I remember seeing the wretch amidst his powerful descent from the Heavens as I was on my own winged path, and I heard his cries of frustration as he fell:
“You bastard! I’ll show you, I’ll SHOW YOU ALL!”
And yet, my first thought wasn’t “Oh, no, an angel hath lost his wings!”, no, rather, it was “My, here is a falling angel, refuted for his sins, and yet, his first cry from his lungs is one borne of pride? Dear, he flatters me.”
I watched him lovingly for a time, and learned of his nature, and his past along with it…
Within the expanse far above the reaches of humanity were lands of miraculous splendor, those of which we could never reach in our mortal lives. This was a land of divine nature; all souls who traipsed upon the grasses of these heavens were finally put at ease. The scents which filled the air were inexplicable save one phrase: the essence of purity; Heaven.
Now, just below Heaven was another, lesser, plane of existence.
While it has no earthly name one could pronounce, it has been known by the moniker Tirocinium by the last generation. This was a divine plane, of course, but it was not one without imperfections, as was the place above it. It was an intermediate land, something of a bridge, betwixt the lower planes and the gates of Heaven. Here is where a delegation of angelic beings with different occupations helped train up further angels for Heaven’s armies and the Almighty’s will. The apprentices came from all over the realms, approached with the opportunity to ‘enlist’ for a set time, until they would then retire back to the realm the individual hailed from. There were several unique jobs within the Tirocinium, however, majority can be categorized into Five main types of angels:
Mormorii, whose lightning steps and quick wit provided perfected communication amongst all the residents of Tirocinium. They also delivered light messages to peoples of realms, acting as a sort of conscious. They held a visage of resplendent white skin with golden veins that ran across their bodies, like rivers on a cartographer’s table. They were also the only angels with shimmering, halcyon-colored airfoils.
Harbingers, whom attended to matters across realms as well, usually as heralds or prophets, however, they brought forth far greater news. Some would prophesize the doom of a nation to the simple person, whom, would eventually become king. Some would tell of a bounding fortune which will fall upon a family lineage for years to come. Because of their widespread significance, they were the only angel whose namesake was written in that of a common language. Suffice it to say, when a Harbinger visits, it is best to pay attention, for fate speaks greatly.
The Harbingers had a wide range of appearances, some had a great many winged appendages, others withheld floating eyes around them, or some might have a glowing aura of radiance wherever they went. Some say the proximity of a Harbinger could have the most blissful of effects wash over you, while others say one could feel the most bone-chilling experiences of dread as well. They held the most intimidating presence of the angels, and yet, paradoxically, they were also the most peaceful, at least, to those pure of heart.
Sapientone, caretakers of the land whom concern themselves with the legalities of the Tirocinium. Legend says that the Sapientone could see the future, however, the speculation was never confirmed. They alone had the power to banish or permit individuals to and from the Tirocinium. The other side of the position was the considerations of evil. The Sapientone would weigh the weight of evil and decide what should be done about such matters.
Their orders would be carried out by whichever angel type was deemed necessary, however, curiously, the Sapientone had a habit of preferring to let mortals of any realm defeat their trials on their own. This was not a matter of laziness or contempt, but rather, they wanted the mortals to better themselves and sharpen thine own iron. This did not mean they would not involve themselves, but rather they considered how much involvement would be needed. Each was decorated with a halo which floated behind their head, along with robes of divine splendor.
Vigils, purveyors of all the realms, watching down on them from above. They were blessed with a gift titled the Eh’nain L’loheths, Loheths for short, or the gift of True Sight. The Loheths was a gift regarded rather highly by all, as the eyes of these individuals could peruse upon everything within the conceivable universe, and perhaps beyond. They stood vigilant at different posts throughout the heavens, separating their labor into shifts and sections. Should their gaze chance upon any sinful natures, it was reported to the Sapientone by means of a Mormorio.
Distruttor, wardens of the realm. They wielded impressive weaponry of divine power and were powerful knights for the Kingdom, however, each Distruttor was instructed to only act when called upon by the Sapientone. Their job was to defeat any evil that was deemed worthy of termination. Each also possessed a grand ability to transform a terrain into a sacred grounds. In the sacred grounds, nothing which happened within could effect the real world outside the field. They were adorned with halos which hovered around their heads over their eyes, abstaining them from tarnishing themselves with the very viewing of the evil that they face so often.
There were several renowned angels which made their namesake in legend with terrifyingly impressive feats. One of these was Gabriel, the Watcher. A profound Vigil whom spent years mastering the Loheths, it was told that Gabriel could see any and all if he only just willed to. His visage was divine and almost inexplicable, but many certainly attempt to describe with words his intimidating appearance. He wore cloths of white purity which draped down his body like a blanket of righteousness. His skin was a smooth surface which was simultaneously avian and terrarian, with both feathers and muscles.
Out from his back sprouted three sets of two enormous wings which spread to the length of several feet long. His face, however, was his most prominent feature. There was none of the usual recognitions of typical humanity, no, instead there was a maw of cosmos, everchanging and evershifting. The beauty always displayed the wonders of what he gazed upon, and those lucky enough to be within his presence admired the glory which waxed, waned, and spiraled across his face.
With the legendary lore behind him, he held much status amongst the angels and apprentices of the Tirocinium. One such day, Gabriel was assigned an apprentice which had the tendency to sign his moniker as such a ‘Scaramouche’, taking inspiration from operatic sources. His story is one that was formed through a severe curve of life, sin, pride, and redemption. His story is one of finding oneself and following the set path one is guided along. His story also features numerous acts of supernatural badassery, the prat.
Here is the tale of Scaramouche, the Select Gaze of Gabriel.
ACT 1: A GENESIS, OF SORTS
Atop a great hill rested a grand spire, one which could view upon the galaxies far across the span of our knowledge from the parapets at the top. Gabriel stood out on his royal extension of a balcony, peering upward, looking upon whatever world was on his mind at the moment. His face showed a galactic pattern of gold and white; he was simply admiring the Tirocinium at the moment. As he watched in peace, he gave a deep sigh, one which held an almost eerie reverb, yet the sound itself could not be mistaken for anything but utter contentment and appreciation. With a busy occupation he held, sometimes it was quite enjoyable to use his gift to gaze upon the splendor he lived in. And yet, his break was only momentarily given.
The towering entrance doors to the outlook were pushed open with a careless force, and out from them sauntered an angel noticeably smaller than Gabriel. His hair lengthy and hazelnut brown seemed to be floating as if underwater, yet he walked among the ground and the effect persisted. His skin was a like a very–very–sweetened cup of coffee. He wore a silk set of clothing that gently, but firmly, wrapped themselves around the angel’s body; a flowing, espresso-colored cardigan, and underneath, a short-sleeved, offwhite, loose, button-up shirt, which was then tucked, albeit unneatly, into a lighter brown set of slacks, followed by a pair of incandescent white sneakers.
On the side of the right shoe bore a golden inscription of numbers which read: 23.52.7. Floating above his head was a beautiful halo, shimmering in radiance, and from his back sprouted two medium-sized wings. His eyes glowed a bright white of deep space filled with the occasional gold sparkles of stars. As he stepped forth, he let the door slam with a resounding crash behind him. Gabriel sighed once more, this time less peacefully and more constrained, as his head dipped down slightly. He addressed the angel.
“Hello Scaramouche. Why doth your presence always come with such chaos?”
Scaramouche replied, aloof.
“Ah, my mistake, Gabriel. I know not my own strength on occasion.”
“Right…”
Gabriel shifted his face from Scaramouche back towards the sky, and his maw reflecting the Tirocinium in a flying point of view, soaring over a series of enormous, fleece-like clouds, a golden haze over it all as the sun shone through them. Scaramouche looked around impatiently, as he was hoping to speak to Gabriel about a matter that was most pressing. To him, that is.
“Yeah…so, uh, Gabriel, I have a question which plagues my innermost thoughts.”
Gabriel’s shoulders shrugged as a shiver went through his body, as he shook away his disgruntlement. Apprenticeship was a matter of patience and grace; it would be good for Gabriel to practice these ideals more rigorously. Saying a silent prayer of repentance, and for peace, he turned to Scaramouche.
“Yes, yes, my son. What is it?”
“Hear me; I mean not any offense by my words. I only seek clarity through my interrogations.”
“Of course, I shall not seek any quarrel with your qualms. I only wish to assist in finding the cure for what ails your mind.”
“Thank you, sir. My question is this: why do we watch? Why is it important?”
Gabriel stared for a moment, only slightly taken aback, as they had been together as master and apprentice for quite some time now, before slowly relaxing his stance into a lax pose of relatability, leaning against the marbled guard rails. A lax pose in his eyes, however. To Scaramouche’s, it looked rather stiff, yet he appreciated the consideration. Gabriel spoke.
“Well, sir, we watch as a form of protection. An Overseer’s job is to observe our people to make sure they are safe. As a shepherd watches over his sheep, so the Vigil watch over all of the realms. And in your case of being my apprentice, you are the very apple of my eye; the one whom I watch most. You are my gaze, Scaramouche. A prism of glory in which I shine a beacon through always, in hopes that one day, you might purvey all else with the lenses of beauty which I hold.”
Scaramouche, with a few flaps of his wings gave a large leap, and landed, sitting on the railing beside Gabriel. More comfortable both physically, sitting beside, and socially, Gabriel seemingly more agreeable, Scaramouche indulged Gabriel in his thoughts, although ignoring his last sentiments.
“Ah, but see, what if a sheep is attacked by a bear? Sir, I have seen it happen before, and I looked down; behold; a sheep whom was slaughtered by a predatory creature as there was no help nearby for the sheep.”
“Surely, ‘tis most sorrowing of an event to take place. However, if thee were to watch intently, would thouest not see the bear stalking the sheep far before it decided to hunt?”
“And what of it? Oncemore, I have floor seats to an execution!”
“No, surely not, my son. When you see the bear, you ask those wiser than you or me what to do of it. Yes, you want to protect the sheep, but, and I implore you to try to understand, we may not know the complexities of an action’s consequences.”
“Regardless, I would prefer not to watch, as such a lazy shepherd, as my sheep are hunted to none.”
As this conversation proceeded, tensions were heightening, and Gabriel was rather frustrated with Scaramouche’s disrespect.
“I inquire of you then, wise one, what would you do then in the case of the sheep and the bear?”
“As a worthy shepherd, I would dive down quickly, landing in front of my sheep, facing the bear head-on. With such divinity as I, it would be trivial to best the bear in combat; and it would be so. Finally, I would return the sheep back to its flock, and only then, would I resume my post in watching over them, as is requested of me.”
Gabriel’s head hung low as he listened, stressed. His right hand scratched the feathers on his head, as he figured out a way to convey certain wisdoms to his apprentice.
“Ah, but my son. We do not watch only sheep.”
“You think my intelligence so low I cannot understand metaphorical concepts?”
Gabriel launched into a lecture of frustration and wisdom.
— “No, Scaramouche. Your pride shines such it pains to be in your presence! Hear me, my son. If such sheep were to always be swept away by a glorious hero whenever danger is near, pray tell, do you think they would be mindful of the danger in its entirety? No, instead they would boast loudly in front of the bear, saying, ‘You are a bear of lacklustre, I fear you not.” and resume their feast of grass. Now, does that behavior produce a sheep of steadfastness and greatness? No! It produces a lazy, prideful sheep that does nothing but eat for all its days.
See, sometimes it is better to let a sheep stand up to a bear, so that the sheep can grow stronger and more righteous, and we only interfere when the sheep surely cannot survive the bear’s aggressive antics. Do you understand, my son? To watch is to tend to something and help it grow to its best self along the trials of life. It is a privilege to be involved so directly in so many lives and watch them come to fruition. Do you understand, Scaramouche? I hope you do not think my words are out of spite, but out of love. You will be a great angel and serve the kingdom in glorious ways, yet I fear for you prideful nature. But my fears are out of love, my son. Please, try to be better, as I wish the best for you especially!” —
Except Gabriel said none of this.
ACT TWO: THE TEST
“You think my intelligence so low I cannot understand metaphorical concepts?”
“No, Scaramouche. Your pride shines such it pains to be in your presence! Hear me, my son—”
His words were interrupted by a sharp, whistling sound which grew in volume very quickly. Gabriel stood upright off of the leaning prose he held before and looked over the kingdom from the spire, searching for the source of the noise. Gabriel did not have a challenge in his search, as he saw a gold, glowing trail soar with immense speed across the lands. As it neared, its appearance was shown as that of a great fish, swimming rapidly through the sky. It jumped several times, landing in a splash of light each time. It swam up to the balcony and flipped up high, almost hovering, as its visage transformed before the two individuals.
In a flash, Gabriel was met with a golden-winged angel hovering a few feet before him. Many golden wings, that is, with the same amount set of wings as Gabriel had. His skin was similar in the feathered muscle texture as well, yet their appearance differed in the facial features; that being the golden angel had some, as Gabriel did not. He held a kindly face reminiscent of a man, a man which usually bears a smile as he spread the good news. However, in this moment, neither the shadow of a smile nor the reflection of a smirk were present. Instead, it was replaced by a grim apparition of sorrow as he slowly rose and fell with the beat of his wings, looking at the Watcher. Gabriel addressed the angel.
“Raphael, greetings. What is it you seek me for?”
Raphael said nothing but stared intently into Gabriel’s maw. A melancholy series of musical notes was faintly heard originating from deep within Raphael’s soul. Scaramouche tilted his head, brow furrowed, curiously attempted to hear more of the song. Abruptly, Gabriel turned to Scaramouche and spoke to him, a concerned tone to his voice.
“I must depart as I have been summoned. I shall return later. In my absence, I grant you the responsibility of watching over the sheep of the pasture to the east; Earth. There is a troubled man drifting along the lands I plead you to look after intently. If something is awry, I command you to relay thus to me with Raphael; or by means of any Mormorio you wish. Do you understand?”
“Sure, G. Whatever.”
Gabriel appeared troubled by Scaramouche’s response but could allot no more time to this interaction.
“I wish to resume our previous conversation when I return, okay?”
“I understand your wishes.”
“Good. I shall return.”
With that, he took off; a powerful liftoff indeed. One great thrust of his wings sent him far above the sky, and with one more flap gave a burst of speed which sent him gliding across the clouds. Raphael was left with Scaramouche. And he spoke for the first time in this interaction. A simple phrase, but one which assuredly held a powerful weight.
“I shall be beside you in an instant should you only call out my name.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Scaramouche replied curtly, and Raphael gave Scaramouche a quick nod of acknowledgement before transforming back into his aquatic nature, taking off across the kingdom in a golden blur.
And so, Scaramouche was left to his own devices.
For while, to Scaramouche’s credit, he diligently observed the man whom was assigned to him. Very troubled indeed, and horrendous in visage as well! A dark, cloaked monstrosity trudging aimlessly through a city. Frankly, it got boring after a while. So, Scaramouche occupied himself to cure his boredom. Leaning back in Gabriel’s study, in Gabriel’s throne, mind, that was off-limits to anyone but Gabriel, Scaramouche laxed himself. Amongst the study was a plethora of scriptures, almanacs, and novels, which Scaramouche read his fill of. In his hands at this moment was a large book about the Tirocinium.
Surely, he had read such books before, but none in such detail as Gabriel’s personal study copy. Most of it was uninteresting to Scaramouche, but lo; the chapter of the Distruttor. He read of their glory and might, their conquest and championship. An inkling of envy sprouted roots within him; he wished to do more than just observe. To conquer over evil would surely be far more fulfilling than to stand on the sidelines and watch as it consumed those he should be protecting. A dangerously curious idea formulated in his head.
Scaramouche hastily put the book away, as well as any others that were lying around in his wake. He scurried down the steps of the study back to the balcony, peering over to see the expanse below him. Scaramouche focused the Loheths, his eyes glowing brightly, as he gazed down on the man he was told to watch.
“Ah, he is fine. He sits at a bar alone at this moment. Dreary, yes, but he is of no importance. I must see if there is a matter more worthy of my attendance.”
He scatteringly looked across the Earth, attempting to find the evil he sought to defeat, preferably somewhat close to his safeguarded gloomstalker. And lo; the answer was a few neighboring cities away in the shape of an impressively sized demon trudging towards a town. Ah, but surely, Scaramouche would need a much closer look in order to effectively examine and observe the threat.
The final, poetic sight which fell upon the spire was a single feather; a floating symbol of gentle rebellion.
ACT THREE: YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO HEAR THAT
Scaramouche deftly flew across the kingdom, attempting to be as soundless as possible. He stuck to the forestia landscape which was lush in all sorts of vegetation and plantlife; it would do well obscuring his visage from any onlookers. His flight pattern showed great prowess, indeed, as he expertly maneuvered his way around trees, through bushes, and over boulders, flourishing as he did so. However, the forest growth was trimmed back to a point, and Scaramouche saw all too soon that it was so.
In a panic, he attempted to slow down, kicking his legs forward to stretch out his wings back like a parachute. It was to no avail, as his speed was too great to stop so quickly, and instead, his outstretched wing caught upon a tree’s trunk, knocking his body to the side with a powerful force. Scaramouche came barreling out of the forest, tumbling onto the golden road before him, finding himself skidding to a halt in a calm, yet full, city; the downtown area. A few passersby curiously watched as he haplessly landed from flight, a few asked on his wellbeing, to which he waved away with an air of unconcern.
“No, no, I’m quite fine! Just stretching my wings is all; shouldn’t have taken off so fast, as they were still asleep!”
The few who were prevalent turned their faces from furrowed concern to relieved relatability. Wings-falling-asleep was a phenomenon many had unfortunately experienced before. As the residents left, Scaramouche winced, slowly flexing his arms, moving them to stretch out the soreness from the impact; a brief roost. In a slight panic, he dipped away from the walkways into a nearby alley. He couldn’t risk being seen away from his post by anyone else.
The alley was empty at the moment, which gave him the opportunity to gather his bearings and figure out a proper path to his goal. In order to travel to other realms, angels used a shimmering ring reminiscent of a giant’s engagement which held a divine ability of teleportation. All one had to do was concentrate on their preferred destination, step through the ring, and they would be absorbed into a golden stream, sending them in hyperspeed towards the designated realm. This divine contraption was known as Passage.
This was where Scaramouche needed to go.
In the alleyway, there were a series of tables set up for neighboring shops’ outdoor seating, each with a soft color scheme of beige, brown, and cream. With a flash of genius, Scaramouche grasped hold of one of the velvet tablecloths and draped it around him to conceal himself from anyone else he met along his path. Scaramouche, cloaked in secrecy, walked to the other end of the alley and looked both ways for onlookers. Although, as he prepared to leave the alley, something caught his eye: a glimmer of light. Glimmers weren’t uncommon by all means, but this particular glimmer was reminiscent of the master whom Scaramouche served under.
He stepped to peer through a shop window which held a window facing the alley at this far end. This shop was a simple coffee shop, yet it was one of the greatest to ever exist. Perfect lattes, perfect espresso, they always got your order right, and most importantly, they deferred to their sizes as “small, medium, and large”, unlike other oddities Scaramouche had gazed upon before. Inside it, lo; Gabriel the Watcher perched at the bar, amongst the company of Raphael, and a few others which Scaramouche could only assume had very high status. Yes, this shop had much prestige, but one could hardly describe it as a luxurious business-place. With a panicked realization that he was out in the open, he crouched down beside the door, hiding away from the windows. Yet, one prominent thought rang clear and unanswered in his head: What were they talking about?
Curiosity overcame Scaramouche like a colossal whale swallowing him whole within the depths of the ocean. Surely, he could not walk in there for risk of being seen, however, perhaps there was another way to perceive this meeting. Perhaps, pff, no, there, indeed, was another way to perceive such. He focused his mind and energy upon his gift, the Loheths, and attempted to project it right in front of him. His eyes began to glow, and his brow began to sweat as he strained his power: it was much harder outside of the spire. But then with a great effort, Scaramouche saw a shifting vision come forth before him. The vision soared quickly, moving with great speed, travelling upwards above the shop.
No, no, bring it back down, come on.
The vision spiraled downwards at will and found itself right before the coffee shop door. It looked right and saw a creature crouched low, his head in his hands, seemingly focusing on something with intensity.
Oh yeah.
The vision shifted back towards the door and simply penetrated the surface, shoving through into the shop. It looked around for its target, finding it oncemore at the bar of the shop. With a nauseating pull of sight, the vision blurred into existence right beside the angels. Scaramouche watched and listened. The largest of the angels spoke first.
“Hear me; I believe the time is nigh.”
Him. This being is the Almighty, the highest of all judging by His divine, powerful, and somewhat intimidating visage. It was such that it physically cannot be described, but, paradoxically, Scaramouche felt the aura of love radiate from the being. If He so desired an audience with Gabriel, this must be a very important matter, indeed. Scaramouche felt a shiver up his body, but he remained focused.
“Must it be so? I do not think him ready for such events as these which you have prophesized to me.”
This was Gabriel’s response. Who is the ‘him’ they refer to?
“Unfortunately, he is not at the present moment. But he will be, do not fret, my child.”
This was the second figure’s comment; this would be The Son. His appearance reflected that of the Almighty in the divine sense, yet it held a humanlike presence as well. The same powerful love was shimmering around Him as well. Gabriel spoke these words in response.
“Forgive me, but how will we be certain he will be ready?”
“I and my Father know how much you care for him, Gabriel. Which is why we came to you to speak on such matters directly. Assuredly, Scaramouche will be tested. If he succeeds, it will be certain that he can take on the challenges that face him. If he fails, it shall be a great deal more painful of a path for him to travel along, and yet, we will be with him. I wish that not of him, but even if he does not choose the path of righteousness, we shall love him the same, and he certainly will need it.”
Obviously, that answers the question of whom they speak of, and the fact somewhat disturbed Scaramouche. Do they all truly think so little of him? That he should require to be “loved” in order to succeed a test, whatever test that may be? Before any more thought was given to the matter, Scaramouche noticed Gabriel’s gaze drift off to the side of the conversation.
He was looking right at the Loheths. His head tilted slightly, curiously.
Scaramouche recalled the vision hurriedly and found himself back upon the alley outside the cafe. Gripping the cloth around him tightly to obscure himself, he dashed around the corner, sprinting to a massive temple which stood a little ways to the east of Passage. This specific temple housed the Distruttor, and, conveniently, their armory was accessible to all.
Surely, no one would dare steal from it.
ACT FOUR: A HEIST WITH SCARAMOUCHE
Scaramouche used the Loheths in combination with his silent flight to avoid any wandering eyes as he swiftly made his way into the armory of temple. A trivial matter, really. Scaramouche was much too skilled in his maneuvers and nimbleness to ever be perceived by anyone other than Gabriel, who, hopefully, was still occupied by his little meeting. Although, that moment of cautious observation by Gabriel was more than enough to shake Scaramouche into a haste. The hall leading into the armory was deserted, so he drifted lightly down to the floor before the entrance.
It was almost too easy, Scaramouche chuckled to himself.
Opening the heavy, marbled doors, he stepped foot into the armory. All around hung upon the walls were several impressive weapons which yielded a deep, divine power, each unique in its own sense. A sword with many contraptions, all of which seemed to be magnifying and focusing a beam of light, forming it into a pure, blinding blade. Intricate runes were inscribed upon the hilt that read:
⍑𝙹ꖎ|| ꖎ╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣ ⍊
Another, a double-bladed battleaxe worthy of a giant’s hand, made of solid gold. The weapon itself seemed to be permeating an eternal source of flames. Lit up by the infernal glow was writing reminiscent of a signature upon one of the blades: Judgement Day. There was also a holy symbol engraved in the middle of the connecting piece that joined the two blades together. Scaramouche reveled at the sights, awestruck at the weapons of glory displayed upon the walls, awaiting their master’s command. He searched for one to temporarily relocate its home to himself, and lo; his prize choice awaited him on the far-left corner. A long, curved case with a profoundly decorated patterns and symbols along the length was hung upon a sword rack sideways.
With colors of menacing, yet intimidatingly righteous in its holy aura, dark gold and steel, Scaramouche sauntered up to it and gently relinquished it from its display. He grasped the case with the gentleness as if he held a newborn child, admiring it in its perfection and beauty. It was clear this cover shelled a very powerful blade; it would be the perfect weapon for a hero such as himself. A white ribbon was draped from the hilt, as well as a leathered loop to fasten the sword to the bearer’s back.
As he held it in his hands, he quickly harnessed the Loheths to peruse the monster oncemore, only to be sure of its precise location before he departed the Tirocinium for its defeat. In an instant, his vision zoomed out rapidly, before lurching forward, soaring with mach speed across the lands. His vision found itself upon Gabriel’s Spire within seconds, nauseatingly, might one add, and from there he scouted around his assigned area. Sure enough, the demon still thrashed and crashed about, wandering through a forest now being consumed by flames of great ferocity. As he saw the carnage before him, it brought his mind to thoughts of the conversation he had overheard. Surely, he would prove to them, to all of them, that he was more than capable of handling anything thrown his way.
And that would start with vanquishing the great evil he saw charting its course to wreak havoc upon that defenseless, pitiful town. Yet, curiously, there was a lingering question which plagued his mind as he observed the creature. Something seemed…off.
Ah- wait a moment. It had been quite some time since he first saw that thing; why hadn’t anyone done anything about it? Surely, its presence must be known by others after so long. Doth all the angels care so little of the lives of so many?
…
..
.
Ahh…-
-Of course, of course!
This must be the very test which The Son spoke of! It makes sense, of course, they must be aware of his antics; they are waiting to see if he can defeat the monster! Gabriel leaving him upon the spire, it was all a ruse to see if he would choose laziness over righteousness. Ah, well, if they wish to peruse upon a show of conquest, then a show Scaramouche would give them!
ACT FIVE: FACE-OFF
Standing in front of Passage, Scaramouche fastened the sword to his back, ready to commit to his astounding performance which lay ahead of him. He pictured the forest that held the beast clearly within his mind, and without hesitation, stepped through the ring. Rapidly, his body felt as if it was being pulled into a vacuum of space all around him, swallowing him and zapping him along a tube of suffocation; a torturous, seemingly infinite sensation. And yet, it lasted only a moment or two before it was over. Scaramouche opened his eyes, as they had been clenched shut tightly during his descent and looked around the hell which he willingly brought himself into.
The demon had left a trail of destruction in his wake as fire and flames lavished on the broken creations of wooden constructs, each having their fill of sustenance and then some. The air felt thick with smog, the burnt smoke evoking a stifling sickness upon his lungs. The sweltering heat began to cause Scaramouche to sweat, which made his light garments heavy with uncomfortability. A looming regret lurked within Scaramouche’s mind.
No, he cannot think such ways, he must press on and earn the glory which he sought.
Scaramouche examined the area around him, searching for the demon. He summoned the Loheths to scan the destruction for signs of good and evil. From his vision, he saw a red haze fill his sight; a reminder that he drifted upon a befouled world of sin; yet as he looked around, he saw but one dark cloud of blackness—right next to him. He recalled his sight to look to his side and lo; a massive chaos of evil swarmed before his eyes. Just as he noticed it, an intense stream of fire came hurling at him. With a hefty flap of his wings, Scaramouche strafed backwards; just far enough to let the flames lick at his face, but not enough to get a true taste. Skidding backward, he faced the foe ahead of him, and called out to its horrid presence; a grandiose introduction.
“Behold, it is I; Scaramouche! A prism of glory in which radiance shines through, a holy light which will scourge the likes of you from the face of this planet!”
It was as he spoke to the demon that he truly observed its visage. It appeared to be an amorphous blob, yet there was some structure with its appearance. The most prominent feature was the colossal eye, which was made to be like a stomach, surrounded by flesh. Around the eye were lines of large humanlike teeth, which acted like a bellybutton and an eyelid, blinking horrendously.
Above the eye were several heads of unknown creatures, sloppily attached by whatever means of dark magic. There was a dragon, a pig, a human, and a squid’s heads that decorated the pounds of flesh that called itself a body. The squid continued more than a head, however, and three tentacles of the sea spiraled and thrashed out from different aspects of the being. When it spoke, the dragon’s mouth opened and growled in a jeering voice.
“Ahhah hah…so the gods send a novice to attempt to…what was it you said: ‘scourge me from the planet’?”
“It would be most wise of you to watch your corrupted tongue, demon. You seem to know not the range of my power and prowess, and your ignorance shall be your downfall.”
“Oh please, please, call me by my name. I am Damar; you will refer to me as such, boy.”
The demon’s taunts made Scaramouche clench his jaw in offense and frustration; he did not appreciate being spoken down to. But he chose to play along, as it would certainly make for a better performance.
“Very well, ‘Damar’, art thou prepared for Death’s deliverance?”
“Mmnhnhh, my, my, I am rather bored; watching a little squib like you dance around will certainly be a nice treat for me!”
“Then so be it!”
Scaramouche dashed towards Damar, his wings giving him a burst of speed. His feet found purchase under each step of ground beneath him, harnessing a divine mobility within him as he did so. Each step left a golden ripple effect in their path, and with his momentum, he stopped just short of Damar, and leapt high into the air. Damar lazily watched his assailant, his huge eye’s gaze trailing just behind Scaramouche. Momentarily hovering in the air, Scaramouche reached behind his head and grasped the hilt of the stolen blade, preparing for a deadly strike.
He unsheathed the blade just slightly.
Instantly, Scaramouche felt his world transform around him; he was in a different realm entirely.
ACT SIX: THE PRICE OF POWER
Scaramouche felt himself falling, and falling, yet it seemed there was no end. He looked around him and saw nothing but plush clouds of white covering the area with an invasive amount. The sky was a bright blue; the picture of a painting of serenity. Although there was only one more detail Scaramouche, oddly, saw last. Before him, hovering silently, was a gargantuan, multi-faceted, glorious Harbinger.
It appeared as mostly one, giant eye, with far too many halos and wings surrounding it to count. Interestingly, even though Damar had a somewhat similar appearance, as far as the big eye goes, this Harbinger was far more terrifying. Scaramouche saw, and his heart quickly plummeted, taken aback by the sight, slightly worried. He spoke to the angel aloud, trying to make his voice sound more professional.
“Hello, dear Harbinger. What news of fate doth your splendor bless me with toda–”
“SWORD.”
The Harbinger cut off Scaramouche’s spiel mid-sentence with a deep, reverberating, booming voice of clarity.
“Oh- you mean this-”
He drew the sword completely. It was a long, magnificent, curved blade, similar to a scimitar, with beautiful golden patterns of masterful intricacy. The Harbinger never broke eye contact and instead spoke harshly, cutting Scaramouche off again.
“MY SWORD.”
What? Scaramouche was stunned by this sentiment, as he thought only the Distruttore wielded weaponry.
“Oh, my apologies—wait, your sword? But you’re a Harbinger, are you not?”
“UH, YEAH DUDE. OBVIOUSLY.”
“Then how come you own a weapon?”
“YOU THOUGHT ONLY THE DISTRUTTOR HAD WEAPONS?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose—”
“HAHAHAHA, DUMBASS.”
“Oh, I was not aware–”
“YEAH, UH-HUH, I BET YOU WEREN’T AWARE.”
Scaramouche was beginning to feel quite un-fond of the character that was this Harbinger.
“Okay, whatever. Why are you here then?”
“THANKS TO YOU, I’M OUT A WEAPON BECAUSE YOUR SNEAKY ASS WENT AND TOOK MY SWORD. HOWEVER, I’VE BEEN ORDERED TO RELAY THE SIGNIFIGANCE OF THE BLADE TO YOU.”
“It’s just a sword of divinity, is it not?”
“MAN, YOU ARE A TURD. NO DUDE, WHAT YOU HAVE STRAPPED UPON YOUR BACK IS THE BLADE ‘Angosciare’. IMMENSE HOLY POWER RESONATES AT YOUR VERY FINGERTIPS IN THE FORM OF THE ELONGATED BLADE. BUT THIS PARTICULAR BLADE HOLDS A SECRET. THE Angosciare DEVOURS WHATEVER FOE IT SLAYS BY YOUR WILL, RELEASING THEIR SOUL AND ABSORBING WHAT REMAINS IT INTO ITS CUTTING EDGE. I’VE SLAIN MANY FOES, SO THE BLADE HOSTS MANY ABILITIES AND AWE-INSPIRING FACITS…”
“Wow, that’s-”
“…EXCEPT NOT FOR YOU. NOW THAT YOU’VE DRAWN IT, ITS BEEN RESET. YOU FUCKED THE SEASONING, ITS FUCKED.”
“Shit.”
“YEAH, SHIT IS RIGHT. BUT ONE THING IT DOES KEEP IS EONS OF WISDOM AND BATTLE STRATEGY. SHOULD YOUR BOND GROW, UNLIKELY, IT WOULD BE WILLING TO SHARE SOME OF ITS WISDOM WITH YOU.”
Scaramouche admired the sword, flourishing it around while still floating.
“That is sweet. This is one hell of a sword, sir.”
“UHH, THAT’S NOT… THE TERM I’D USE…WITH IT BEING A HOLY WEAPON AND ALL…”
Realizing his mistake, Scaramouche stopped flourishing and stammered out an apology.
“Oh, my apologies, I-I just meant it is a great sword, and I revere you for wielding it.”
“OH ‘REVERE’ MY ASS, STICKY-HANDS. YEAH, I KNOW ITS AN AWESOME SWORD;
I OWNED IT.”
As he said this, the clouds all around turned from gold and fluffy to a menacing, dark gray, as a thunderous bellow rumbled from each, red lightning blasting forth in a powerful explosion. Scaramouche fell silent, scared. The Harbinger closed its eye in a seemingly stressed range of emotion, and the clouds around them resumed their scene of serenity.
“LOOK, THERE IS ONE MORE THING I FORGOT TO MENTION, THEN I CAN GO. I’VE TOLD YOU THE AWE-INSPIRING POWER THAT MY SWORD HOLDS, HOWEVER, THERE IS A PROFOUND MESSAGE WHICH WAS FOR ME TO PASS ONTO YOU.”
Scaramouche piped up, curious.
“Hm? Well, what is it?”
Its presence shifted to an eerie, foreboding reverberation of sound as its prophetic nature made itself overbearingly present. It spoke the following:
“You know not of which you wield, young student of the
Divine, of the holy. You stole such a thing, with no cost, no price.
And now you reap the consequences of
Your actions, your decisions. Yet in circumstances like this,
The Almighty has declared in all of His power;
‘You shall be redeemed; you shall be great’, which is
A testament to His love. However, it brings Him great pain
To see His child suffer, and as such is true, His sorrow is multiplied.
But He will guide your steps and provide light from the darkness, tenfold.”
Scaramouche looked somewhat blankly, stunned, yet equally confused.
“Uh, sir. How does any of such poetry pertain to me?”
“BRUH.”
“Well, are you going to tell me or not, wise ass?”
Scaramouche’s backtalk struck the Harbinger like a blunt-force blow as it rapidly blinked in disbelief at the disrespect.
“NO, NO, I KNOW YOU AIN’T TALKIN’ TO ME LIKE THAT.”
“Yeah, I am. You’ve been sassing me this whole time and I’ve just abou–”
His words were cut off by flapping rush of speed as the Harbinger, with just one flap of his enormous wings, arrived right in front of Scaramouche. The one colossal eye stared at him in a manner of utter fury. And it spoke this next phrase, which would be its departing words.
“YOU BETTER HAVE FAITH IN THE ALMIGHTY BECAUSE YOU ARE TRULY GOING TO NEED IT. OH, AND BY THE WAY, EVERY CUT YOU MAKE WITH THE Angoscaire IS FELT BY THE WIELDER. JUST AN F.Y.I. SO, HAVE FUN WITH THAT, TINY WINGS. SEE YOU.”
And just as suddenly as he had arrived, Scaramouche was instantaneously back in mid-air, no time having passed.
ACT SEVEN: CONVICTION
With the abruption of reappearing in battle, Scaramouche was no longer prepared for his planned onslaught. Damar took advantage of his opportunity. A squidborne tentacle lashed in a diagonal strike attempting to grapple his prey, and with Scaramouche’s temporary displacement in effect, his attack found purchase upon Scaramouche’s flesh. The hooked teeth which dotted the tentacle sunk into the angel’s skin, cutting deep around his waist and viciously lodging themselves inside his body, before Damar yanked Scaramouche backwards towards himself.
Scaramouche relinquished his hold on the blade, half because he no longer wished to use it, and half because he was currently being whipped around viciously. He certainly would not be using this dastardly trap of a sword, who would want to? The Harbinger whom owned it was clearly out of its mind. No matter, Scaramouche had a plethora of other skills and talents he had picked up throughout his apprenticeship that could surely be utilized here to defeat this commonplace villain.
As he was pulled, Damar unleashed another tentacle to wrap around one of his arms, grappling it tightly. Damar began to roll up his food in a tentacle-sushi fashion, as his eye was folded into the upper walls of his mouth, revealing the gaping maw decorated with several rows of serrated-edge teeth. Just before the food was absorbed into his mouth, Damar felt a powerful heave from his appendages. Scaramouche, with a supernatural strength, used the grappling bondages as improvised chains to his foe, grasping the tentacles tightly before he found his footing close to the ground. Planting his stance, Scaramouche pulled the tentacles over himself harshly, and the strength of the force sent Damar soaring above his head, crashing to the ground in front of him, as the tentacles wriggled away from the source of the attack.
He posed in a grandeur form of heroism, standing proud before his foe. Damar rolled backwards to right himself, facing Scaramouche.
“Eheh. You are tougher than you look, worm. But you aren’t even half an angel as those who’ve tried to defeat me before you are.”
The slight caused Scaramouche’s blood to bubble over, as he was filled with a rage at being told he was insufficient. He ran towards Damar, his voice gristling loudly through gritted teeth.
“I shall show you ‘half-an-angel’!”
Scaramouche closed in quickly, meeting Damar within combat range in an instant. Damar reacted with another tentacle swipe; Scaramouche deftly whirled around it, dodging the swipe, and parrying with a supercharged punch. Holy light emanated from betwixt his closed fingers, as the energy pulsed violently into Damar’s side, blasting him backward, slamming him into a tree, causing the forest itself to shake from the impact.
Scaramouche quick-stepped to launch himself at the demon, following his attack, to which he was met with Damar whom was changing tactics. Danar recovered quickly and lurched his tentacles upward to latch onto branches and trunks to hold his weight. As Scaramouche rocketed towards him, Damar deftly soared away, swinging out of reach. Scaramouche’s following fist exploded into the tree as it met no evil opposition. Damar cackled at the sight.
“Ahh HA HA HA!! You must be far quicker than that, boy! Use some strategy, you can’t get so greedy!”
Scaramouche, frustrated, looked up at the demon as he heckled in the trees, however, his visage was not reminiscent of the dragon’s tongue. No, the cackle had came from the swine’s head, which was pointed at Scaramouche now, squealing in delight. As Damar gurgled out the word “greedy”, Scaramouche’s senses began to stiffen, feeling more evil presences nearby. He perceived the world through a swift cast of his Loheths; lo, not one, nor two, but seven gremlin-esque young pigs of demented dispositions had emerged from betwixt the trees, wriggling and traipsing their way through the earth, being manipulated by a dark power hosted by Damar.
Scaramouche whipped around to face the pigs just as one promptly launched himself towards his face. He reached his hands out in the most opportune moment, any later and its bite would’ve made purchase upon his splendor, and caught the demon-pig midair. Its appearance was that of a small piglet, yet one with a twisted, melted flesh all over itself. It foamed at the mouth as its eyes bulged in fury. It thrashed violently within his grasp with a gnashing of teeth, attempting to chomp away at whatever it could manage.
A horrid sight.
Scaramouche firmly held the beast as he turned on his heel, spinning around, and then shot-putting the swine several feet far. With a flourish, he turned back to face Damar and pridefully bowed, as if on a stage. Damar’s eyes narrowed, yet a savage and twisted grin crept along his face, obscuring some of the eye within his mouth. When Scaramouche relinquished his bow, he stood tall; in prime stance for a target. Three more piglets dashed beside him, jumping high and attacking Scaramouche, biting his skin with enough force to break through it, causing gold blood to gush from the wounds.
He was knocked to the ground by the impact, crying out from the pain. Two more demon-pigs appeared, sensing a weakness in their prey, wanting their share of a meal. Scaramouche, in a grandiose display of power, exploded in a violent, bright flash of light, as his wings slammed against the ground with enough force to push his body to a stand. The swines that were upon him disintegrated instantly, turning to dust from the vibrant radiance. Damar groaned frustratingly, leaning and looking away from the light.
The remaining piglet stood before the angel; it gently whimpered and shook in fear, cowering away. Scaramouche walked towards it intimidatingly, yet, as he saw the terrible creature, an inkling of pity began to blossom within him: as many other beings often fall prey to, it had been manipulated by evil. He crouched down, locking eyes with the pig.
“Hey, hey, easy. Do not fret…turn…from wickedness…yeah?”
Damar looked curiously, a furrowed expression upon his face. The little pig gently shuffled towards Scaramouche as his radiant expulsion dimmed. He reached out a hand to pet the creature, which looked at it skeptically, sniffing it. Deciding it was safe, the piglet nuzzled into Scaramouche’s hand. Instantaneously, the melted flesh began to shrivel away, revealing a soft coat of skin underneath. How curious. From behind, Damar’s bellowing reprimands cut through the tender moment.
“NO! YOU USELESS, WORTHLESS, FECKLESS ABOMINATION!”
The piglet recoiled in shame and fear from reproach, as a tentacle from Damar came slithering quickly through the trees. Terrified, the piglet ran from its master, scurrying away, slipping on its own balance, as the tentacle aggressively sought to reclaim its slave. With a traumatic squeal, the piglet was snatched by Damar, and Scaramouche watched as it wriggled in pain, its now revealed skin being torn by the hooks from the squidborne tentacle. Something within Scaramouche wracked his spirit with conviction at the sight, almost like a supernatural urge; a push; a guide; whatever the case, it drove him with an intense determination to do one simple thing: protect.
ACT EIGHT: A SHEPARD
“Unhand him at ONCE!”
Scaramouche’s voice boomed with his command, a reverberating, authoritative shout which, oddly, caused Damar to cease his actions. Both Damar and the piglet looked at the source of the powerful sound with, was it awe?, perhaps, if only momentarily. And that moment was all Scaramouche needed.
In a flash, Damar realized he was staring at not the image of his adversary, but an afterimaged glow, rather. There was no possibility he could turn any faster, for Scaramouche’s speed was too great, and in a half-second Damar felt his appendage wracked with terrible, burning agony. The next half-second, Damar turned to his wound and was met with the picture of the angel, its hands grasped onto one of his grappled features, as a radiant light seeped from his fingers as they disintegrated the slimy appendage; a divine scourge, an angel’s most dangerous abilities.
If it had been honed and trained, the Scourge could kill most of lesser unholy beings by a single touch. Regardless, this power seared through the tentacle, separating it in half. The end which held the piglet thrashed about as it slapped against the ground with a sickening, sloppy sound. The piglet, however, wiggled its way out of the clutches of Damar and took off, presumably finding refuge far away. Damar, on the other hand, brandished his newly acquired stump of an appendage, as a blood darker than anything natural splurted from the laceration. His cries of anguish became tumults of fury emitted from both dragon and stomach mouths.
“Why, you BASTARD! You DARE oppose me? I have run out of patience for this game, I will devour you and savor the bones in my cheeks!”
“My divinity could never be suited as a meal for the likes of a demon such as you! I have only begun my performance of what you call a ‘game’!”
The two antithetical forces clashed in a grandiose struggle of dark and light. Scaramouche took flight, soaring around his foe. Intense Light emitted from his hands as the scourge left its divine glow persisting. In a flourish, Scaramouche extended his right hand, pointing his fingers at Damar, willing the Light to aid him in his fight; and it was so. Light burst forth in a smiting blast, burning and singing away at the demon’s flesh. Scaramouche continued to flutter and spiral around Damar as explosive releases of Light shook the forest. Damar’s remaining tentacles swept in bladelike ripostes as he cried in agonizing anger, trying to use a darker power to counter such divinity.
As Scaramouche won the upper hand in combat, his movements began to show themselves as more daring, more grandiose, more impressive. It was such that Damar was constantly backing up, always on the defense, unable to find a proper opening for a counterattack. Feinting, flourishing, and taunting Damar, the performance was one of drama and comedy.
“Aww, surely a demon can fare better against an innocent angel? Surely, your gluttonous girth cannot prevent you from seeing my radiance, my splendor? Goodness, perhaps it does; I just flew far too close for thou to not have seeneth it coming! Too close indeed, your stench is a putrid offense to all that have nostrils.”
Damar slashed chaotically, his movements without rhythm or precision, but he could not land a single blow to Scaramouche in this state. Foam seeped from his dragonborne mouth, and his eyes were bloodshot, consumed with rage. In a single, hefty flap, Scaramouche soared to the tops of the trees, strike a pose of blinding power, and dive back down, almost hitting mach speed, before using his momentum to land an accelerated punch of glory, knocking Damar back several feet into a concussed position where the demon lay on his back, small, horrid feet dangling above ground.
Damar’s body lied close to a large wooden structure; ah, the barn from which the pigs were summoned from. It seemed their war efforts had traveled across the forest and into a grassy clearing of a farmland. Damar lied still, momentarily paralyzed from the fight, and ripe for a final blow. But the angel cared not, as it seemed he was too absorbed with his performance to even realize. Scaramouche floated lazily through the air on his back, staring up at the heavens. He whispered; a dangerously condescending tone dripped into his words.
“Surely, you see, that I can handle far more than you believe me to be able to?”
And the heavens replied.
“Finish it, use the sword.”
His heart skipped a couple beats upon hearing a powerful voice reply so. Within his mind, there was an iota of guilt upon hearing that the Almighty presumably knew that he had stolen a weapon from the Distruttor. Scaramouche chose to ignore these feelings and instead address the message which was spoken to him.
“What, why would I do that? I have no use for a backstabbing sword, I am more than capable of handling things my own way.”
The heavens fell silent.
Beneath him, a gargantuan heave had brought Damar to his feet, and he jeered the angel in the sky.
“You will FAIL, you will HATE, and you will DIE!”
Scaramouche flipped around to face the insult, barrel rolling and dashing midair to position himself properly without even looking. Damar, hoping to have caught him off-guard, which he did, had preemptively used the deformed human head on his shoulder to projectile vomit a stream of flames towards Scaramouche’s now current position. The angel had flown right into the fire.
Icarus’ ashes shifted uncomfortably on the dust they laid rest upon.
The flames tore right through Scaramouche’s left wing, forcing him into a crashing freefall. Damar cackled at the sight, and his laughs were booming resonations of mockery. The world spun nauseatingly for Scaramouche, the ground’s meeting time becoming closer and closer to schedule, Damar’s laughs echoing in his ears. Every few seconds, he caught a glimpse of the demon. How he hated the evil before him, how he hated it such! He would tear it limb from limb, he would melt it down to slag. He would-
Sudden salvos of radiance incarnate exploded from the very fibers of Scaramouche’s being; a violent Hail Mary of desperation, rage, and pride.
For miles, one could see the beams of light which shattered the night. The intensity cut through all it touched; an immense, swift destruction. As the radiance felled Damar, tearing him to shreds, a sickening grin twisted up his mouth, for he had won. Scaramouche landed in a spiraling crash, his wings both singed, one more worse for wear than the other, yet he slid upon the ground rather gracefully. As he slowly looked up, triumphantly, his expression turned from one of victory to one of a dawning dread. There were pieces of land all around that were in inferno, which was quickly spreading to the forest the two had come fighting out of. Before him was the most unsettling sight, however, as the barn, and the farmhouse behind it, which animals, perhaps humans too, had occupied in this moment was now being swallowed by flames and tragedy.
An instant later, Scaramouche was suddenly blinded by seemingly the Sun itself which had come to consume him. All around was this ever-increasing glow, and Scaramouche felt his body pulled skyward.
When his eyes adjusted, Gabriel stood before him, as the Almighty sat behind him on a grandiose throne.
Scaramouche had fucked up.
ACT NINE: CONSQUENCES
Gabriel’s maw of galactic wonder was spinning, revolving in hyperfast revolutions within itself, the cosmos becoming a blur. Within the blur, there was a trail of a vibrant red swirling amongst the stars every so often. He was pissed, indubitably. Gabriel spoke with a clenched tone to his words.
“Why…why doth thou not HEED my words, son! You-”
The Almighty’s voice cut through Gabriel’s frustration.
“Slow to anger, my child. Take a breath, I am with you; both of you.”
Gabriel, perhaps just realizing his fist was clenched as he gestured in his rash words to Scaramouche, relaxed his body, obeying the command and taking a breath. The revolving wonders slowed in response, and the crimson flash abated.
“Scaramouche, you have not obeyed the commands I gave to you.”
Scaramouche, angry, was quick to retort.
“Oh, my apologies, perhaps I should’ve let Damar finish the rest of the family, is that what thou would’ve preferred?”
“You do not possess the amount of wisdom you think you do. Thy pride consumes thine soul.”
“Whatever, I killed it, didn’t I?”
“At what cost? You think your actions were better than the Almighty’s own plan?”
“No plan was shared with me, a fact in every sense!”
“My son, that is faith. To trust even when you know not.”
“Therein lies the foolish-”
“Enough.”
A booming crescendo of authority, Scaramouche felt himself convicted from his own words, and fell silent. The Almighty spoke.
“My child, I love you, truly and dearly. It pains me more than you know to correct you on your path, but correct you I will. I cannot have someone without a strong enough faith in a position in which they could influence others here within the Tirocinium. It is my will that you are to be sent down to Earth, to help the people, to follow My guidance, and overcome your prideful nature. Even with my help, however, ultimately, you must make the decision to return to grace with a pure heart.
I will be with you, always.”
Gabriel stepped forth and placed his hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder and a twinkle of a star appeared in his maw. He spoke a creed, a declaration, upon his apprentice.
“I look upon a multitude of cosmos, and yet, you, my apprentice, Almighty-given, shall be the very apple of my eye; the gaze of myself shall be upon you. Please, do not hesitate to ask for guidance.”
.
Lamentations wailed as condemnation occurred.
.
Scaramouche brushed the hand off of his shoulder, backing away, before retorting.
“Wait, you can’t be seriou-”
But before he could even finish the sentence, the glimmering sanctuary disappeared before his eyes as he felt himself rushed backwards, similar to Passage. Simultaneously, Scaramouche cried out in pain, feeling the force had ripped his wings from his back; bone, muscle, flesh and all. All his vision zoomed out, it felt, blurring past him, and he was suddenly falling down, fast. The sky was a dark, mournful gray, yet amidst its gloom was a golden, dimming spotlight on the exiled angel which fell through the air.
…
…falling through the clouds, as the Tirocinium was further and further away…
…
…falling from grace, from comfort, from wisdom…
…
…falling into a future of pain and pride…
…
…falling, falling, falling…
…
fallen.
.
fin.
ink stained pages 
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