NationStates Jolt Archive

The Fallen were unlike anything that had been seen up until now, though their arrival created quite the same stir that the Sentinels made when they were unleashed upon the world. Their less than impressive performance on the island of Pitoria was soon dwarfed by the horrors that were seen in the invasion of Kahanistan.

Indeed these new creations had proven themselves to be superior where the Sentinels were inferior, for they possessed free will and a natural urge to kill, unlike the Sentinels who were merely ordered to do so. The thought of an enemy that not only wants to slaughter you, but does it in the most repugnant manner possible soon had the Kahanistani populace gripped in fear.

But at the helm of the destruction stood the son of Damien Dreadfire....Azrael.

Under his command the Fallen had pillaged, burned, raped, and butchered their way into the history books. Azrael himself had finally cast away the 'good son' image that he had held so dear, for the people of Automagfreek both loved him and embraced him. But now opinions were beginning to change, and a aura of fear began to grow around the young Warchief. He was no longer the gentle Prince of Light, but now he was something...more, something different....

He had returned to Automagfreek for a few days before being shipped off to fight alongside his father against The Kraven Corporation. During his short break he spent a majority of his time inside Dawn's Cathedral, much the way his father did during times of crisis and uncertainty. The massive church had originally stood for thousands of years before Azrael razed it to the ground with fire and built his fortress, The Westwind Citadel. But the favor was returned by his father at the conclusion of the second AMF Civil War, and the Citadel was turned into a parking lot, save for a few pieces of the original church structure that still stood.

Since then Dawn's Cathedral had been rebuilt to its former glory, though the scars of war were still clearly visible. The large oak doors opened easily as the well lubricated hinges complied in light of the winter cold that was beginning to fall once more across the ULE Valley. Azrael felt the warm rush of air hit his face as he stepped inside the cathedral, the thousands of lit candles burning brightly and illuminating the pews and stained glass windows. The wind outside blew the doors closed as he began to walk down the long red carpet towards the altar, his eyes scanning the room that he had not seen in ages.

The interior was rebuilt exactly the way it originally was, so Azrael had no problem navigating the halls of the church. For roughly an hour he simply walked around aimlessly, reminiscing as he passed the old artifacts that had survived the fire. But what caught his attention were the old tapestries that depicted ancient battle scenes, as well as more skirmishes. His imagination began to run wild as he viewed the charge of Lord Rising Sun in the battle of ULE Valley, the single most important moment in Automagfreek history that resulted in the formation of AMF. Every major battle and significant nation event had its own dedicated tapestry, and he paused when he saw the depictions of his father.

Nearly two dozen tapestries chronicled the events of Damien Dreadfire, but not one contained any image of Azrael. It was in this moment that he realized that although he was the son of the Warlord, he had not done anything overly significant in his life to earn him a place in history. Sure he had achieved victory in Kahanistan, and would probably receive his own tapestry for that, but it would be just one.

Azrael felt dejected as he turned away from the wall of history and made his way to the bell tower. There he would clear his head and try to focus on the war with The Kraven Corporation, where he would be assisting Lord Dreadfire in reinforcing the armies of Vidimir Breathstealer. As he reached the highest point of the cathedral he overlooked the ULE Valley below in awe. The foot of the church stood almost a thousand feet from the base of the mountain, and the church itself was several hundred feet tall....quite a view.

He thought to himself, if I am to one day rule this nation, I cannot live in the shadow of my father.

But then it came to him. The 406th Legion of the Fallen had been permanently placed under his command, and they had already gained quite a reputation for themselves. If he could take the 406th and himself to heights never before seen, he would surely be a worthy candidate for the throne of Automagfreek. As Azrael made his way back down to the church floor, he decided what his first course of action would be. After the war with The Kraven Corporation, he would leave ULE City and spend a few years in the south at the camp of the Fallen. He would become a wildman, just like the troops he commands.

But first he had a few stops to make......

Azrael took one last look around before he left Dawn's Cathedral, a cloudless sky allowing the star and moonlight to guide him back down to the valley below. The cold wind blew at the young Warchief and caused him to clench his arms tightly to preserve body heat, and he cursed himself for not bringing a hat. The snow was beginning to fall across ULE City, and the white flakes of winter began to stick to his grizzled face and hair. It had been awhile since he had shaved, and he had developed a healthy layer of beard growth...just the thing if he wanted to fit in with the wildmen.

Azrael decided that instead of going off to bed he would board his private jet before the storm could get worse, and he would fly to the southern camps where the Fallen were birthed and trained. The small plane screamed off the tarmac and escaped the ULE Valley before the full brunt of the storm began to pummel the capitol, and Azrael curled up in his seat and soon drifted into slumber.

He was awakened a few hours later, having arrived at the Nuellsville National Airport. A private convoy of military vehicles awaited his arrival, and as he shook of his sleepiness he set off for the remote community of the Fallen. A small forest shielded the city that the Fallen called home, so secret that it did not have a name, but was known by the AMF military as Area 66.

The Fallen that were on night maneuvers looked on with curiosity as the convoy turned onto the main road after passing through several well guarded checkpoints. However, they would not find out what was going on until morning, for Azrael was still quite tired and required at least another few hours of rest.

In the morning it was announced that Azrael the Advocate had arrived at Area 66. Several thousand of the Fallen that aged from their late teens to mid twenties showed up, while the younger ones were busy with their daily schooling and training. The older Fallen stood out from the rest, their untrimmed beards and hair seperating them from their younger teenage counterparts, and they in turn maintained a much higher level of respect. The younger Fallen whispered amongst themselves and snickered from time to time, until of course the older ones forcibly put them back in line.

It was known among the elders in the group that Azrael commanded the very first legion of Fallen to see combat, the 406th. They looked on curiously as the Warchief began to tour the camp, where it was announced he would be staying for some time.

I thought he would have been older....

Much shorter than I imagined....

THIS is the 'great' Azrael? HA!

Various comments were overheard by the Warchief as he made his way around the camp, and he quickly came to the realization that he could not just come into this place and be hailed as a superior....he would have to prove to these men that he was the real deal.

The settlement was as large as any major AMF city, though it looked like it came straight out of the Dark Ages. Campfires burned randomly throughout the portions of the camp dedicated to military training, and in the residential areas women toiled about as the children attended their daily lessons. Azrael was most interested in the sheer atmosphere of the place, a lingering sense of hatred that was masked by a devotion to honor.

He watched intently as the older Fallen were being given their lessons on combat underneath a large oak tree, with the topic for the day being beach landings. You see class, to execute a proper beach landing, you must charge headlong into the fire with great ferocity, and you must not give the enemy a single second to gather themselves. Only through sheer numbers and force can you break their lines.

As Azrael watched the professor scribbled on a chalkboard and instructed his pupils on how to execute a proper landing, he chuckled after the teacher had finished. Everyone fell silent and turned towards Azrael, glaring at him with evil intentions. The teacher scoffed and challenged him, questioning his knowledge of warfare before his students.

I'm afraid you have it all wrong. Azrael cleared his throat and held back a laugh as he approached the head of the class. Diving into a hail of gunfire won't win you the day necessarily. What it will do will create a shitload of casualties and probably compromise your landing zone.

How do you know, why should we listen to you? Shouted a random voice from the body of students.

Azrael fell silent for a second, scanning the masses in front of him and removing his shirt. He pointed to the numerous sword wounds and bullet holes that had long since healed, a sign of his experience in combat. Because I have lead numerous charges, I have taken hundreds of thousands of Sentinels into the heat of battle, and more recently I have take your brethren in the 406th Legion into war as well. At first they did not fare so well, foolishly having listened to these inane lessons by those that have not even seen a real battle.

Azrael glared at the teacher and began pacing around the class and the large oak tree, his eyes drifting back to times and places that only he would remember. I remember it well, the first time I took the Fallen into battle. They were clumsy...foolish....and many of them died for no reason. You see class, there is no honor in death. Honor lies in sending the heathen bastards of the enemy army to their deaths. You have to be smart, you have to stay 10 steps ahead of your foe at all times. You must utilize the terrain well, and manage and employ ALL of your given resources.

Even the professor looked on with interest, and over the next few hours Azrael had shown them everything he knew about combat and warfare in general. Gradually more Fallen gathered around the hear what he had to say, and soon the High Eldars of the Fallen tribes had summoned Azrael to their private chambers.

The large structure had been cut into the side of a large grassy hill that was surrounded by a ten foot fence, made from the finest of black obsidian. Azrael entered the chamber and nodded his head respectively at the Fallen eldars, who returned the gesture only because he was the son of their Warlord, Damien Dreadfire.

You play a dangerous game here, son of Dreadfire. You expect to come into our homes, our communities an just...take over? I'm afraid you have to earn your respect around here, and spouting off like you're the Warlord himself will not get you very far. I do not care who you are or what title you carry....

Azrael cut off the Eldar, raising his hand and shouting over him with a stiff Silence! He drew the Panteran blade that had been given to him many ages ago and pointed towards the largest and strongest looking Fallen in the room. Let's go, you and me....outside.

He burst through the doors and into the clearing outside the hillside chamber. He removed his cape and shirt, as well as any other accessories he carried on him. First blood, from the torso. The large, burly Fallen had taken up a large and jagged broadsword, wheeling it over his head as he too removed his shirt and prepared for battle.

Azrael held his sword in a high guard, his feet sidestepping eachother as he circled his opponent. The large Fallen roared loudly before charging Azrael, the large broadsword cleaving the air and coming straight for the head of the Warchief. Azrael merely sidestepped the attack and watched the blade plant itself into the soil, and as he watched this foe struggle he gracefully swung his sword down low. Azrael's blade broke the first few layers of skin on the leg of the Fallen, causing him to go into a bloodied frenzy.

A large crowd had gathered around to watch the battle, comprised of men, women, children, and the Eldars themselves. They cheered on their brethren and taunted Azrael, mocking him and making obscene gestrues towards him.

After removing the sword from the ground he began to swing laterally at Azrael, the Warchief responding by parrying each advance. A mighty jab was thrust towards the chest of Azrael, and he reacted by blocking with the midsection of the blade and sliding both swords down the the handguards. A stiff elbow connected with the face of the Fallen, sending him reeling backwards while trying to swing in desperation. Azrael ducked the attack and delivered a diving kick towards the knee of his opponent, sending the two crashing to the ground in a heap. The Warchief kipped up onto his feet and simply let his blade drift across the chest of the Fallen, a red streatk of blood oozing up from the wound.

He flicked his blade into the air and allowed the blood to fly off before returning it to its scabbard. Azrael bowed towards his foe and took up his shirt and cape before starting off towards his designated quarters in the encampment. The bewildered Fallen looked around in disbelief as well as those in the crowd, for the largest and most powerful of their kind had been defeated by a Freek of seemingly average build. Azrael had proven his skills in single combat that day, bu the Fallen were still reluctant to accept him.