|Dead Moon Rising
||[Oct. 26th, 2006|05:36 am]
From a distance, he could be mistaken for a gargoyle, perched upon the rooftop of one of the old buildings the Historical Society had preserved, probably a bank. The darkness of the new moon carved out a silhouette of inhuman proportions, a hulking mass with the arc of wings curving out behind, he seems straight from some long-forgotten mythology, a relic of ages long dead. As one draws nearer, however, you can see his eyes, a pair of golden pinpricks in the night, growing larger as you approach, until finally, you can make out what appears to be a pair of noonday suns floating on the clear blue background of his eyes. What is this mystic being perched above the city, silently watching all that transpires below? Is he merely an observer, or perhaps a guardian? Or as is more likely in this hole of a town, is he some new type of predator, disguising himself as an agent of Divine purpose like a praying mantis disguises itself as just another part of the foliage?|
A shiver runs through the air, not a physically cold one, but chilling nonetheless. Something foul is nearby, something unnaturally evil, and surprisingly, it is not emanating from this mythic being, but rather from the city streets below, or possibly below them. Soon a foul odor arises, the sickly sweet smell of decay and rot, with the underlying scents of wormwood and the coppery smell of fresh blood. Within moments, a crack of speed into the air, the sentinel takes flight, soaring in circles over the alleyways, searching with those strange eyes of his, probing the darkness for any sign of what that evil odor might herald.
There, below in one of the backalleys, there is a man wearing nothing but a loincloth in the chill night air, pale skin, covered in tattoos, hair dredlocked and several feet long, fetish bracelets and necklaces adorning him like a holiday festivity, which for him it very well may be... and behind him, an entourage of shambling, rotting men and women, even one small boy, all decaying as they walked with their master, a vanguard of unholy corpses forced to serve evil, for eternity.
Like a hawk diving down upon a dove, the Angel sweeps down into the midst of the small gathering of walking dead, dropping like a stone into their ranks and swinging an enormous hammer in two hands in a wide arc, shattering the brittle skulls of seven zombies before a single one could register his presence. As they all turned their dumbfounded, maleficent glares his way, he shifted his feet and made a backswing, his hammer now glowing brightly with a white electricity that arced out and caught four of the abominations, blasting them apart even as the head of the hammer smashed another three into helpless tatters with one mighty swing.
It was then that they fell upon him, their clammy hands clawing at his flesh, the small boy gnashing at his thigh, a woman straining to reach his neck, trying to pull herself up by his shoulder, one half of a man clawing at his calf, all of them crowding him, smothering him, dragging him down into the earth, slimy flesh coating him in fluids unspeakable in name or consistency....
As the Vouduan priest whirled and saw the full devastation of the Angel's silent wrath, he grinned evilly at the bound paladin's plight. As the Angel struggled, the sunlight beams of his eyes darkened into dusk, and then into a black, moonless and starless night, his struggles ceasing as the demons of his past swallowed up the present, sending him back through the infinite reach of his own horror, to the battle that came before... when he lost everything...