The Gathering

It was an inappropriately beautiful day for war.

The Heavenly Host came together in an army that stretched beyond the horizons of the cerulean skies; They came together in numbers so vast that had They been mere mortals Their mass would have blotted out the sun and plunged the day into blackest night. Of course, once the Host exchanged Their shining, gossamer-like travel-forms for Their dark and fearsome battle-shapes, They would indeed do just that- but for the time being clear rays of morning light still danced between Their ethereal white bodies, sparking off the frost-touched blades of grass in the plains far below.

In that same grass crouched a young woman, wrapped in finely tanned leathers, an infant bound tightly to her breast. The undeniably glorious sight above her filled her with nothing but a desperation that bordered on despair. Soon, she knew, the Host would shift their shapes, growing exponentially more powerful. And then Their great war drums would sound, vibrating deep within the chest of every mortal unfortunate enough to be within earshot of Their multitudes, causing animals and lesser men to tremble and flee in panic. Finally, most terrible of all, They would draw their flaming weapons- swords, spears, and all manner of more exotic armaments. These blades had been forged for the express purpose of drawing Heavenly blood- but the Host did not care who or what else might be struck down in Their wars. Not even the mountains themselves could hope to stand against a errant blow from a divine weapons.

The woman shivered, and wondered who was left to pray to.

(The Gathering)