Act 2: An Angel Burns

By ArtistsEmpire on Twitter

It was said that within an hour of its arrival, the angel had found himself in the tallest tower in Vasaria. Not one of the high lords had batted an eye to the public in years; they hadn’t heard their riots, taken notes to their hunger strikes, murders or suicides. But the second an angel had stepped from heaven, they’d drop to their knees and confessed themselves clean.

                He’d returned to the city streets the next say wearing their seals. Some considered rioting, but that idea was instantly quelled by the people’s church; after all, a god had fallen from the skies and had declared the high lords holy—who were the public to ever question them, if they were chosen by the divine? In fact, it was becoming increasingly customary now to repent for one’s lack of faith in their aristocrats. Every sinner who’d ever said a bad word against the high lords was quickly realising themselves a sinner.

                Renn had realised himself a sinner, too; on the surface, his worship was boundless, and the surface was all that mattered. He cared deeply for his granddaughter, even during his sickness. And as he watched outside each night, as the Queensguard grew in number, the weight of his sin grew heavier on him, even taking the forms of physical reminders, too. Clockwork cherubim had begun nesting in the spires after the storm, joining the side of whomever the angel declared holy, delivering incense and healing to those who could already afford it. Renn felt their prying eyes on him every moment of the day, every moment he spent outside of his home. he tried in earnest to start stockpiling supplies for Poppy, but he could no longer get in contact with Olivia, nor any of the local covens. It seemed as if the weight of sin was bearing down equally on everyone.

                Not longer after, he discovered why.

                He took Poppy to mass, congregating with a thousand others around one of the city’s twin-tailed comet shrines to lay wreaths and rosary beads and light candles. They quickly began to figure that the fountains down from the shrine must’ve dried up; where holy water had once flowed, there was now only mulch. So, through the dark of the day, Renn and Poppy scurried to the fountains.

He shielded her eyes. They were desecrated. And atop each of them, there was a man or wooden fastened to the length of a wooden stake, eyes-wide and yelling.

Renn forced Poppy away, instinctively running towards one of the chained women—he recognised her as Olivia immediately. He clawed deep into the shackles, but it was no use; his brittle nails just splintered with every scrape.

And when he turned back to Poppy, he found her not alone anymore. Instead, there was a golden glow emanating from beside her.

The angel had joined them.

Renn fell to his knees, spluttering, ‘Child of Sigmar!’ He was crying. ‘I implore you! Please spare these people.’

The faceless face of the angel considered him for a moment before turning back to Poppy.

‘Do you believe in magic, child?’ it asked, armour glistening.

‘Listen to me!’ Renn began again, but the angel shifted its gaze back, and the old man felt his bones turn to confetti. Something in its stare was forcing his mouth shut. He could only watch as it turned back to his granddaughter.

‘Do you?’

She nodded, briskly.

           ‘Many are potent in harnessing the magic of the realms,’ it stated. ‘Many of Sigmar’s children, such as myself, have a little influence over its ebb and flow. But magical thinking—it comes at great cost, you see.’

            ‘How much money?’ Poppy asked. The screams from the fountains were slowly becoming background noise.

            ‘Not in coins or gold,’ the angel explained. ‘But in soul. Magic, performed dangerously, can curse a town, haunt a soul. Many of the mages in the towers up above us are responsible with their arcane knowledge.’ It shifted its gaze back to the fountains. ‘Others, not so much. Men like those believe they can cast spells, grow crops, serve justice—all without repercussion. They believe they can attain something for nothing. That is not the way of the realms. Their way of magical thinking sends out a beacon to foul, terrible things. We cannot let it get inside our heads; it will make them lazy, sluggish, open to invasion. Your city must not refuse fortitude, as these men did.’

            Renn tried to call again. It was no use as the angel turned, brushed past him and strode over to the fountains. From its hands, there appeared a basket of incense, and from it, an ethereal, orange flame began burning. The chained witches screamed.

            ‘You let yourselves go,’ the angel hummed gently before casting the brazier down to the feet of the stakes. The flame caught quickly, rising to consume their toes, chests, and then their heads until all that was left were a row of screaming skeletons.

             Renn couldn’t see, of course; the angel’s oppressive influence had forced his back on the scene. Instead, he could only watch as it unfolded in the flickering, amber eyes of his granddaughter.

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