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In Heaven, watching the epic struggle through the divining pool of the Great Tetragammatron, Saint Michael the Archangel, Captain of the Heavenly Host, furrows his beautiful golden brow, topaz eyes narrowing to blazing slits of righteous rage! FOUL PLAY, MY LORD!! SEE'ST THOU, FATHER!!? THE OLD SERPENT BREAKS THE COSMIC LAW, THOUGH HE SWORE THE SACRED OATH!! WILT THOU NOT LET THY GOODLY SERVANT EVEN THE SCALES!!?
Then I look forward to seeing your expression when they surprise you. Lucifer! HAHAHAAA!! In a blaze of heavenly flames, the archangel rockets back up to Heaven, grinning proudly... Ah, well done, Mighty Vagabonds! Well done.
Parrying Satan's trident thrust deftly with flaming sword: Leave the Bear go, brother. He's just fulfilling his appointed task. And he's one mortal I'm quite fond of. I like all of those Murderous Vagabonds, as you called them... The archangel's riposte slices into Satan's outstretched wing...
*sigh* Aye... Michael parries the trident thrust with his flaming holy sword... *CLANG!*... I suppose you're right, brother...
Of course, Lucifer. I can't let you intercede in this. It's against the Law.
Faster than a comet, the Captain of the Heavenly Host hurtles down from Paradise into the bowels of Hell to confront his old foe!
Zagathoth’s grin vanishes and his face grows uncharacteristically pensive. ”I was born into violence, and one day I will die in violence... I don’t think I want to fight in heaven...” he answers the young man. In Heaven, they do not call it fighting, Zagathoth. They call it play!
The youth smiles fondly at Zagathoth over his shoulder as he departs, replying, Thou art a good orc, Zagathoth, and The Almighty smiles upon thee! Hearken unto the wise counsel of Cardinal Lucius, and under his guidance, come to know the Word of God, and we shall spar in the Kingdom of Heaven when thine mortal journey endeth! In spite of his strangely archaic manner of speeding, Zagathoth fully comprehends the mysterious young shepherd’s every word...
The “shepherd” smiles fondly at Lucius with a paternal expression uncharacteristic for one so apparently young (14 years or so), takes the masterwork greatsword, forged from Damascus steel by Bavarian dwarf smiths in the papal foundry at Sant’Angelo Castle the year before, and makes a few dazzling flourishes, brandishing the greatsword with all the grace and skill of the finest Italian swordmasters! As he does so, the blade begins to glow with a pearlescent radiance, like heavenfire dancing along the steel edges! He returns the blade to Cardinal Lucius with a bow... Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind offer of hospitality, and for humoring a foolish young shepherd such as I am... He winks at Lucius, then turns and strolls off down the via, vanishing around a corner into an alley... The greatsword seems to vibrate with sacred energy in Lucius’ hands... and a name has been graven by magic on the blade: “Dies Irae”!
As Lucius and Zagathoth are returning to the palazzo, they are met in the portico by a handsome youth clad in shepherd’s garb, who bows before Cardinal Lucius and kisses his magic ring, before admiring his new great sword... Good day, Your Grace! I hope you don’t mind my pausing in the shade of your portico for a moment... I say, that looks a fine sword with which to smite the foes of Mother Church... May I hold it for a moment, Father?
Calm your titties, Susie-Q
I'm on it, boss... Come on, Susan, you're going back to Hell...
Amazingly, the infant cast into the flames is NOT consumed by the flames, and even the curly hairs upon his little head resist the withering heat, by some miracle!
The chamber remains dimly lit by Johann's sun rod and Boga's halo to the eyes of Zagathoth, Johann, Ogon Fox, Quinlan, and Arc Percy... But to the sight of Cardinal Lucius and Boga the Reformationist, the chamber is suddenly filled with the glorious brilliance of the Prince of the Seraphim, Saint Michael the Archangel, a blazing sword of fire in one hand, and a shining brazen buckler in the other! Sung in a rich baritone, in Celestial: Fear thee not, noble servants of Mother Church! I am not come to punish, but to encourage thee! Take thou this cloak, Lucius of House Borja, and wear it in good faith! Let it protect thee from the venomous fangs of the Evil One, as thou guidest this formidable flock in service unto God! As quickly as he appeared, the Archangel vanishes!
Fear not, for even now, heroes gather near Rome! The Antichrist shall not go unchallenged! Welcome these new heroes with open arms, faithful servant of I Am! I shall sing to thee of these heroes, that thou wilt know them on sight... In glorious melody that echoes through the sanctuary of the church, the Archangel Saint Michael sings to the astonished Pope Eugenius IV of these promised heroes...
The multicolored shaft of light falling through the stained glass rose window of the Church of Saint Peter, where Pope Eugenius IV kneels in prayer, brightens suddenly, briefly blazing with a radiance painful to mortal eyes before dimming as a shining, winged figure of unearthly grace and beauty appears atop the altar, armored in gleaming panoply of Heaven-forged steel, and holding a flaming sword that burns with the brightness of the sun! The Archangel Michael, Prince of the Heavenly Host, sings with melodic baritone voice of exquisite beauty, in Celestial (known to some mortals as Enochian): Be not afraid, servant of Our Lord! I come in peace, though I bringeth sad tidings... The Antichrist Nero, thought forever destroyed with his phylactery two years ago by those mortal heroes, The Lucky Fools, hath reformed in his vile fane beneath Rome! The Lucky Fools were fooled, it seemeth, by that wicked Nero, with aid of the Archdevil Mephistopheles. The phylactery destroyed was false, as was the apparent Nero torn asunder by Mephistopheles before their eyes in that archfiend's dungeon!
Alphonse plummets to the bottom of the bell tower, taking falling damage.... Except that Saint Michael slows the hero's fall such that he takes 31 damage instead....
You do the work of Our Lord, as does Prester John.... He admires your courage in the face of dangerous evils.... He sees the struggle you make against the enemies of God.... And he wishes to help you in your struggle against The Prince of Darkness, Satan.... King Prester John is fabulously wealthy, more wealthy than any of the princes and potentates of Europa and Asia.... God hath blessed him so.... Thus, he wishes to give back to God in this way.... To aid His humble crusaders in their various causes.... The handsome, turbaned messenger and deliverer of Foereaper smiles an enigmatic smile at Alphonse.... Thou shalt come to understandeth better in time yet to come, my good sir.... The man winks at Alphonse and turns to leave, striding elegantly out the main door and disappearing into the evening crowd on the streets of the Isle....
At around 6:00, as The Lusty Fools are dining on garlic-roasted lamb, Brie cheese, crusty baguettes, and warm truffle soup, washed down with red wine or cold ale, their table is approached by a tall, extremely handsome man clad in the robe and turban of an Arab, carrying a rather magnificent-looking scythe in his hands.... He bows before Alphonse.... Shalom, Squire Alphonse! I am called Michael, and I have journeyed a long way to bring you a gift from Prester John, the greatest King in all Christendom! Give your old scythe to some farmer, sir, for you shall never have need of any other than this one I bring for you! The tall, handsome stranger hands over his scythe to Alphonse.... It has a haft of gold-plated oak, inlaid with hundreds of precious and semi-precious gemstones that glitter in the firelight, and has a crescent blade that looks like it's forged of some unknown silvery alloy, engraved with strange arcane symbols and elaborate knot-like designs, and honed to a razor-sharp keenness! It is named Foereaper, but you may call it whatever name pleases you, sir....
It shall be arranged, Master Ironbender! The Archangel-in-farmer's-clothing clasps hands with the master Weaponsmith dwarf....
To Master Ironbender:
To Master Ironbender: The gold dragon Aurelianthalantas owes me favor, good Master Ironbender, for raising for her kitchens seven generations of kine and flocks of geese.... Her Draconic Majesty will provide fire for your forge....
To Gabriel the Archangel: Nay, just Gabriel, my brother.... Let us make even the uneven.... Let us make straight the path of the righteous.... Let us make clear the Way of The Lord! The arch-solar dives Earthward, hurdling like a comet, to a blacksmith's forge in the village of Tours, where he assumes the guise of a wealthy farmer and approaches the master dwarven weaponsmith who owns the shop.... To Gloin Ironbender, Master Weaponsmith:
As ever! Michael sheathes his impossibly sharp sun blade and smiles broadly at Gabriel.... Both archangels disappear in a flash of bright lightning....
Irony, maybe.... I see it as the logical conclusion.... The only possible outcome.... Michael turns his blade to sharpen the other side against the sun.... I hope for Kraid's sake that he achieves a sense of contentment from his plan.... He has suffered much for his fall.... Not, perhaps, as Lucifer has suffered.... But he has always been ridden by his own compulsions....
The archangel hones the blazing blade of his bastard sword on the broiling molten whetstone that is the sun, fierce eyes staring unblinking at Sol's intense blaze.... Gabriel flies within sight.... Hail, Gabriel. What brings thee so swiftly? |
