NationStates Jolt Archive

Like an electric storm, the clouds formed over a large section of NS-Earth, heat lightning striking betwix the clouds, illuminating the darkened sky. The very fabric of reality was being rubbed against, worn to it's already brittle borders.

As this storm moved over the formerly calm oceans, violence transformed the sea to that of a monster, gnawing and ripping at anything which saught to float on it like a rabid tiger with a one-track mind of killing for the sheer pleasure of it.

The clouds formed a vortex, turning into a shape of that of a hurricane, or perhaps a spiral galaxy, it's arms swinging like a blinded boxer, desperate to make that final punch in order to retire on the top.

The eye of the storm met with dire circumstances as the portal opened, science and science-fiction intertwining in an intercourse that could only spawn childer not unlike that of Rosemary.

Several humanoid figures, over a dozen, fell through this portal, right into the furious sea, undergoing the torrential rain. Once the last one fell through, the storm indeed disapated, and the vortex, and gateway, were no more. The sea once again calmed itself, as if Mother Nature herself held it as an infant and coo'd it to rest.

It only lasted but an hour or two, what harm could have come? What nightmares may have risen, or what shattered dreams are trying to put themselves back together?

ooc:

Hmmm....

[tag]

The Heads bobbed out of the water, floating in the sea as the sun once more wrapped around the waters in a sparkling and serene embrace. They began to swim together, to make sure that every one of them took the fall.

The crystal shards of a once whole possibility were scattered into the wind at the whim of a tired soul. Could this be the chance to find what was lost in the exodus of billions? The disappearance of faith and of conviction. The revival of redemption and vindication. A nation composed of 15 individuals.

"Er alle her? Er hvilket som helst mangling?"

"Det synes ikke slik. Jeg teller femten."

"God. Finn oss lander."

Led by one in blue, they began to stop treading and begin swimming. Their direction seemed null, but they were heading north, always north. For in the Northlands, in those barren white wastes, would they be able to discover their trial and what they had Left Behind. Were they to gird themselves with more than their belief? What battle were they to fight, if there was ever truly a battle that ever really had to be fought at all? What petty arguements could creatures between Angels and Insects squabble amongst themselves to die for? Was preservation worth the cost of elimination? Existance at the cost of destruction? Philosophic anomolies could do no justice to those which could never comprehend what justice was.

They could only head north. For if no land was in sight, they could depend on ice. . .

OOC: What?

...

Someone on Nationstates who can actually....

Write?

A single star shined a bit brighter, or was it that the sky had become a bit darker? Were there to be darker skies ahead? If so, the stars would only become brighter in contrast. Such was the scheme of myths, legends, and lore. Every day the sun rose, and every night it set. Dusk and Dawn were the true battles.

Time became quickly incoherent to the dimensional drop-outs. How many days did it take? Why did they never become tired? Why weren't they killed by aquatic predators? Hunger, Thirst, Scurvy and other diseases should have easily killed them. Yet, as the longitudes increased, they only became more ardent to their cause.

Everything became white, as if it were some illusion of heaven on Earth. The ground was ice and as blinding as the bland overcast sky, yet in the arctic, that only meant that the white ice clouds draped over like a blanket of asphyxiation. They dragged their bodies out of the arctic sea, and stepped down on the hard ice, buckling under the sudden foreign encumbrance. Their breath steamed from their mouths, yet they were glad to be out of water.

As they dried out their clothes and hair, a man, taller than but a couple of the others, pointed their next direction, to the geographic pole, not the magnetic one. That was to be their destination, where their first of many goals was to be found, taken, and educated on their next. Their mission had been kept secret to even they, and it was broken down by the powers that be so they could only advance if the previous dossier had met all the expectations and beyond.

OOC: I'm sure alot of people here can write like that... but... it's just not interesting to read. :?

So began the first step, but the fifteen were not alone. Soon, they were to witness the coming of several more, brothers of theirs and friends from former worlds, former times, former realities. They joined them without speaking a word, for the time had come with opposing powers would unite for this common goal, yet for this second group, the motivation was quite different.

So Fifteen became Twenty-Seven. These men, scarless and beaten, mortal and immortal, bleeding and unbeating, trekked through the ice, snow, and snagging winds that swirled along the top of the world. Their leader, in the sense that he knew where to go for the moment, calculated the chances as being rather slim of their discovery, but knew this reality better than the twenty-six behind him. He knew that the was more to fear than the Eye of God, but the Mind of Man. That which concocted the weaponry of destruction. He knew of man, and his ferocity. The sheer fact was that the only thing in the world that could be Inhuman, were humans themselves. Such creatures have united together infinitely more fervantly in the cause of war than they ever did for peace. How can they seek to protect the world from others when they can't even protect it from themselves?

Miles passed, still they went on without hesitation, some force drove them past their natural limitations. This was indeed their master's call, their creator's wish. What purpose can one hope to serve without promise of delivery? They were no Djinn, able to contort and twist the demandings of their superiors into something more devious, they were Messengers, and knew exactly what to do, how to do it, and even worse, what would happen if it didn't happen.

"Vi er nesten der. Bli sanne brødre, for vår destinasjon ankommer."

"Gjorde De hører det?"

"Det er nesten tid. Akkurat litt lengre."

The Pole lay just ahead. A thin glossy pad of ice, resting on the coldest of waters.

They huddled around the pole, looking at each other with an expression of "Now what?" Their leader smirked a bit, and shoved some snow back and forth to reveal a glyph etched into the ice. This world was expecting their return, and Earth had been very faithful. He bent down to touch it with his gloved hand, and the etching filled with silver, the ice glowing an omenous black color around it.

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The others seem mildly satisfied. This was indeed the Gateway as was prophesized. The reunion which was foretold. Time was extremely relative, as it had only been a few years in this world, they had lived a century in another. They had fought their own wars, lived their own lives, and led their own people in a place which would insure a more prosperous benefit. It seemed they were ready to replant the seed they sought to save from corruption, if they would deem this world to be more readily accepting.

"Slik begynner det."

"La oss dra inni."

It was indeed fear of the unknown that drove them back. They would only seek to face this fear, but to do that, they'd need to be ready for it.

"Beskytterne har woken nå. Vær beredt en gang vi kommer oss til tempelen," said the leader.

The Glyph began to spin around, glowing an eerie light. It levitated lightly, trailing a shower of streaming essence, formulating a kind of capsule eight feet into the air. It was the gateway to the secret of that Left Behind. The Armor of Faith and Weapons of Redemption. It was their treasure, their precious stones which they left in the pond after watching their ripples gleefully. It had arrived unto them that it was time to stop tossing the stones and begin throwing them. It was amazing how something that could bring happiness could bring hatred in only the difference of force.

They were brought more than halfway around the world in the dense jungles, in the Temple of Angkor Wat. It was here, in this place of mysticism, that their possessions were hidden away. It was a quiet, yet noble place of antiquity, and was voted anonymously amongst the Hexagrams and the Order of Thrones, along with the Twelve Choirs among the Three Spheres, in which to hold this temple alof for emergencies.

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The weather was better, at least, and as their soaked clothes began to dry in the sun and heat, creating puddles underneath their feet, they just looked around in bewilderment, as did the natives at these strange visitors. Were they avatars of gods? Messengers of another world? There was little to make of them, that's how the twenty-seven men felt about themselves in the same respect.

So little to make so much. It's amazing what seven handfuls of dust can create if you know what to do with it.

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Worship is a foul thing. How many deaths will it cause before it is deemed defunct? But then again, would worship be the cause, or the fact that time and time again, the mere ability to be different causes social friction and leads to the strafe of civilization. The inability to understand allows for the ability to fear, the ability to hate, and the power of suffering.

Race, Sex, Creed, Religion, Ability, Attraction, Habits.

They entered the temple, and their leader found a special stone in the garden behind it. It too had been marked with a Glyph, only in small divets, discovered when the leader sliced his wrist open and bled upon it. The Glyph formed as the canals had been filled with ichor.

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As the leader bandaged his wrist, cutting the circulation to his left hand, the others spoke in astonishment. It would heal soon, very soon. It just needed a tourniquet to control the mess.

"The Tetragrammaton."

The Blood boiled down into the dirt, and the ground shifted, revealing a starcase down, marked in hieroglyphics of symbols known only to twenty-one of them, yet it had been many millenia since they had seen the language before. The place was suddenly lit up as oil lamps self-ignited from an automatic response of life.

They arrived at the foreground. It was time to redress themselves. The chambers were named for every single one of them.

Metatron
Sandalaphon
Ariel
Michael
Gabriel
Uriel
Raphael
Jophiel
Lucifer
Samael
Raziel
Ramiel
Matriel
Sachiel
Zadkiel
Azrael
Israfel
Camael
Abaddon
Melchizedak
Rahab

The other six had their own chambers with their full names:

Zane Triquot
Charon Xanathos
Procul Athesias
Bryce Swivantes
Iselith Silvermoon
Nazgrel Dragontail

They would fit themselves correctly, for just by opening this chamber, did they awake the guardians of it which would test their mettle, and the forces that be had other plans. After an half hour, 15 Helicopters flew over the garden of Angkor Wat, dropping 4 Armed guards via rappelling ropes onto the ground. Armed with FN P90s, they stepped into the underground catacombs.

The twenty-seven men were ready, however. The one addressed as Metatron ordered them to split into teams of three and seek refuge within the deeper levels of the catacombs. The spider had sewn its web, and the flies were heading directly into it.

OOC: I'm sure alot of people here can write like that... but... it's just not interesting to read. :?

OOC: Half the people on NationStates can't even spell, much less write anything worth reading.

Zane was unlike the others. He was not blessed, but corrupted. Instead of seeking a cure or some sort of redeeming factor, he relished it. He relished the power it gave, relished the knowledge it gave, and relished what he became. In some languages, they referred to him as a Fey'ri. Though in most respects, he looked like a drow of Dark Elf with his light blue tinted flesh. He did not care for many flashy weapons, as for years he used his HellSpawn Cape, which in itself was living symbiotically as a part of him, and his favored Zen Master bow. He seemed to hover when he walked, dressed like a noble, very comfortable tanned pants with black buckled boots, freshly shined. A Dark tanned long-sleeved shirt, and a white collar, fluffing out. He wore red armored shoulder pads, painted a pitch black, with rounded plates on his shoulders. A long black cape lines down his arms, and drapes to his feet. Zane has a light blue tint of hair, cut, almost buzzed, short, with a long small pony tail extending from the base of his skull. It is tied at the very base and extends a short distance. His ears are pointed, donating an elven lineage, and his side-burns are locked in braids, with several beads inside the twists. His eyes are dark red, the iris swarming like writhing tenticles around the single beady black pupil. He never spoke of the Daemonic power that touched him, but regularly fell into trances of sleep to contact it.

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Nazgrel was something indeed strange. A member of a reptilian race of a continent known as Kunark, Nazgrel called himself an Iksar. His scaled hide easily matched the regenerative abilities of the majority of his companions. Nazgrel was a born fighter, and was one of the most dangerous monks, having been awarded the Bracer of Scale from the Court of Pain in Cabilis, and paid homage to his God Cazic-Thule, the Lord of Fear, every three hours. Perhaps it was the faith of the creature which enticed the others to recruit the lizardman, for it was a rare occassion for him to ever leave Norrath, his homeworld, forever stuck in the law of steel & magic. His nasty disposition toward most races in general was the cause of the reciprocating feelings all races shared with his people when they attempted to invade his home continent. Dressed in magical silk which allowed the Iksar to achieve supernatural agility, he had proved again and again to be more useful than it seemed.

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Charon Xanathos was a Necromancer all-around. His blood was black as he flowed through his veins. He was noticably older than the rest, and the most human. He had long researched the tome of the greatest demonologist to ever live, Al Azif Al Hazred, the author of the Necronomicon and Necromicon, the Books of the Dead. Charon wore The a black chain mail, adorned in bones to create a very skeletal look to it. His shoulder pads are completed by demon skulls with a long horn extending on each side. His steel-plated boots clang against the floorboards. His hair is bright white, and his eyes are a flaring red. He has a shield hanging from his back, constructed of the ribcage of some creature, sharp points thorning out. On his belt hangs a wand with two small skulls on both ends, a one-handed axe on the right side. A sack hangs from the belt behind him, full of reagents. He had contacted a couple of demi-Gods such as Nyarlathotep and Shub-Niggurath, which led to the creation he calls Zane. Charon is highly suspicious of Zane, and the game of 'who-controls-who' they play became deadly years ago.

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The three were the dark edge of the Fellowship. Sharper than the other blades for the fact that they always swung to kill. They stepped into a square room. Zane let his cape wrap around him like a kind of cocoon, and melded with the darkness. Charon let loose a blue steam and fell down, all signs of life disappearing from him as a black smoke poured from his pores. Nazgrel nodded, and peered outside the chamber to the corridor, using his nightvision, a natural ability, to spot targets. The Iksar focused on a squad of nine slowly making their way inside. Snatching one of many shurikens, he ripped his arm back and tossed three into the ground, making sure to grab their attention. The sharpened disks struck one of the black leather-clad men, sticking into his back. The other eight turned, and seeing the lizard, fired automatically with their FN P90s. Nazgrel flipped back in the air into the dark chamber, landing in a crouch position as two bullets hit his ribs, the first shattering a scale, the next imbedding itself inside. Nazgrel quickly feigned death.

The eight men quickly followed up, entering the room, the mounted flashlights scanning it. The sight of Nazgrel on his stomach with a small puddle of blood was something to be smug about.

"Squad 1, the lizard has been pacified. Their adventure will already be hindered."

The cape slowly undid around Zane as he grinned. "Death is the only adventure," the Fey'ri Elf spoke softly. Three bolts of Runic Energy launched from the invisible string on the Zen Master's bow. The arrows were directed telekinetically by the Elf, his eyes closed as he psionically ran each one through the neck of three guards, spewing a fountain of blood down the chest and back of the men as they fell with only a unintelligable onomatopoeia.

The five others raised their weapons to Zane as he quickly shifted his bow to swing like a blunt bat, striking at the head of nearest intruder, whom ducked and fired, along with the others, into Zane. Zane raised his arms, and his body seemed to be absorbed into the cape, turning into a black more pure than the deepest abyss as the bullets flew into him. He could only grin. They did not see what he saw.

Charon raised once more, and a Blue flame burned from his flesh, looking much like skull faces screaming from his skin. His hand gripped the axe, twirling it into an upright position, and ripped it down into the air, slicing into the spine of the nearest guard, tearing his spine into pieces and instantly killing him.

"It's a trap! Tango Down! We need back-up!"

The body of Zane once more appeared, unharmed, as the batwing-like extensions of the Cape settled down. Zane's left hand changed to a crystalline green gauntlet right before their eyes. The gemmed hand thrust into the stomach of the guard which ducked his previous assault, his fingertips as sharp as diamonds. Zane ripped his arm up, slicing the man's torso into a V-shapred formation, splitting as he fell, spilling organs and enormous amounts of blood.

"Speaking of back-up, guess who's back up?" grinned the healed Nazgrel. reaching into his side, he formed a wicked ulak in his right claw, jamming it upwards between the invader's legs, flipping up as the man bent downward in pain, the Iksar's tail wrapping around his neck and pulling it toward his armed hand, which he rammed into the man's neck at full-strength, then twisting his wrist, which launched the man's head off. Like a geyser, the spout of blood flushed into the scaled reptilian. His forked tongue sipped slightly from it. Nazgrel just kicked the corpse downward. There were only two left now.

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Charon raised his left hand, carrying the wand, as the corpses' bodies were ripped open as the bones of the victims reanimated as the Necromancer's now willing pets. The two members just lit the room with their P90 Submachine-guns, shattering the bones as the undead approached them grabbing onto them. Their final screams never reached their companions, but it sent shivers down their spines from the intercom.

Procul Athesias slid a sharpening stone across the silvered eged of the large black two-handed Battle Axe, surnamed Eclipsor. The 8' tall Barbarian bulged with muscle all-around his albino body, a side effect for generations of habitation within the Northern Tribal Lands of Mount Arreat, in the Northern Steppes of Sanctuary. Procul was undoubtedly one of the best warriors in the group, and had been recruited during the Sin War of Sanctuary to join this league of adventurers and wayfarers and planeswalkers. Though he prefered his beloved RUned Axe, Procul carried two double-edged claymores, sheathed in scabbards criss-crossed along his back, and two magical throwing axes strapped to his hips like a gunslingers revolvers that would magically return to the thrower on mental command. As well as being armed, Procul was the heaviest armored. He was covered in head-to-toe in imbued ornate plate mail, greatly decorating the already woad-covered man.

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Bryce Swivantes sighed, packing his books away in a backpack around his back. The Half-Elven cleric was not very pleased to be back to this dimension, especially after reading the dossier. Bryce could feel the straining of time on him, and though he was the human equivalent of his mid-40's, that was still far too late in life to be running around fighting evil. He could remember being on the front line with Raziel in his Paladin days and Hector, the elven theif, as Zane and Israfel would offer ranged back-up, and Xavier would call evocations to pummel opposing forces. But now, the elf and the invoker were dead,destroyed in the assault of a minion of destruction, and it weighed heavily on Bryce that he was no longer powerful enough to bring them back. Bryce was losing his faith, which was the basis of all his dietic powers. He could stop the coming of sorrow, drowning him in self-defeat.

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Iselith bent down to pick up the bow staff. It had served the ranger well in the past six hundred years. The nimble ranger's fingertips felt over the runic engravings with a heavy heart. The bow had been made in the Elven Kingdom of Silvermoon, the last and greatest of Elven Kingdoms of Azeroth. Yet, with the coming of the Dark Portal, the orcs came, those horrible demon-infested pigbeasts, razing everything. With the Horde followed the Scourge, and with the Scourge brought the Legion. All of Azeroth was doomed, yet Iselith fought back the tides as faithfully as he could, but he couldn't stop his home from being eviscirated from the world, his people becoming slaughtered by beasts and turning into uundead servants, and his own sister Sylvanas from turning into some demented banshee creature, turning against her own kind. Iselith suffered from the type of heartbreak that never healed. He cursed all Orcs, Gnolls, Ogres, Goblins, Undead, and Demons, and had become quite deadly in hunting them. Sensing that the Brotherhood could somehow restore light to his world, he vowed his blade, bow, and his heart to the cause, for he could no longer pledge his soul.

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These three remarks the faces of goodness, in loyalty, bravery, and regard to life. Though each was tainted in their own personal way, it only provided flavor to their offering. As they gathered their gear, Iselith was just about to lead them out of the room until he stopped. He could hear the footsteps of several bipedal creatures. He turned around and signalled Procul to halt the grinding of his axe, the only light in the room being the sparks shooting from it's edge. Iselith stepped into a corridor, looking left, then right, to see a sextet of armed figurines flash a light at him. Quickly, he dove back into the room to avoid the imminent hail of gunfire. Sliding, he looked up at Procul.

"They're coming."

Procul dropped the stone, and gripped the long bar holding the mighty axe. The air shifted along his shielded body as he stood. It seemed almost regal. The giant of a man took his step forward as the lights flooded through the room in a second of momentary blindness.

"What the hell is that...?"

The pupils of Athesias shrinked. THe images were still fuzzy..but they were silhouettes. He could attack those. As the hulking mass of muscle stepped forward, the intruders took position.

"Fire at will!"

Volleys of automatic fire burst into the thick armored plates, bouncing and denting off. The large gauntlets reared the axe back as the massive headpiece rose into the air and came down vertically into the first combatant’s left shoulder. The high-pitched squeal of the man was ten times louder than the grunt of the barbarian as the axe slid through his shoulder and severed his arm. He dropped his P90, clutching the hole in his body as it gushed out his bodily fluids. One of his teammates picked him up and began to drag him back. Procul Athesias raised his axe again, and began to follow the men, who were laying down a suppressive fire to slow the giant.

“Fall back! Fall Back! His armor is as thick as a tank! Get out the Demolitions!”

One of the agents dropped his P90 to haul a M130 Tank Gun on his shoulder and kneeled down. The sight made Procul stop in bewilderment. Iselith, however, had other means, as his keen elven eye targeted the barrel and shot a single arrow armed with an explosive tip. The missile launched forward, and detonated inside the heavy weapon, causing an explosive chain reaction that exploded the unit to limbs and less, shook the foundation, and even caused Procul to fall back in a dazed state.

The Royal Chamber housed compartments for those of the Brave. The Casks of Metatron and Ariel were held within. The two beings set their environmental gear aside to redress themselves for the future. These two were indeed the most redeemingly powerful of the entire sect. Metatron was the King, and Ariel was his right-hand man, if he indeed could be called that. They were the leaders of the Tetragrammaton Hexagrams.

Metatron was indeed a very handsome man. He was tall, 6'6", with ageless skin and deep hazel eyes. A flowing blonde hair streamed from his scalp like silken ribbons. He spoke only truths, and indeed whatever he said became truthful. His voice was that of great power, and it was why he was the King. He spoke for all of them, and would never be at a loss for words of enlightenment. Dressed in royal azures and cyans, Metatron belonged to the non-combatant half: those that were in no way having the power to wage war, but only heal, be it wounds physical, mental, or diplomatic.

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Ariel was Metatron's brother and bodyguard. He was also the least human of the bunch. Looking as if he spawned from a spore-God, though no one would dare comment on his lack of pulchritude. Ariel lacked much in the way of a sense of humor, but made up with it in power by strides. Ariel embodied some of the full talent of older members of the brotherhood early on, and the latent energies distorted the man greatly. His body was shifted between immaterial forms, and wretched his body to the form that it became. Ariel lost his ability to speak, as well as his ability to hear. Only with drastic surgery that implanted a bio-mechanical mask over his face was his ability of sight and his ability to breathe and smell, something if lost would have killed him outright, saved. Yet, his sight was listed as only a single degree of light at a time, only able to filter one in at a time. His sense of smell, because of the others loss, as well as his sense of touch, were sharper than any blade could ever be. Ariel was a power to be reckoned with, despite his struggling disfigurements. He could communicate to any other being via his mastered psionic abilities, which made him even more of a monster. Ariel wore light robes of grey and green and brown of the softest material due to his extremely sensitive flesh. He picked a single hilt to carry, able to create the blade from his powerful psychic prowess.

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As soon as Ariel lifted the silvered Hilt, the door of the chamber was burst open, infiltrated by three gunmen. Metatron looked at them with a calm ease, placing his hands up. Before he could speak, they immediately ordered their surrender, unconditionally.

“Get down! Don’t make me tell you again. If you cooperate, you’ll live, now place your hands over your head and on the floor!”

“Please gentlemen. Things don’t have to turn out this way. You have intruded on an ancient temple which was created to prepare us for—“

“I said down!” The soldier screamed as he pushed the barrel of the P90 into Metatron’s chest. Before another breath could be drawn, a four foot blade of light rose from the hilt, illuminating the room and swung upwards, removing the man’s arm in a clear clean cut from the middle of his humerus bone. His screams of shock of witnessing his own cleaving drove him into shock, which would lead to a quick and painless death afterwards.

“Drop your weapon!!” quoted the other of the two remaining mercenaries. Ariel was naturally unresponsive to their vocalizations. “Fuck it! Shoot him! Shoot Him!”

The Submachine-guns poised to fire, Ariel stood aside, and raised his left palm, toward them. The flailing bursts of munitions rallied around the bodyguard as Metatron stood behind Ariel, and a near transparent blue shield of psychic force manifest in front of him, rapelling the gunfire. They soon halted after emptying their reserves, and began to reload another 50-round clip into the FN P90. Ariel stood up straight and the blade disappeared. He left into the air, his free-hand generating a ball of electricity via electrokinesis The ball struck out in several bolts, lightening the room in strobes as it shruck through the two men, jerking their bodies as their extremities fried and jolted in seizures. Ariel landed between then, drawing the hilt horizontally between their bodies. In the speed of thought, the hilt sprouted psi-swords at both ends, impaling through both their chests simultaneously. Ariel rotated his wrist, the dual-blades constructing a 360 degree turn, and like bureau, their bodies creaked open, spilling their insides upon the wrapped feet of Ariel.

Metatron flinched terribly at the sight that he knew his brother and protector could not fully see. Truly it was a disgusting act, and he would have had it done another way. Ariel had a serious problem with seeing moral issues in black and white, with clear distinctions between right and wrong. As such, Ariel often took decisive action with little contemplation. Ariel just did what he did best.

Metatron placed his hand on Ariel’s shoulder, stepping over the bodies. “It’s time to go Ariel. We must find the others.” Metatron knew Ariel could not hear, nor understand him. Ariel always seemed to know what Metatron was thinking, and followed.

“Are you finding everything already Zadkiel?” Sachiel asked.

Sachiel was a man in his late 20’s, or seemed as so. He had a nice build from vast naval experience, and left him always longing for the sea. He had long natural blue hair, put into a unbridled pony-tail, which slung around his shoulder and laid on his chest. His eyes were as deep and as blue as the world’s oceans, and glinted with vulnerability and innocence. His skin was a faint pale peach color, and carried a naturally lithe build. Sachiel was indeed a very gentle soul, who at times had to stand up for the good of himself and the brotherhood and take a charge. He was a leader when he had to be, but set into it unnaturally.

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The noble-looking, barrel chested man turned around, carrying a single oil-soaked torch. “I’m fine. The Chamber of Strength lies this way.” Zadkiel led Sachiel and Azrael through the stone corridors. Every now and then a cold wind would find itself from the above and search the cavernous labyrinth to find the three and shake their bones. Sachiel crossed his arms and let out a cold breath. Azrael looked back at him for just a moment, and proceeded to follow Zadkiel.

Zadkiel was the manifestation of Yore and Chivalry. He was a tall, strong man, with an obvious muscular build honed from his years of training in weapon specialization. He had a noble face, lined finely with age, and alizarin eyes. His brown hair was cut short, and designed in such a way that it would never get in his eyes. He was a born leader of men, and quick to gain respect for them for his outstanding courage and daring maneuvers proven time and time again. It almost seemed as if a divine aura possessed him whenever he was in charge. Zadkiel was always on hand to talk tactics or play a friendly duel or spar. He indulged within the military more than anyone else in the brotherhood, save perhaps Michael. He was one of the most-liked due to his always-positive attitude and his element of heroism that he would bring to the table.

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Along the way, they heard several explosions and gunshots, as well as screaming afterwards. The foundation shook a few times, dust and water leaking from the ceiling. Sachiel reached up to feel a hole that trickled through the erection. “I didn’t realize that age could do such a thing to this place. It’s quite possible that it won’t last another millennia.”

Azrael looked up for once. “It won’t last another hour. As soon as the artifacts are taken, it is meant to collapse and fall in on itself. The weight there will sink it to the bottom of the arctic sea. No evidence that way.”

Zadkiel turned around, puzzled. “How do you know that?”

Azrael grinned. “Death told me.” Azrael was one of the more mysterious and cryptic of the brotherhood, but also carried with him a duty of age that many of the Brothers have yet to ever experience half. He had a penance of shrouding himself, and always lowering his head, shamed. He spoke rarely, and left most things alone to his presence, for if it existed, then things were bound to have gone wrong. Azrael was very muscular, and his hair had turned a silvery white, buzzed very short. His eyes, a beady grey, were as bland as his hair. A long scar was scythed through his face downwards, a mark of his failure in the most righteous of the tasks of creation. A tattoo crossed the back of his neck to signal what his failure was that shamed him so for eternity, for all his brothers could instantly recognize him and what he had done, or not done. It was to remain unspoken of why Azrael must always hide himself in shame for his deeds. It is said his abilities, however, were not in any way hindered by the accident. Yet the menacing and diabolical-looking Azrael remained quiet, and left no prisoners.

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Zadkiel quirked an eyebrow, “Right…” Azrael had always been so freaking creepy like that. He felt over the walls, covered in encrusted hieroglyphics which were readable by touch if you knew the ancient language. “We’re close, it’s just around this corner.” As they turned, they noticed three humanoid figured dressed in modern armor carrying lethal guns burst inside the chamber of Strength with mounted flashlights. Zadkiel put his arms in an outstretched position to stop Sachiel and Azrael. “Shh…some intruders just broke inside.”

“There is nothing in here sir, but three casks. They might have not have made it this far yet.”

The three men snuck slowly up to the entrance, their backs against the wall. Azrael and Sachiel watched as Zadkiel counted down from 3 on his fingers. As he hit one, he turned and gripped his hands together in a fist and bashed them into the back of the skull of the first figure he saw. The imminent “Ooof!” alerted the other two as he fall on his stomach in a slight daze.

The other two raised their weapons as Sachiel and Azrael leapt in to aid Zadkiel. Azrael literally leapt though, rolling in a somersault into a tumble to kneeling, and swept around with an outstretched leg, knocking into the ankles of one of the two men, toppling him on his back. The lone standing one turned to the distraction, which gave Zadkiel motivation to lunge at the man with his fist, slamming against his cheek and forcing him to stumble a few steps. Azrael grabbed the man’s weapon, though he would not let it go. To fix this, Azrael rammed his knee up vertically, to snap the man’s arm upwards. It was easy then.

Azrael made quick to grab the P90 and reverse it on the figure, pulling the trigger without hesitation, delivering 15 rounds into the man’s chest almost instantly. Zadkiel turned and shoved his elbow down onto the Cask marked with his name in hieroglyphics, retrieving his Sword, a fabled one at that. It glowed as its masters hands once more gripped it by the handle and lifted it into the air.

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As the other two were getting up, Sachiel drop-kicked the one that Zadkiel assaulted in his head, sending him in a roll back down to the ground. Zadkiel turned and lunged the blade down on the tripped man, impaling him through and sticking into the stone ground. Azrael dropped the P90 and leapt into the air, landing on the last assaultant’s stomach. Gripping him by the neck with his left hand, his pummeled the man in the skull with his right until brain matter and blood splattered against the stone. Again and again his fists came down like steel, the sound of the man’s bones bouncing up and slamming against the rock floor made the other two hide their faces. Azrael stood up when the deed was done and looked at them with an expression of disgust, not for them, but for him. Sachiel and Zadkiel knew that it was his punishment, and nothing could be done.

Sachiel opened his cask, removing the navy blue suitcoat, with golden buttons that still shined. Placing it over himself, he felt like a new man. He slipped on his uniform boots and uniform gloves, and attached his belt, sliding a marine-issue rapier and a 1911 Colt Pistol. Placing two extra clips of ammunition in the slots allotted, he pulled back his blue hair.

Zadkiel grinned brightly at the sight displayed before him. A full set of plate armor, complete with the vambraces and greaves, and his gothic shield. He drew them on, preparing for battle. Sliding his blade into it’s scabbard on his hip, and drawing the shield on his back. Zadkiel had never been shot at before, so was unaware of how bullets would fare against the old armor. Time would foretell tha indeed.

Azrael replaced his rags with a dusty brown cloak. He fit leather gloves and black hide boots over himself. A faded grey workshirt and some paramilitary camouflage pants also proved to be the only things he stored for himself. He bend down and picked up two of the P90’s from the corpses. Upon inspection by the other two, he mentioned, “They won’t need them in Hell.”

Israfel couldn't help but whistle as he lead Melchizedak and Camael through the corridors into the House of Honor. The House of Honor was one of the strongest in numbers, due to their unique perspective of non-violence and a serious approach toward inner piece. Israfel headed the project in its youth, and soon after, recruited Melchizedak and Camael to aid him in bringing it into beautiful fruition. Using a passive form of psychic nightvision, Israfel was able to easily lead through the massive labyrinth within the temple. He only hoped that they would be able to evade any kind of confrontation. The whistling sure did not allow them the freedom of surprise, anyway.

Israfel was one of a kind, though he did not look to be as much from the outside. His inner beauty was able to shine through easily through the power of music. Israfel was a master musician, a prodigal virtuoso. Though on the outside, he seemed kind of scrawny, with little in the way of muscular build, and his thinning brown hair was usually tasseled from side to side, his amazing vocal and instrumental talents were obvious for whom had ever heard one of his full orchestral compositions. His light brown eyes sparkled at the hindrance of any sound, which he enjoyed to manipulate into perfection. Yet, even Israfel had a secret to hide. Israfel had major psychic prowess, though not nearly to the level of Ariel. Israfel could hold his own if he needed to, but he was still in a worthy attempt to gear his powers toward that of protection and aid, and forget his past of fighting and war, a position he was uncomfortably shoved into. The House of Honor was his penance, and he thanked the Holy Father for the deed put through.

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Camael held onto the aged Melchizedak’s hand to guide him. Melchizedak, or Melchiah for short, was the oldest member of the brotherhood by far. The aged man was an odd recruit for Israfel to choose. Israfel’s reasoning was sound. He wasn’t trying to build an army, he was trying to build an Utopia. Melchizedak was an extremely intelligent individual, who shone beyond his age to true wisdom and enlightenment. He was a profound teacher of the mind and the soul, and an amazing avatar of the blessed spirit. To the Brotherhood, Melchiah was the Old Man on the Mountain, but to Israfel and Camael, he was a father figure for their society. Melchizedak had long flowing white hair, and a beard that matched the length of the back, down to his chest. His bright blue eyes signified his Hope for all creation to achieve an everlasting understanding and peace. His voice was slightly coarse with time, but nevertheless clear to understand. His flowing grey and white robes matched him perfectly.

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Camael, on the other hand, was the minister and speaker for the group. Though not as gifted with the power Israfel regretted to have, or containing the ageless knowledge Melchizedak discovered, Camael was a soldier of Peace, without a hint of destruction in his heart. Camael regarded himself as the glue that allowed the foundation of the House of Honor to hold together and support the immense weight that was put on it, living in a world of destruction. Camael was the most active member between the three, outwardly going out to reach people and take time to understand. Camael also aided in the construction of the Priesthood of Honor to serve the community. For this deed, he dressed like a priest most of the time, with a black suit and white collar. Camael had brown hair of ordinate length, parted on the side and permed across his face. His duties often left him without time to shave, and facial hair had sprouted along his jawline and around his lips. The surprise was pleasant enough, and he decided to keep it. His green eyes, leaf green to be precise, were usually hidden by the thick black glasses that he needed to wear to read, as he was farsighted.

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With a pyrokinetic spark, Israfel light a torch with his finger, and discovered the doorway into the chamber of the House of Honor. The casks reserved for them were still in working condition. Israfel found inside his combi-staff. This was a 6’ long staff made of iron, and engineered so it could extend and retract to the length of 1’. His violin case was also inside, the Stradivarius intact with flawless precision. He locked it, and picked it up, sliding it onto a shoulder strap so it wouldn’t leave his side. Melchizedak put on a new set of robes, dry ones that would protect him from the cold, and a cane to help him walk. He needn’t pack anything else. Camael picked up his tome, his glasses, and his suit of the brethren. Weapons were useless to these three.

“Is everything set?” Israfel questioned.

“I believe we are ready to find the others,” Camael agreed.

“Not so fast,” came an alien voice as a single man walked into the room, submachine-gun primed to fire. “Stay where you are, or I’ll be forced to put you down with extreme prejudice.”

Camael intended to use diplomacy, “Sir, this is a misunderstanding. Take us to your officer, and I’m sure we can work things—“

“Shut up!” the soldier interrupted. “Get out of the room, now!”

Camael looked at Melchiah, along with Israfel. The old man nodded, and walked out of the room. Camael followed, and Israfel after that.

“You must forgive me for what I am about to do,” Israfel asked of the two.

“Indeed,” Camael agreed.

As the soldier walked out, Israfel activated the combi-staff. It shot out to its full-length, jabbing the man in the stomach. Israfel twirled it around, spinning, and swung it into the side of the man’s head to knock him against the wall. Dazed and stunned, the gun-totting figure tried to regain him, but Israfel again had the upper hand. Placing his palm over the man’s forehead, Israfel concentrated and went into a severe state of psychic conscious. Peering through the man’s thoughts, Israfel searched through his mission and erased it from his mind. The entire act induced the man into a deep sleep, and drained Israfel’s own energy as well. Sluggishly, he stumbled a bit, pressing his fingers to his temples.

“Someone else lead for a bit…I need a breather,” he commented.

Camael, looking distressed at Israfel, went to his side and put Israfel’s arm around his neck. “We’ll both lead, ok?”

Melchiah smiled.

Samael, Apollyon, Lucifer: Three of the most infamous names to ever grace the page, and ever taint existence. Their sheer presence was enough to cause all creation to suffer to the brink of its own destruction. Their existence in effect determines our own. For in true power, does one finally fall to true corruption? These three know all about falling, and corruption, for it was the price of the power they indeed wielded. Their understanding and stubbornness for the ideal they preserved were truly a downfall from their pedestals. Yet those were the names given to the dark three. A triumvirate made of necessity. Regarded as evil and conniving but the others, they thought themselves as more open politically and a cradle of embraces for new ideas. Their life was open to a change of structure and society. It was a decision that befell them from the beginning, so they weren’t going to stop it now.

Lucifer was the leader of the three. He was the most intelligent, as well as the most charming. Lucifer commanded the respect of those he felt were under him. He was also the oldest and first-born of the brotherhood. Yet like most first-borns, an early failure in life dropped him from the glory that beheld the others, and into infamy. Due to his age and experience, he was indeed one of the most powerful and highly gifted of all of the wayfarers. The fear that surrounded his actions usually dictated the direction that the brotherhood would take. Lucifer was the wild card. He was a tall, lean man, and very handsome. He has long black hair which he would adorn many ways depending on his mood, and a clean, smooth face, angled perfectly to the touch. His red eyes blazed with passion, and accented his soft, however deep, voice. He tended to be very laid back, until pushed to action. He dressed himself very nicely in expensive suits and robes, but tended to not be too ostentatious and wore little in the way of jewelry.

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Samael was often mistaken for Lucifer. The two are quite different in appearance, motive, and ability. Though a quick second-in-command, Samael always considered himself to be the sharpened edge and Lucifer the knife. Samael indulged deeply into the gothic aspects of life, for he was wrapped in sin as a blanket would be around a newborn. He could see the sin of every person, and mark them for judgments. Lies were useless against a person like Samael whom could always know the truth. Years of this ability severely warped Samael’s perception on reality. Instead of losing hope that beings may one day reach a paradise of bettering themselves in enlightened thoughts and a freedom of evil, he saw it the other way: where man has progressively done his best job at embracing evil possible, and shall continue to due so, unabashed by any consequences. Samael did not fall into despair though, he sought refuge into Lucifer, and with a new outlook, he has become one of the most feared and most cunning of all. His deep hazel eyes are naturally distracted due to his overflowing locks of black hair, matching perfectly in the black leather he wears. Straps, chains, spiked collars, nail polish, and his trademark upside down pentagram belt are all commonplace on the man’s outfit. Acting out in a true bad-boy fashion, Samael is a very smooth talker, and is always sure to hug a friend while thrusting the blade into his stomach.

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Apollyon was the muscle of the three, and had some to spare. Tall, muscles, and aggressive, Apollyon took little from anyone, and was quicker with the blade than with the tongue. Apollyon was too good, as a matter of fact. He was the worst kind of soldier, one who enjoyed war too much. Fazed was he so that his mindset had gone beyond being immune to its trauma, but reveling in inflicting it on others. He drew strength from the destruction he inflicted, and began to learn how to channel the energies of the destructive actions of others to fuel him like an ethereal battery. Apollyon had been locked away in a special cell for years because of the sheer danger his unwatched freedom would certainly spell. Yet Lucifer and Samael had found a way to coerce the powers that be into letting the mighty one free, and for this act, Apollyon vowed obedience to their name. Dressed in a dark blue suit, with a leaher collar and a belt, Apollyon is a master of combat and fighting, and openly uses his abilities to wreck havoc and chaos in his wake. Boasting huge demonic skulls as armor plates for his shoulders and legs, he hopes for the sake of everyone else that the intimidation factor is large enough to stray them from his wrath. Yet his menace is a tool that safely beguiles the handsome face and full, wavy brown hair atop his shoulders, which is usually covered in dirt and blood. He is always seen in the possession of his mighty two-handed claymore, ornately crafted with several unique properties.

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Unlike the others, there were no chambers for Lucifer, Samael, and Apollyon. They knew this, and had no motivation to search one out. They had come prepared anyway, unlike their ‘brothers.’ Lucifer had remembered to bring his personal saber. Lucifer aided in it’s construction, and it dates to being one of the oldest weapons known. However, Lucifer gave it no name to ensure that it would never hold any place in relevant history, which has allowed him to always carry it with him unnoticed. As of yet, anyone who has seen the master use it has yet to inform any friends of what it can do.
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Samael was not one to use weaponry. He was no true fighter. He commanded something more insidious than ever imagined. He carried a grudge so large that Atlas could not carry it off his shoulders. Samael was outwitted when he was very young. This had lead the already unstable mind to obsess over his own mind-power, becoming increasingly self-consciously aware of its futility. Samael became compulsive early on how to advance himself, which had lead to uncontrollable points of untamed and unwitnessed abilities to spring out randomly.

“Should we look for the others?” Samael asked Lucifer.

”Why bother, they never cared to look for us,” He answered coldly.

“They always knew where we were. It’s not as if we could go somewhere else.”

“They could have visited once or twice.”

Apollyon looked around for a bit to study the surroundings. They had quickly managed to arrive at the staging point for evacuation, meeting a dozen armed infiltrators whom had hoped to stop them. The pieces of their corpses had become far too many to count, and the rats had eaten so much of the meat already it began to stink a bit. The temple seemed to shake more than a couple times, and screams and the sound of hailing gunfire could be heard echoing through the temple’s many corridors.

“We’ll wait a few more minutes. . .” Lucifer decided. “Father had no patience for us. I shall have no patience for my younger siblings.”

ooc:..
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*tags*

:shock:

This is getting a little weird, but somewhat cool.... odd choice of names though.

The sounds of their boots thudded against the stone. The Candled archways were already lighted as the four men walked through the hallways. Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Raphael were a power all their own. The quartet was responsible for the most advanced rigors the brotherhood had ever faced. They had served faithfully for so long that their names were given to children due to the fondness of their infamy. It seemed as if they walked in slow motion, wind bellowing their capes and through their thick leather clothes.

Michael, the obvious choice for leadership, was oftentimes reminded of visions of battle, in pre-war, where he would walk through the ranks of his beloved soldiers on both sides, looking into their eyes, and they back with a solemn look of absolute respect and fondness. Michael was oftentimes mistaken for a war hawk, or as someone who would rather swing the sword than the pen. This was farthest from the truth. Michael was indeed a very kind-hearted, level headed individual whom cared for life as any other individual. He prized it more than anything in the world and his soul wretched to protect it. Michael was ludicrously loyal, and unquestionably virtuous in his pursuits. Michael was a tall, strong, charismatic man, with long thick blonde hair, and a smooth face, unaffected by his years of ground combat experience. He usually dressed rather formally, with nobleman’s robes of grays and blues. A Jaggedly Ornate Silver Blade sheathed comfortable on his hip. The Azureforged Runeblade of Fire was a wrath to those with evil in their hearts or in their souls.

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Gabriel was a warrior leader like Michael. He had every capability to match Michael, just with a very different style. Gabriel, however, had become recently obsessed with Oriental culture. The muscled soldier was always a strong point for honor, and the Gojo and Gorin of the Samurai had interested him so. After spending many, many years in training, Gabriel received an honorary kimono and the secrets of craftsmanship of the Daisho. Bringing these secrets to the forge, Gabriel fashioned the first set of Katana and Wakizashi blades in the brotherhood. He has since been one of the most revered bladesmen in the sect. To make the illusion complete, Gabriel would have his black hair tied up into a ponytail, though it’s length would just get in front of his face. He’d always have his two swords on hand, wrapped tightly to his waist by a red sash.

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Uriel was different than most of the others. He was cold-hearted, but still dutifully obedient to the cause. He carried little, if any, personal emotions regarding any of the missions ever assigned to him. He was the least human of them all, in respects regarding that he carried no feelings about what he had to do to get what he needed to get done, finished. Because of this, Uriel many times would use lethal means to his objectives. This included a varied embrace on modern technology and marksmanship. Uriel had actually become surprisingly efficient at pistoleering, and was incredibly accurate, even while using two at once. Uriel had a drab sense of fashion, and wore single piece black suits, with thick leather gloves, and had his hair cut ridiculously short compared to his brothers, slicked back with grease so there was never a strand out of place. Uriel was the kind of guy that could easily get lost in a crowd. He was skilled in espionage and infiltration for these traits.

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Raphael was indeed the cold bond that served the three well. Few of the others had the healing potency that Raphael naturally showed and used to its full ability. Raphael was always there for the others in the heat of battle to drag one away and insure their lasting and send them back into the fray. Though neglected of combat, he oftentimes showed more experience than the others by giving them helpful tips and observations while administering aid. However, years of watching people fight and die, and curing, sometimes not curing, the most gruesome and grievous of battle injuries left scars on Raphael as well. He became slightly morbid, twisted in a sense of living a life of blood and gore. Though still a healer of it, he began to loose his taste for decency. Raphael changed his image drastically, his hair growing an albino white, chopped short. The ruggedly handsome man now shrouded himself in a blood red trench coat, rumored to have been bought as a white one, and covered with the stains of every failed attempt at saving a life.

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Stepping into the chamber of courage, they changed clothes in quiet. Uriel gripped his pistol, an augmented version he aided in the design for the clerics of the Tetragrammaton. It was promised to restore the Equality with the formerly out-gunned police force with an increasingly tougher criminal unit. This is why the pistol was named ‘Equilibrium”. It was specialty made, and its designs known only to a few. It was Uriel’s most prized firearm.

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“Is everyone set?” Michael asked, looking over the other three.

Gabriel glanced at Uriel, who was busy attaching an arm unit to his forearm to hide under the sleeves of his coat, and Raphael, who had just finished buttoning his coat. “I think so.” Michael drew his blade as they heard footsteps approaching. No one but they knew where the chamber was, and the plan had accordingly placed them to stay within bounds of their chambers, and meet at the rendezvous point at the entrance. It seems that there had been a tip off for their landing, and some force was indeed acting against them. Gabriel nodded, and slid his Katana out slowly. Both were caught off guard, however, when within a millisecond of a humanoid figure bursting in, it’s skull was split open by a short barrage of gunfire, smoking the barrel of Uriel’s pistol, set on automatic.

“Should have checked the trigger. . .,” Uriel said, ashamed of himself, and clicked the sidebar to semi. However, the immaculate death alerted the team his team of four others. Uriel leapt to the right as FN P90’s let loose a fuselage of bullets through the wall. Michael and Gabriel put their backs against the sides to avoid it. Checking the origin of the holes, Michael thrust his blade through the wall, sticking into a machine-gunners stomach. He ripped it back, the tip covered in blood.

“We have company,” he said.

Uriel stood back up, and slid his other Equilibrium Pistol into his hand. He raised both arms, and began shooting randomly into the wall at a constant rate until the clips, like a bandolier, popped out of the handles. Twisting his wrists down, the forearm mechanism thrust forth another clip from his sleeve and into them and locked it into place. Several audible ‘slumps’ were heard, and a pool of blood crept into the foray.

“Nice work Uriel,” Gabriel commended. He nodded his head toward the doorway, and exited the room. The other three were quick to follow.

OOC: Fascinating.... Excellent writing. I must keep an eye on this.

“We’re here once again,” chuckled Ramiel. “I was happy that we left.”

“We didn’t quite leave…” Jophiel answered.

“Oh yeah? Then explain what happened. If we weren’t here, then we left,” Ramiel conjectured.

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Jophiel rubbed his chin, gripping the Sword of the Isle. “I don’t know what happened. It probably has something to do with the towers and an inconsistent signal, which has always been in tune with the frequency of time-space. Then again, 2.5 Billion people just don’t disappear without someone noticing. . .”

Matriel grinned, “Here they do. . .”

Jophiel was entirely uncomfortable in this place. He needed to be back in the Forest Temple of the Floating Isle as soon as possible. They’re first just need to bring it back. None of them had the power to do that at the moment, but Jophiel knew a few people by their face, as did a few of the others. Jophiel tied back his natural red hair. He was the only redhead in the whole bunch, who showed a variety of blacks, whites, browns, and grays. Jophiel was of a medium build, and a very calm person. What he lacked in charisma, he made up in diplomatic knowledge. Jophiel was not as hot-headed as some may assume, but he has his own personal opinions and beliefs, and he could get quite stubborn if anything were to violate those. Jophiel was an expert at defensive counter-measures, and his team of Matriel and Ramiel could not have been better choices. Jophiel preferred to dress formally, or religiously, as per the event decided. He packed away a brown cloak with a pair of khaki pants and a white shirt with some tanned brown work boots. It was nothing special, but it was certainly not his style to do so. The fiery-eyed Jophiel only needed his sword to command the legions.

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Ramiel, however, packed much more preparedly. The blue-eyed minister of defense, dressed in a general’s uniform and wearing a red cape that only lapped over his left shoulder and side, while the right was covered in a thick piece of armor, had stashed one of Uriel’s prized Equilibrium Pistols as a surprise sidearm to his usual scimitar. Ramiel grinned as he hid it away under his cape side hip. Both weapons would prove useful, if not at least noble-looking if it ever came that they’d not be needed.

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Unlike the others, Ramiel was very public with his ability to control lightning and thunder. In a very public spectacle, Ramiel even channeled the elements to strike down warplanes hovering in the sky. He wielded it openly because he felt that his gift should be known so it can be better used for the purpose of helping others. He enjoyed the respect he received from others for complementing his powers with his selfless tasks. The kind hearted Ramiel had no quarries with the idea of raising an Air Force of men, however, and because of his ideas and motivations to begin an aerial army, Ramiel and Jophiel have clashed with the ideas of a non-aggressive defense with one of pure pacifism.

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The last was Matriel, the patron of nature. Matriel, whom once resembled a Greek God in physique and appearance, also took a fall from heights like Raphael and Samael. The man, whom once held long wavy brown hair had chopped it short, and grew facial hair around the lines of his face. The flowing silk robes he wore had been replaced with a grey duster, a blue muscle shirt which appropriately exposed his stunning muscular shape, and some grey slacks. Matriel, though, had not indeed given up his task of defending and seducing nature to spread to regain it’s lost kingdom, but realized that most of the world had different opinions, forgetting nature to expansion of their own political ideas. Matriel became slightly grizzled, and his ideas are beginning to be more private. He was one of the few that was happier when the dimensional flux occurred, and spent time trimming up the numerous gardens and jungle plant life on the Floating Isle. He carries a very negative view on the world as it is.

http://www.imagestation.com/picture/sraid63/pe81f0c36daf795597fb23b6fccebdd52/fc093ad4.jpg

After loading up from their casks, the three stepped out of the hall in a single file line, Matriel in between Jophiel and Ramiel. As they neared a T-intersection, they noticed four armed figures turn the corner.

“Those weren’t our guys…” Jophiel muttered.

“Duck,” commanded Ramiel.

Jophiel did just that, and Ramiel held open his hand, vibrating the air molecules as he focused his energies in creating a huge thunderclap to frighten the men, echoing throughout the temple. The unfortunate backlash was that it temporarily deafened everyone but Ramiel in the given area due to the audacity of the sound.

“We’re inside, I can’t channel lightning under here,” Ramiel told the other two, who obviously could not hear him.

Jophiel drew his blade from its scabbard, and with the pommel securely in the hand of its master, the sword ignited into a blue fire. Jophiel spun around, gripping it with his other hand, and swung it upwards as a scythe, the resulting maneuver lashed out an arc of ethereal blue flame, streaking into the hallway. The flame was like a liquid, splashing onto the first of the intruders, whom immediately panicked, and fell to the ground. Ramiel snatched the Equilibrium Pistol from its holster and fired in quick bursts, bullets flaring into the group. It was over before it had begun.

Jophiel stabbed the sword down into the man on fire, and sheathed it. He fingered his ear slightly before saying, “You stole one of Uriel’s guns? He’s going to be ticked off. . .”

“He’ll never know,” Ramiel said, grinning, as he slid another bullet clip into the gun and holstered it.

You think you are so clever, Raziel.

You think your crime shall go unnoticed?

You think that they will not figure out that you play them as pawns in your plans?

You can’t avoid Him forever. . .

He will find out one day, and punish you and all that you have sought to create shall be destroyed. . .

How many years has it been? 5,000? How many do you think it will take?

How long will it take until everything you care about dies in your hands?
Until you realize how truly powerless you are?

When the ancient seal of God is opened, the earth will once again be covered by the fires of hell. Evil spirits will dominate, and men’s' souls will rot with evil. The earth will be drowned in an ocean of blood, and the flames will rise to up to scorch the heavens. Civilization will lose all reason, and human society will collapse beyond recognition.

Rather than destruction, it shall be a beginning. New life will be brought to this decrepit world, but it shall be life born in pain, and all living things will be crucified on the cross of fate. Amidst this chaos, the true nature of the world will be revealed in whole, and its true form restored. When this happens, man will, for the first time, be freed from the yoke of the gods, and regain self-determination.

Many have tried, but none can escape the destiny that is called Evolution

The High Priest of Byzantium folded his gloved hand over his forehead, kneeling down for a second. Rahab and Sandalaphon looked back, no longer hearing his footsteps. They saw Raziel bent over, as if he were to spill his stomach upon the stone floor, his hands pressing onto his temples, faded in the brown locks of hair streaming from his scalp. Sandalaphon kneeled down besides Raziel, his left hand resting on the back of his brother and trusted friend as Rahab opened his cigar box, taking out the last of his reserves, and scratched a light against the pavement to ignite it. Rahab released the cigar from his mouth, looking down at Raziel, and in his thick Russian accent asked:

“Are you ok Raziel?”

Raziel looked up a bit, Sandalaphon lifting him up to a standing position. “Fine…. I’m fine. Just had a 20 second migrane.”

“Good,” Rahab concurred. “Let’s keep moving.” Raziel, Sandalaphon, and Rahab needn’t to find much, as they were previous members of the world. They had retained their possessions wholly, and as such, did not need to venture into the Chamber of Glory. That would be reserved for the time where the resurrection would occur.

Raziel nodded to Sandalaphon, and traversed on his own strength. Raziel was the first. He was the creator and the mastermind behind it all. It was all his ideas, brought into fruition. It was all his planning. It was his crime, which he actively stood against the laws which forbid exactly this. Be they laws of man or laws of God, they were broken in secret, and discovered not. Raziel was the cause, it was his motivation, and his cultivation of the seed that grew into a nation beloved, adored, and respected by man and of man. Raziel Angellus Hexagra, Leader of the Order of Thrones, High Priest of Celestialism, First Among Celestials, Founder of Byzantium, Creator of the Brotherhood of the Hexagram. Everything had his name written all over it, all of them identifying pointers exactly at him. He couldn’t stop it anymore, for it had become more than a hobby, more than an obsession. It had become his life. A life in which he wanted to extend further than all the others he had led. It gave him happiness, a feeling which he hadn’t felt in eons. Raziel liked what he did, and he wasn’t going to let some cheesy dimensional flux take it away.

Raziel was indeed a spectacle. He was the central character in the drama. Standing a lofty 6’3” and weighing a mere 180 lbs, the build of the High Priest was quite solid, due mostly to his rigorous training and focus on martial abilities. Raziel had spent many lives learning and crafting, and developed the Order of Byzantine Clerics, basing them off his favorite techniques in evasion, weapon mastery, martial mastery, and firearm training, and combinations thereof. He carried himself well in a crowd, but tended to be an extremely private person. His deep hazel eyes were full of unexpressed emotion, dammed like an over flooded river, waiting to pour out, but resisting due to some unforeseen circumstances. He had grown his dark brown hair out extremely long, past his shoulders, parting along his forehead, and allowing his eyes to pierce through the many threads lining on both sides of his shoulders. Raziel always wore gloves. He preferred one of very thick leather. This has been unexplained, but there are a few rumors, and a couple knows the truth.

Raziel wore black cape flowing behind him, dark navy blue on the insides. He dressed in a pitch black body-fitting suit around him, outlining his finely built form, which can easily seem blue in the light. He is a tall, but medium built man, and carries a green belt across his chest with a scabbard for the No-Dachi is carried on his back. His shoulders are covered with two blades of armor, each ending in a devilish thorn. His long brown hair goes down to his collarbones, his ears sticking out slightly. His eyes are keenly disguised by the brim of his large hat, his hair folding out nicely around his pale face and skin. Hs blade carries a skull in the center of the hilt, the same of which can be seen in the centerpiece of his belt. The special blade is incredibly thin and lightweight, but due to its length and size, requires two hands to wield efficiently. A Sapphire-and-Emerald Gem rests under his collar, sparkling in the light.

http://www.imagestation.com/picture/sraid63/p80073ad94612484b2502fbc4cc2e13ed/fc093ea9.jpg

Rahab was Raziel’s close friend. To the others, he seemed an outcast. Rahab was older than many of them, or at least seemed that way. He looked like he was in his 40’s, with patches of grey in his hair. Rahab had much in the way of war experience, and was within the Soviet army during the Second World War, defending Stalingrad, and pushing back the Axis regime, so he had to be at least 80 years old. This profound knowledge serves to demonstrate how the high celestialists somehow are able to avoid the process of aging to some degree. Rahab marks as being one of the later ones inducted in his life. The dark-skinned, black-haired man served as a minister of war and defense, and has a history with Raziel. Rahab’s own agenda serves the purpose of building and maintaining an incredible naval force. The Admiral only wishes that it be respected around the world, and consistently works with Raziel on engineering new designs to implant them. Rahab usually wore formal black naval officer attire, and was an extremely strict war hound. Capital punishment is in no way not something he would consider using. For this, he has quickly become one of the more feared and intimidating figures in the nation. His temper is exceeded only by his strength, which he fights to resist it fading. Rahab used to be known as the ‘Iron Fist,” and was a rather infamous boxer. However, if things ever got hot, he had a 7.62mm Nagant Revolver for a quick draw on his belt, an authentic souvenir from his war-filled past.

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Sandalaphon was the political leader, the Prince. Sandalaphon was the first recruit by Raziel to lead the former Byzantine Nation before it disappeared. A charismatic person, with a level head, and whose desires and dreams for a nation were truly inspirational, yet Sandalaphon always felt like he was Raziel’s puppet. Because of this, Sandalaphon had begun to break away from the Priest’s every whim and decided to make his own decisions without the thoughts or advice from the Church. It was not done in hatred, indeed not, but of a wanting of independent free will. Sandalaphon has sought for himself an individual personality, and he became more respected because of it. As a national leader, Sandalaphon dressed finely so as not to insult his nation by his own actions. He felt his title as First among Byzantines was something to be honored with, and he should live and act as a model for other citizens to do so. As times changed, and ideas surfaced, so did Sandalaphon accordingly. He is judged with the highest of regards among the people of the nation, and is backed totally by his decisions. The news that the Celestialists were heading to solve the problem of the Dimensional Flux which wiped out the Empire was met with the greatest of celebrations. Sandalaphon is the second-in-command of the Brotherhood after Metatron, his older brother by blood. He is 6 feet tall, with a medium-length of thin brown hair. He had recently, much like Rahab and Matriel, added a bit of facial hair. Sandalaphon’s short goatee and moustache have brought it into be a fad for many male Byzantines.

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Something dank cut through the air like an assassin’s dagger as they stepped into the main foray. Looking down, the three were witness to rodents feasting on human carrion. Limbs had been strewn about, sliced open and torn from torsos. Guns and pieces of Kevlar armor were in shreds and broken pieces. This had been the workings of Apollyon, Raziel knew for certain. The smell was stagnating and drenching the atmosphere in death. Indeed, the great destructor was with Lucifer and Samael, waiting at the exit, towering above them like some demented Battlelord guardian.

“Good,” Lucifer said with a devious grin. “You’ve arrived.”

“Indeed,” Raziel was able to vocalize and simultaneously keep from heaving dryly from the stench. “I see we hav---had intruders in the temple.”

“Quite,” Lucifer poignantly remarked. “They were quick taken to pieces by Abaddon. He relished in it. I don’t think he’s been able to exercise in a while, seeing as he’s been trapped in the cage for so long. A pity, what Father did.”

Sandalaphon stood in front of Raziel, placing his hand on the Priest’s chest, to signify backing off, as tension seemed to build between the focusing eyes of Lucifer and Raziel. “Is everything ready for the departure?”

Lucifer glanced at Samael. “I’ve arranged the explosives previously. This place will light up and the whole world will be witness.”

Sandalaphon squinted at Samael with minor scrutiny, “Are you sure they won’t harm biological life or any structures whatsoever, and just give the read-outs of nuclear explosions?”

“I did what the plans said in accordance. If anything dies, it’s your engineer’s fault,” Samael said, and inherently meant Raziel, who had brainstormed the entire thing.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and the 21 other men found their way to the foray. They gathered around in a circle, with Metatron in the center.

“My Brothers, my Blood, my Friends from across the Dimensional Realms of Existence

“It is time that we embark on a mission to once again explore this world. It is time again that we set ourselves on the winds of adventure, and ride high the breezes of mystery in the quest to regain our footing here. It is time that we set things right, to find the wrongs committed, and do the Justice that requires our presence. Heavenly Father is no longer watching us. We have been pulled under the guise of man and his cousins, and for this, may our transgressions be forgiven.

“When we step out of this temple, every single step must count toward our objective. Let every resting moment be an action for our minds in achievement toward our goals. Let us not be slothful, or digress. This mission is one of absolution. There is no condition between success or failure, and there is no margin for miscalculations. We have been chosen because of how well we have worked together as a team. Let’s not let each other down.”

They all nodded, and closed their eyes in prayer for several minutes before Metatron broke the silence, and one by one, they left the temple, and reappeared under the sun again.

Samael pulled out a triggering device, “Close your ears… This boom is gonna wake the world.”

An incredible mountain of ethereal flame suddenly shook the foundation and rose into the atmosphere in the almighty shape of mushroom destruction. The blue fires swept high, covering miles, and exploded outwards in horrific disastrous winds of force and concussion. It had overwhelmed much of the nation in its wake.

Yet it had been an illusion, and a grand one at that. Nothing had been destroyed or affected by the visual masterpiece. It would, of course, read out on any scanners, and be sure to invite galactic attention and investigation. That was the point, after all. It was the best fireworks show ever.

When the fires cleared, the 27 members just smiled, looking up toward Heaven . . . and waited. . .

OOC: Now is the time where it becomes truly open-ended. Invitations are up.

OOC: We'd help..but we can't. Primitive Tech

(OOC: Now I remember how I remember you Byzantium. You were an excellent writer.)

(Thanks. I'm glad a few are taking the time and effort to read it. It's disheartening when I write long things like the above and no one cares to give it a glance.)

*Me doubts Pantocratoria will like this*

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

OOC:

a) I feel like my religion has been raped hard, and Gary Gygax will surely sue you.

b) Nonetheless, that's some of the most interesting and accomplished writing I've ever seen on NS. I'd love to take part in wherever this is leading, but a key question remains as to the form of my involvement.

How "religious" or "angelic" is this group? I don't mean in metaphysical terms, but literally. The text has obvious allusions, but I wouldn't mind it being made clear in a short, concise post.

*Me doubts Pantocratoria will like this*

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

BOILING

OVER

WITH

RAGE

SO MUCH RAGE

edit: TAG

OOC:

a) I feel like my religion has been raped hard, and Gary Gygax will surely sue you.

Actually, it's my religion. "Celestialism" was my baby, born of gnostic texts, apocryphal books, Tomes of Religious Mysticism, Theosophy, And Demonolatry. It took about 30 months of research to put together.

Don't forget Blizzard North and Sony Online Entertainment for Diablo II, and The Ruins of Kunark Expansion for the idea of the Iksar and the masterful story of the Sin War!

b) Nonetheless, that's some of the most interesting and accomplished writing I've ever seen on NS. I'd love to take part in wherever this is leading, but a key question remains as to the form of my involvement.

How "religious" or "angelic" is this group? I don't mean in metaphysical terms, but literally. The text has obvious allusions, but I wouldn't mind it being made clear in a short, concise post.

No one can truly say for certain. Those who've met the High Celestialists (When it was really just 3-5: Raziel, Sandalaphon, Israfel, Rahab, Sachiel, and Ramiel, Jophiel, and Matriel) never actually inquired much about their names or their alligence to their mysterious religion, one in which they keep to theirselves and their national population, and take strong measures to make sure its growth is local. This in turn helps it stay relatively free of religious strife (reformation & schism), because they hold central positions within.

They're much in the way of human. Of flesh and blood. Their names are in accordance with their religion. Well...maybe not Bryce...He's a Half-Elf. Iselith is a Full-Blooded Elf. Besides those two.

Hours had passed since the Cambodian Pseudo-explosion at a nuclear scale. It seemed as if the ruse, as clever and noteworthy as it may have been, was a complete failure in the sense that it attracted little, if any, attention that was not local, and went internationally unnoticed. Although this would be chalked up on as Raziel's failed ideas, a rarity at that, there would always be another plan.

"Tis a sad world to not raise a brow during a nuclear blast in such a desolate part of the world," Camael despaired.

"Perhaps sad isn't the proper term," Lucifer said with a devilish grin. "Perhaps they are just preoccupied with their own endevours and have no room to peek outside of their social bubble." It seemed more truth than farce, and was more than enough of a logical explaination to the rest.

"Then we should attract their attention some way else. If danger does not peak their interest, then safety may," Michael suggested.

Raziel left the group and went back into the temple. He was gone for nearly fifteen minutes. He dragged out a large box the size of a man with a dolly lift, and used his bisento as a crowbar in forcing it open. "Nations here are suckers for refugees," He informed the rest. "They will come to our aid if we inform that we are refugees from another country and are being attacked." He wheeled out a strange, rotating machination with a green orb in the middle. The half-truth was somewhat believable. Raziel kneeled down to switch the emergency signal beacon on, which emitted the message encoded in radio waves.


Help! Foreign Refugees Currently Under Attack in Cambodian Temple of Angkor Wat. Immediate Evacuation Assistance Requested.


The green orb shot a large, continuous beam into the atmosphere, attracting the visual attention of the others as Raziel stood up. He reached into the casing and activated a timer for a few hours.

"Why don't we just walk?" Matriel wondered. "The jungle isn't that bad."

"And to where would we go? What friends do you still have?" Samael answered.

Matriel was silent, unanswering to Samael.

"What about the horses?" Jophiel asked.

Raziel looked up for once, "We annot summon the steeds until the physical anchor to this dimensional plane of existence is reestablished."

"And that means...?" Abaddon asked.

"IT means that without Byzantium here, we're pretty much without our. . . luxories," Sandalaphon informed. "Which is why we must discovery the why, research the how, create the what, and make the when as soon as possible."

"Cryptic brother," Metatron acknowledged. "Cryptic."

"Thanks," Sandalaphon said. "Soon I'll be talking like Raziel." He chortled slightly.

"Heaven Forbid," chuckled Zadkiel. "The world needs less know-it-alls with labyrinthian minds."

The men enjoyed a good laugh at the High Priest's cost as he finished working on the signal beacon.

"What will happen if the beacon fails to attract any foreign attention?" Lucifer inquired.

"Then," Gabriel suddenly said. "We can expect the Cambodian authorities to pick us up. They're likely to catch on to a giant light in the jungle pretty quick. I'll give it a few hours."

"Well... as long as its not something bad," Lucifer sneered mischeviously.


Help! Foreign Refugees Currently Under Attack in Cambodian Temple of Angkor Wat. Immediate Evacuation Assistance Requested.

OOC:

Ugh...I've got to redo all the picture code now.