An Anger of Angels Story in Three Parts, by Sean K Reynolds

Anger of Angels, a sourcebook about the angelic races and the Great War they fight with the demons of Hell, hits store shelves this month. To give you a look at the book's contents from a new angle, we asked the designer, Sean Reynolds, to pen a piece of fiction about some of the characters, situations, and themes he introduces in the book.

In this story, Sean paints us a picture of a cherub that is very different from the chubby winged toddlers we have traditionally come to associate with the name. Sean's cherubim are fierce, majestic, and leonine. While this cherub may not look like Cupid, he is driven by love—a profound emotion that spans the ages and drives him to quest across the world for the sake of one man.

The story is presented in three weekly installments during December 2003. Each installment includes a sidebar with new game material based on the story and designed for use with Anger of Angels. Enjoy the journey.

Part I: The Soldier

Part II: The Well

Part III: The Stone

 

 

Part I: The Soldier

Terzekiel had been running for eight hours, for the calling magic that brought him to this world had placed him leagues from his target. His large leonine form was covered in sweat, and even his humanlike face was sopping wet. He paused as he crested a hill and wiped his face with the back of his right forepaw. His eyes clear of the salt, his supernatural vision focused on the plain ahead.

He was too late. The battle was already over.

Hundreds lay dead on the field, their blood turning the earth into thick red mud. The flies and carrion-birds were already present, a sign that the fighting had been over for some time. The cherub shook his head, knowing this battle was fought over some mortal foolishness like land, or gold, or property. "So much wasted effort," he thought. "So many lives spent on pointless things, while I and my fellows shed blood against the demons so these mortals can have their petty wars." Terzekiel shook his head as if to clear it. That line of thinking always led to danger.

He took to wing and flew over the carnage, his presence frightening off some of the crows and vultures, though they returned after he'd moved a comfortable distance away. His great golden eyes swept over the bodies as he flew past, noticing the faces of each of the dead. Their garb -- whether the pale blue of the northerners, or dull gray of their counterparts -- was irrelevant, as were their armaments: some with swords, some with pistols or rifles. It was the faces that mattered to the angel, and one face in particular. Whenever he was called, wherever he went, he always sought one face....

Battlefield Calling There is magic in struggle, especially those conflicts in which mortals and immortals willingly sacrifice their own lives for a higher purpose. The energy of their souls charges the sites of these battles with subtle power, and later battles can trigger this power like a lightning rod. The effect of this trigger is much like a summoning or calling spell, keyed to supernatural beings who share the beliefs of the charging force. Normally this has the effect of a planar ally spell and calls an angel with a related dominion feat. Because most of these sites are battlefields, usually the called angel is an Angel of Intercession, Rage, or War. As with the normal rules for summoning outsiders (described from the angels' perspective in Anger of Angels), a battlefield calling can affect only a willing angel receptive to conjuration, though even angels unprepared for this duty have felt a strong tug from an especially relevant source. Of course, some places, charged with evil power, are more likely to summon fiends than angels. A few locales are keyed to both, and later battles result in the conjuration of evil and good outsiders to rehash old feuds.

That face, there! The cherub furled his wings and dropped noiselessly to the ground, his lion's legs absorbing the energy of the fall. He stood over the dead man and exhaled, the hot breath blowing back the man's long bloodstained hair to reveal the face, eyes staring dully, a bullet wound in the forehead. The man's trim moustache and beard could not conceal the good looks that surely made him a favorite of the ladies attending the military dances, as did the many decorations that indicated his rank. The man's mouth was open as if he had been slightly surprised to die; the angel could see his perfect teeth, quite uncommon in this era and these circumstances. The man's uniform was blue, though dirty and spotted with red from his dead opponents. His bloodstained sword and empty pistol meant he had made a good showing of himself before the bullet took him.

Terzekiel sighed. He gently grabbed the man's shoulder with his teeth and picked up the fallen officer. With a careful twist of his neck he managed to drape the man over his back in a stable position. The angel took to the air again, then landed outside the field of battle. He paced in a circle for a moment until he was sure he had his bearings. Yes, north and east, and very far, across the great water. He didn't know where to find what he was looking for, for even among his own kind it was all but forgotten, except in story. But if it did exist, he knew a place that could help him find it.

The angel flew, bearing a burden that saddened him. He had a long way to travel, and surely a long journey after that. North and east, toward the sea. Terzekiel loved the sea. So did the dead man on his back, long ago, in another time.

 

Part II: The Well

Terzekiel stood in the mountain snow, the white powder reaching to his knees. He wasn't bothered by the cold, though he was aware of it. His passenger, of course, couldn't feel anything. The winds in this part of the world were strong enough to push even his lion's body like a toy, so several hours ago he had landed to travel on foot. The wind covered his tracks almost as soon as he made them, but the angel wasn't worried about finding his way back. Finding his goal was the problem, not going home. He had been here before, but the place tended to move around, and each trip was always a new search.

This was a holy place from long ago, sacred to a religion that was all but dead. Giants used to roam the earth here, but they were dead too, killed by humans or the gods themselves. Now the mountains were empty. No plants, no animals, not even the thundering hooves of the sky-horses could be found here, all vanished or hiding with the coming of the new church.

Terzekiel closed his eyes. He knew he was in roughly the right place. He inhaled through his nose and sifted through the information on the wind. Earth. Stone. Snow. Wind. Age. Wisdom. The latter two were what he was looking for, and the very last scent was the faintest and most important. He turned to face the scent of wisdom, opened his eyes, and walked again, stopping every few hundred feet to check the air again. Within an hour, he had found the spot.

Just like the last time he was here, the angel was saddened when he saw the Well. Long ago it had an elaborate wooden roof and was surrounded by sacrifices from mortals -- spearheads, the skulls of enemies, jewelry, and other gifts the old gods liked mortals to give them. Now it was half-buried in the snow, its roof long rotted away and the sacrifices washed away by water or taken by looters. Still, this close to the Well he could feel its power, like a commanding presence in a busy room.

After all, it held a piece of a god. Terzekiel knew the story was true; he had spoken with the malakite who once served that god.

Ages ago, the wise giant Mimir owned a well of magical water that gave great wisdom to whoever drank from it. Odin, lord of the local pantheon, had traded his eye for a drink from the well, as Mimir wanted to see what the god saw. The giant kept the god's eye at the bottom of the well, giving it the power of scrying. Though Mimir was later slain and the original powers of the well lost, the eye still imparted some magic to these ancient waters.

Terzekiel approached the well and stared into it. The water level was only a few feet below the rim, no doubt fed by the near-constant snowfall. Ice connected the well-water to the stone, clear and fragile like a strange insect's wing. The angel took a deep breath, then exhaled, clearing and focusing his mind.

Mimir's Well This old stone well once belonged to Mimir, a wise giant mentioned in the Eddas (the stories of the Norse pantheon). After Mimir was killed, his well was abandoned and lost most of its original power, but Odin's eye retained its all-seeing magic and slowly transferred its abilities to the well. Now anyone visiting the well can use it to invoke (as a spell-like ability) any scrying sort of divination spell, such as clairaudience/clairvoyance, scrying, or discern location. After the spell takes effect, the well remains powerless for one week per spell level of the spell invoked (minimum one week). The exact location of the well tends to shift about slightly, sometimes varying by up to a mile from its last known location, but always in a mountainous area near or in lands where the Norse gods held power...

"Where can I find Horavion's Stone?" The words were carried away by the wind. But the words weren't important -- it was his will and intent that mattered. In response to his question, the well-water surged for a moment, breaking its icy crown into hundreds of shards floating on the surface. The water stilled, revealing an image of a pile of rocks on a beach. As with the words, the image wasn't important. The well planted in the angel's mind the exact location of his quarry. He could not forget it any more than he could forget his own name. Another gust blew a few clumps of snow from the well's rim into the water, breaking the image. The surface was quiet again, and he sensed the well's power was diminished. It would take time for the well to replenish itself again.

Terzekiel sighed. Another journey. At least it was shorter than the one that had brought him here. With a careful shrug of his shoulders, he adjusted the body of the dead man draped across his back and began to walk downhill again, looking forward to getting out of the wind.

Part III: The Stone

Terzekiel felt tired, or at least as tired as a cherub would admit to feeling. What he really wanted was some food. Not that he needed it, but it had been weeks since he'd had anything to eat, and the sensation of biting into a tasty piece of manna would do wonders for his mood. His weariness wasn't in his body, it was in his mind and soul. But he was near the end of his journey now, and soon he would be able to eat and rest. And he'd need that time, too, with the spiritual wounds he was about to inflict on himself.

Although the sky was overcast, the beach sand under his toes was warm. He chose to walk rather than fly, enjoying the feel of the ground, and showing the necessary humility as he approached his goal. The white cliffs to his right were worn by centuries of crashing waves, and at certain angles were almost blinding even in the diffuse light. He rounded the edge of a cove, knowing the Stone was nearby, but the sight of it still caused him to halt in surprise. The sudden movement caused the dead man's body to tumble from across his back. The angel growled at himself for his skittishness and for allowing the man to fall. Ah, well, this form was no longer appropriate anyway. With a thought, he traded his true form for his humanlike vessel. Stretching muscles he hadn't used in months, Terzekiel bent down to pick up the dead man.

What had caused him to stop so suddenly was a section of the cliffs that had crumbled, leaving an area of large loose rock on the sand. The surf had smoothed and weathered most of the rocks into oblong shapes, but one piece was still almost rectangular. This block of stone he recognized from the image at Mimir's Well. As he got closer, he could see more details: white stone like that of the cliffs, with a gray patch the size of a human down the middle. It stood canted at a slight angle, the landward side higher than the seaward side. Its corners were smooth enough that a human couldn't cut himself on them, but still sharp enough to keep its rectangular shape obvious to a casual observer. Two broad grooves, stained gray like the center of the Stone, broke the straight line of the landward upper edge, like handholds. A mortal might see this stone and think it a rare but natural occurrence, but Terzekiel could feel the power thrumming within it like the waves crashing off the white cliffs.

Gently, the angel placed the body on the Stone, arranging the man's hands into a dignified, restful posture. He moved to the higher portion of the Stone, placed his hands on the grooves, kneeled, and turned his focus inward. Terzekiel prayed. He prayed for the fallen man: what he had once been, what he had worked hard to become, and what he had accomplished in his lifetime. And then the angel pushed forth with all the power he could muster from his incarnate soul, and channeled his magic through the Stone into the man.

* * * *

Horavion's Stone During the Crusades, thousands of men with good intentions committed atrocious acts in the name of their church or were killed in futile assaults. Other crusades saw equal numbers of children marched off in the guise of war, only to be clapped in chains and sold into slavery in foreign lands. Horavion, a very old and respected dynama Angel of Justice, was horrified at these events. Standing upon the shore, he sacrificed his own immortal life to create the large rectangular Stone that bears his name. The Stone measures almost 7 feet long, 4 feet wide, and 2 feet thick. One can move it from its current location, but somehow it always returns to where it was created, either through the actions of angels or simply by appearing there if it has been gone too long. If the dead body of a good humanoid is placed on the Stone, and an angel or good divine spellcaster prays with his or her hands on the stone, the Stone activates a raise dead or resurrection upon that person (whichever is needed to restore the subject from the dead). The Stone is the equivalent of a 20th-level spellcaster. Activating the Stone deals negative levels to the praying individual equal to the minimum caster level of the necessary life-restoring effect (note that these are actual negative levels, not temporary negative levels as described in Anger of Angels). The Stone can restore the life any particular creature only once, and it works for any particular supplicant only once as well. It is rumored that an angel or divine spellcaster of sufficient power can use the Stone to revive a dead angel or other outsider, but doing so would deal 17 negative levels (the minimum caster level for the necessary miracle or wish) to the praying creature. True Mortality Rumors abound among the world-weary angels (particularly the grigori) of a spell than can turn an angel into a mortal. The effect is believed to be irreversible, and gives the recipient all the vulnerabilities and advantages of being a mortal as compared to an outsider. Those who seek this spell are usually dissatisfied with their angelic lives or seek to escape from someone or something. The rumors are true, and true mortality is a fairly low-level spell. Unfortunately, the ease of the spell belies a great side effect: In becoming a mortal, the outsider not only loses some or all of its racial abilities and class levels, but all memories as well. Just like Terzekiel's brother, the resulting humanoid has total amnesia -- sometimes with advantageous ability score modifiers and an innate knack for a certain spell or class, but no other ties to his or her former life as an angel. The exact effects vary from subject to subject. Of course, because of this drawback, the former angel cannot warn others about the consequences of the spell. Since those who seek this magic tend to be loners, they are unlikely to have friends present to recognize the side effects.

With a gasp, the man sat up. He looked around, surprised to be somewhere other than a battlefield, but readily accepting where he was, as if being on a rocky beach were the normal consequence of a bloody battle. He didn't recognize the man with him as an angel, as there was nothing particularly unusual about him. The angel gave him a spoon and a bowl of fruit and grains. There were no names for the fruits he was eating, but that didn't bother the man. He was tired, but he felt good at the same time. It was the way a runner feels after winning a long race, or the way an old man feels coming home to his wife of sixty years. The food was delicious and filling, and he ate all of it.

The angel brushed something from the man's head, as though shooing a fly. He didn't look at the angel's hand when the gesture was finished, didn't notice the crushed bullet and dried blood that the angel casually discarded, didn't realize he no longer had a mortal wound in his head.

He asked the angel a question, and the angel pointed farther up the beach. The tide was going out, revealing the darker, wet-packed sand, scattered with small shells. The man smiled, dusted himself off, and walked away in the direction the angel pointed. He breathed deeply of the salt air. It felt good to be near the sea again.

* * * *

Terzekiel was tired, and this was no false fatigue of meat and bone. He had given up a piece of his soul to activate the power of the Stone. If he was lucky, he would recover from that sacrifice in a few days. If he was unlucky, it could take him years to heal. Whatever the cost, it was worth it.

He watched the man walk away from the Stone. In a few minutes, the officer passed around a curve of the cliffs and out of sight. The man was thousands of miles and an ocean away from where he had died, and he didn't know anyone on this island, but he would adjust. The cherub didn't know when he would see the man again, but he hoped he would arrive earlier the next time his help was needed. They had watched each other's backs for hundreds of years, and the man's faulty memory wouldn't keep Terzekiel from upholding his side of the bargain.

His mission accomplished, he gave a mental tug on the link to Heaven and the calling magic that had brought him to the mortal world. As he felt his vessel's form dissolve before he was transported home, he had time for one thought.

"Good luck, my brother."