The not-so-depths of Zynozure...

There were some minor impediments in coming here.

The guardians were somewhat forgivable. They’d have killed him in a heartbeat, of course, and their families had probably served their master for generations. He could spare them mercy, even if it would not be reciprocated, while fighting them here, while they did their duty. They had the whiff of readiness to do evil if commanded about them, but they had not truly fallen to the dark yet.

The Summoned beasts and the Constructs, now, those he killed. Those were just money, and could be replaced. The bound Daemons were meant to expend their lives; the animated steel serpents, lumbering golems of iron and stone, and living meat grinder were all interesting in their own way, and reduced to scrap metal and consumed wisps behind his advance.

He was also not polite to the traps, both mechanical and magical. The bolt throwers in the walls, the falling ceilings, the closing walls, the yawning pits, the exploding Runes, Symbols, Sigils, and Glyphs... yes, he broke all of them, shattering the stone facades if need be to get at the mechanisms behind. It was easier than having to deal with them again if he needed to return this way.

But at last he stood before a towering door of bronze and iron, wrought with complicated seals and hieroglyphs that narrowed his eyes as he deciphered the story they told.

“I am Heavenbound. I have come to seek a word with the Elder!” he called out respectfully... in the celestial tongue of the Higher Spheres.

His voice rang out and echoed for a good ten seconds. There was no way the being beyond could fail to hear him, and if he must sunder these doors down to pass through, well, those traps had been a significant investment. The price of replacing these doors certainly wasn’t going to stop him.

The minutes dragged by, and the quiet music behind his ear grew grim. He was just about to step forward when he heard a clang, and then a rasp of moving metal. Bars shifted, tumblers spun, locks disengaged, and with a low, heavy creak, one of the looming doors before him opened up.

He was Heavenbound, and he had no fear. Without hesitation or overthinking things, he stepped forwards, and passed beyond them.

The room beyond was gloomy, but it was still possible to see. It was a throne room of sorts, wide enough for at least a hundred chairs, but currently only sporting twenty or so, drawn up in an arc before what looked like an altar, but was actually a meditation stand. The lighting was dim and magical, not natural, enough to create unease about what was to the sides, watching there... but such sight held no secrets for him, as he marked the passages there, and the things that existed within them and retreated at the flash of his silver eyes.

Shades, he thought, but kept his face expressionless.

It was not Evil that lurked in the air, but bitterness and resentment, enough to twist a noble soul to darker ways as it brooded here, wrapped in old stone torn from the depths of the world, where the light never shone.

As he stepped closer to the altar, walking down the middle of the room, the occupant seemed to materialize, a trick of the light, becoming more solid and real as he advanced, based on his distance from the stone. He did not slow his steps, merely acknowledging the change as he advanced, until he stood before the dais, not ten feet away, and came to a halt.

One of the Mortai, he judged, by the pale skin, size of the closed eyes, spindly limbs and narrow frame. Of course, the angelic wings were burned away, reduced to shadowy images of bones, and the pearly white skin was more pearl than white, with gray and shadows running through it that once were suppressed by the celestial energies running through him. Now those shadows gathered, teasing at the corner of the eye, and the Heavenly powers had lost their light and life.

An Angelus Excorciate, a Fallen Angel, removed from Heaven for beliefs and practices that ran counter to the Will of Heaven.

The Mortai roved the Astral Plane, the realm transited by souls on their way to the Afterlife. There were many such psychopomps from different powers, escorting the souls of their gods to their realms, and ensuring a safe and proper transit.

And, of course, there were thieves, trying to steal souls and deny the power they represented to their gods, or simply interrupt their afterlife of reward and bliss with torment.

As such, the Mortai were among the finest warriors of the first tier of Angels, the most likely to be promoted to Warlord status as planetars.

Somewhere along the way, something had happened, and this angel had Fallen. The ways that could happen were as endless and inventive as the other Powers could make them, be it the Neutrals or the Dark powers. The moral and ethical conflicts of the living were the very anchor of creation in the Afterlife, so these beliefs fomented wars unending between the various entities and Divinities that dwelt in the Hereafter.

A crushing event, a failure in duty, a defeat, a dark enlightenment, simple fatigue, a cascading failure of belief, a corrupting item of dark magic, treachery, betrayal, losses of those cared for... there were many, many ways for the Good to fall, for it was the hardest path to cling to. Losing that moral strength was catastrophic, yet so simple, exchanging the right way for the pragmatic way, the easy way, and the greatest good for the personal good and personal benefits...

Yes, all too easy to fall. That Angels could persevere in their duties for years uncounted, defying so many ways to fall with defiant belief, faith, and the support of their own, was the foundation of the strength of Heaven.

But still, some faltered on the way, and lo, did the forces of darkness crow in triumph when such a thing happened, as if their own failure to reach that height somehow made their reveling in the swill of sin more grandiose for the Fall of an Angel.

The Climb to Heaven was so much harder than the Fall. As if the Fall could ever be a great triumph, instead of the great tragedy it was.

The Angelus opened his large eyes. They were pupilless, great milky things of starlight and moonshine, yet shadows lurking behind the quiet light there, fog in the depths of ancient wisdom. “Why is a Heavenbound here?” the Angelus asked in the tongue of mortals, giving the impression that it would not deign to reply in the tongue of Heaven, who had cast him out.

“Well, I think the main reason I am here is that a Void Brother is not,” Errant replied honestly.

The hairless skull came up at that, as he knew it might. The Void Brothers were beings that even Angels were wary of, as they were perfectly willing and capable of sending off Angels who crossed their bounds on the mortal planes, even be it in the service of Good.

“So, one of the mortal world’s slayers knew I was here? Which, if I may ask?”

“Oh, I have the impression that all of them knew you were here, after I spoke with them. But you kept your nose clean and below their eyes, so they had other stuff to do. As for the most recent, that would have been the Light and the Scepter coming through. You must have been very careful to keep worship out of your cult, or I imagine you would have been expunged.” Brother Lightscepter was actually an unwanted servant of the gods, eliminating false faiths, untrue gods, fake prophets, and those beings who emulated them. Since it was a common tactic of many Powers to set up fake churches, lure in believers with false teachings, and slowly convert them, Lightscepter wasn’t much liked by the non-Good Churches, and with the typical Void Brother attitude of eliminating any threat and going on to the next without explanation, had strained relations even with the Good Churches.

The fact he had prevented many of their faithful from being seduced by false gods, and had purged their own hierarchies of the faithless and infiltrators, mitigated that somewhat.

“My following is a philosophy, not a religion,” the Angelus scoffed slightly, eyes swirling with disdain.

“Philosophies are religions with fewer buildings and trappings,” Errant replied easily. “The Hereafter is based on beliefs, and Philosophies are beliefs. He simply did not judge yours False,” Errant corrected the Angelus, having found Brother Lightscepter rather admirable to speak with. After all, the Void Brotherhood was basically a Philosophy, too...

The Angelus made a dismissive gesture with his narrow chin. “As you say. Why have you come then, Heavenbound? Have you come to deliver Heaven’s Wrath here, in the darkness I have been sentenced to?”

Errant tilted his head, listening to the music behind his ear, and could see the Angelus tense up as he recognized it. “No, which surprises me. I expected to see something much worse when I came here. Lightscepter, after all, will let an Evil Faith grow, so long as it is true. But there is none of that here as yet, so I think I was sent here merely to check up on you. Heaven, after all, Hopes for your return.”

A mélange of emotions rippled across that composed face, with anger, desire, resentment, and melancholy being only the most obvious. “Is that all?” the Angelus asked neutrally.

“No. I’m here to see how much involvement you are going to have in the apocalypse which is about to befall the Empire. I see that you have not yet warned your followers about it.”

Now the Angelus tensed, his eyes flaring with shadows. “Where did you hear of this?” he demanded coldly.

Errant’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you do know of it. The Brotherhood has known of it for some time, and they deigned to share that knowledge with Heaven. You have acted in this event to come.”

The Angelus glared at him. “I have. What of it? Are you going to judge me now?” He smiled thinly, as if confident of something, and Errant could feel stirrings from many places in the shadows outside this room.

“I leave you with an old saying.” Errant stepped back and bowed slightly, startling the defiant Angelus. “When the world is ending, and evil comes; when darkness falls, and the dead beat drums; where fear dwells fast and terror screams, and nightmares walk from ancient dreams... Where better a place for an Angel to appear?”

There was an astounded look on the Angelus’ face as Errant turned away and marched out the door. Many silent eyes watched him from the shadows... which roiled behind him, ready to strike, but did not...

----------

The Warlock spit out black blood, trying to ignore the writhing under his clothes, gasping as he completed yet another of the ceremonies he was compelled to perform.

He’d stopped bothering to count how many he had done over the years, but the where... he could never forget. They were all on his lived-line, glowing black and hollow like an anti-star, ready to be returned to and the reaping take place.

Waiting for him, his masters, and their hunger.

Memphistopheles cursed and swore to himself, but it didn’t matter, he did what he had to do. The power from Outside Creation rippled through him, changing him bit by bit into something else, something more able to deal with this energy and power. If it lasted long enough, he would no longer be human, and moreso, he would no longer care that he was not human.

He shook as he suddenly realized where the Mazakeem all came from, why they offered Pacts to humanity at all, and where their hunger derived from. The power had elevated them and damned them. They had become something that required that very power to exist, and could no longer dwell within Creation...

And that would be his fate as well, if he couldn’t do something about it!

He gnashed his teeth, but there was nothing he could do for now. Soon, soon, the stars would be right for a true feast for his masters, and once they were done and sated, they would be finished with him for a time, and he could make plans.

He would be free of this power, this Pact, this CURSE! He could faintly hear his masters laughing at his thoughts, as if giving up their power was possible, and he bent to his work once again, cursing them all and their alien drives and desires as he did so...