<div class="floatright">(http://petawilkinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/1Archangel_Michael.jpg)</div>The Archangel Michael, Captain of the Host, The Warbringer, The Sword Bearer, The Forgiver - all of these things at once, yet none of them defining - watched in awe as Creation unfolded. This admiration for the Nameless One grew as Michael watched the span of time unfold, watched the struggles of beings brought into Creation, wrought from the very voice of On High.<br/><br/>He was not a creator. Though not the dark and brooding death-dealer Azrael was, a figure of malice, Michael knew his place was on the battlefield. A destroyer, a soldier, who would stand in defiance of those who would unwrite what had already been written. The self-possessed fools who believed petty defiance would elevate them above their station.<br/><br/>He spared a sidelong glance to one such creature. Zarathel, a flighty creature, who seemed fit only to deliver commentary and complain of her lot in the Host. Speaking with Lucifer. The Prince. Michael shook his head, his frown deepening. He should know better. Though he knew his brother chafed at times, and envied the visible signs of the Nameless One's favor gifted to Michael, Lucifer was foremost amongst the host. He turned his back, dismissing the chastisement edging to the tip of his tongue. It was not his place. Lucifer could keep the counsel he wished, and be lessened by it.<br/><br/>His thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice, Creation speaking in its full and urgent majesty. His sword was at his side in a moment, his form that of a warrior, armored in a style that would not be invented for another thousand years. A look of disgust crossed his handsome features, and a look of horror.<br/><br/>Lucifer, seated on the throne, Zarathel splayed out before him, wriggling like a fish on a hook. When he spoke, there was anguish in his voice.<br/><br/>"Brother...what have you done?"