Walking stridently over the battlefield, Gadreel spies his men watching him from the damp gully they shelter in. The mud walls of their trench are loose with last night’s rain and this morning’s blood. Its borders are no longer even or upright, sagging into the bottom, making their shelter increasingly insecure. Quietly they pray that this war is almost over, so they squat there in the mud holding their spears. Little more than sticks painted red, they play at mimicking the great nameless weapon that the Angel carries.

Beyond the pitch of mud and corpses in another hole, more men wait. His enemy, the army of the faithless, crouches in anticipation. They had taken many of his men’s lives as they waited for him.

A thick fog lay across the span, hiding Gadreels movements from the unsuspecting men. Had they known that he was on his way to reinforce the battle, there was little chance they would have attempted an attack. He was invincible.

Gadreel rises above his tattered compatriots; his spear whistling in the atmosphere as it sways. He grips the shaft in one hand while he traces a sigil in the air with the other. A sign of blessings. The men gawk upwards at him murmuring as they return the hand sign. They will not have to hold the faith for much longer, this battle is almost complete.

Turning to face the enemy, Gadreel charges. His goal is to decimate them as quickly as possible, allowing his men to take the remainder as captives. With their will broken, no one else will have to die.

Through the fog, Gadreel hears a shout. Commands being called. All around him, arrows whistle and fall. Colliding with his head and chest, snap against his armored skin. He lowers his eyes, letting the rimmed carapace above his head shield him from the incoming blows. Waiting for the volley to end, he spots a single arrow lodged in a gap in his shoulder. Its tip is stuck painlessly in the gap between two chitinous plates.

Dislodging the stuck arrow, he rolls it between his fingers. Straight and true. It’s no wonder his men had lost their last battle. This enemy was capable and well armed.

Emerging through the fog, Gadreel saw the men who stood against him. At the sight of his approach, they began to back up but it was too late. A single sweeping arc cut through seven men and left an opening for the Angel to charge through their ranks. Coming up no higher than his kneecaps, he had no trouble trampling through the opposing army. He sought their commander. A man on horseback brandishing a steel sword called out.

“Attack! Attack! Attack!”

More arrows pelted Gadreel as he reared back to strike, his body composed and taught. Men stabbed at his chest and belly with their spears. Swords hacked at his legs. He loosed the spear at the commander, hurling it across the battlefield at him with full force.

Striking the man center mass, the man’s body parted in every direction at once. The back half of his horse exploded as the spear’s shaft embedded itself in the ground right behind where it once stood. Nearby men were knocked to the ground by a shockwave of mud and viscera. They stood and righted themselves, readying themselves.

The army of the faithless rose all around Gadreel, choosing to die rather than relent to the Angel’s will.