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....

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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.