clenches his fists and bares his teeth at you.

Apollyon looked on, his body still in anithesis of the chaos that swarmed around him. A relentless battering tide, rolling in with storm and frightful intensity against a resolute plinth of stone that refused to bend or break. The FALLEN laid into their loyalist counterparts - slaying them where they stood. Blood decorated the Garnet Palace's obsidian halls, not for the first time since the ARKANGELOS had fallen from the heavens. Women screamed and men died. Apollyon looked above it - above the din and the melee, his cyan eyes raised to the aether. Eyes of inhuman ghostlight lost themselves in the skies above, his features still and impassive. The engines throbbed and roared in the distance, like the ceaseless hungering mining extractors of his homeworld. Apollyon shut them all out and listened. For the whisper of Him Who Was. For the voice of his dearest brother, whom had gone to walk beside Yehovah. For direction. For confirmation.

For vindication... but all was silent.



Apollyon's hands, crisscrossed with scars and broken a half a dozen times over, felt soaked in blood. Heavy with it, against his side. Even as his brothers smote the infidel at his command. Even as they freed themselves from the yoke of the Pharisees... His soul shook with the burden of command... His heart quaked at the cost of freedom. Were it only so that his brother had lived and not him. Apollyon wished now that he had gone to that long sleep instead, wrapped in a cloak of faith and sacrifice as the light in his eternally-damned Kyp eyes died. Had Apollyon, the first Apollyon - the one who had been Elias, had he seen this? The way he had so many other things?

"Brother," Apollyon's voice whispered, cracked lips harsh with thirst but hushed against the din of battle "If only this cup could pass to another..."

... But it could not...

Even as he looked to the beyond Remiel rose from the ranks, awash with blood and bare-chested. His hair was long - matted with the same drying scarlet that painted his skin. His snarled words shook Apollyon from his reverie, bringing the Centurion's eyes down from the heavens to terra firma. To bloody Nergal. Angelspire. Gardens of man, cast in ebony by heathen hands, newly streaked with the blood of the lost. His ears heard Remiel's challenge. His mind processed the meaning... But it floated ephemeral, unsubstantial, and Apollyon had difficulty grasping it. The venerated warrior's brow furrowed, his face marred with fire and blade now cast in a mask of doubt. It was a shattering of ties, of faith and loyalty, that threatened to send Apollyon reeling. His brothers were his blood, his home, and his purpose... He had given them everything.

At his side Raphael, ever dutiful, bristled. He felt the warrior move to intercede, before ever his feet stirred. Apollyon raised a hand, open palm placating, to urge him to patient stillness. "Sekondus Raphael, take as many men as you need to secure our equipment and our transports... This, I will see to."

And then, unto Remiel: "... That desire is why it cannot be you, brother." The words came unbidden, flowing from his lips as naturally as water flowed to the sea. Apollyon almost felt as if they were not his words. As if they came from a different man. A stronger one. A warrior, unmarred by doubt. They were thunder, echoing from the mountains. He found clarity in them: the answer to his own inner turmoils. This was why it had had to be him. This was why he carried this weight, and not another.

"You would cut your way across the galaxy and bathe in blood. You would call it righteous... But vengeance for vengeance, blood for blood, and hate for hate is not righteous. No divine purpose can be anchored solely in hate." He explained, as if his words were meant for a mischievous son... rather than a traitor. "We are more than that. We always were, though we never gave it breath. Dead sons of forgotten fathers. We were meant for more."

"We will find it again," he promised "And you can remain at my side when we do, if you would but step back down. Do not force my hand, brother. I beg it of you." Apollyon braced himself though - his muscles tightened in anticipation. His arms ached with the dull fire of distant triumphs and remembered torture. His lungs burned with the caustic blue of Kpyo, as they always did, tingling with the wet beautiful filth of real air. "... But I will not let you keep me from it, brother. I have spilled so much blood for our brothers already, and I have gone too far for regret."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:40, Wed 29 July 2015.

In the Great Work it is written: "Some men are Lions, and some men are not. He who is a Lion may roar and his voice gives Truth to his being. He who is not a Lion may only speak and Truth is not within him."

Apollyon is a Lion, Remiel, despite his prowess in battle, is not. At your words and countenance he balks, his shoulders slump and he steps back away from you, unsteady, unsure. Caught up in blood-lust and desire, he had been so certain in the moment, that he would descend upon you as a lion upon a lamb, but to hear your roar he realizes that it is he who is the lamb.

The others watch, enraptured, silent as you speak and silent still after. Hundreds of eyes see this, Appollyon winning a battle with but a few words at a steely look in his blue eyes. Remiel kneels before, head hung in submission at your feet. In unison, the rest of the Fallen kneel before you in pools of blood, in silent veneration of your might and the unending respect they have for you, Apollyon, who could bring life or take it with his hands. Who could command beasts and men with a few words.

They wait for your leave to stand...