Michael: Last Angel of Earth

Present Day

In a small village in the Irish countryside, locals went about their daily routine. Even after the world was pulled into chaos and darkness, there were still small beacons of life worldwide. Here in Vitrolun, the people tried to bring back a sense of normality. Vitrolun was a small town centered around a local church led by Abbott Ambrós Ó Domhnalláin. The people called him Ambros for short. Ambros was not even an Abbott; he was a former Irish Brigade soldier many years ago during the fallout. After surviving, he gathered up a few survivors and established their hobble, far from others' activity. With the help of his close friends, Colum Ó Corragáin and Fíona Mhic Croidheáin, the three managed to bring back some hope to the people. Though he became a man of the cloth, Ambros has not forgotten his soldier roots. He and his friends will give their lives to protect Vitrolun.

Ambros is a large man with red hair with small patches of red scruff around his face. He is built like a tree, with powerful shoulders, arms, and legs. His eyes are blue, and have a small scar across his left cheek. Colum was built the same but was much shorter and had brown hair with amber eyes. Fiona is tall and lean, with long blonde hair and green eyes like emeralds. The three friends are preparing for today's service; they are missing two people.

"Colum, could you please get Barjon? We are about to begin today's service," said Fiona. Setting down the last chair, Colum went to Barjon's room. Entering the small chambers, the young friar sees their robbed friend writing at his desk. He was a regular man, though covered in strange tattoos and scars. He has short black hair with brown eyes scanning over his work. As he finishes his last sentence, he places his pen down before turning his head.

"Good morning Colum," said Barjon.

"Morning to you as well, Barjon. We are about to begin today's service."

"I'll be out in a few; let me get Margret quick. As the young friar left, Barjon gathered his belongings and went to look for Margret. Exiting outside the church, he enters the parish's gardens, which house an array of decorative flowers. Walking through the small garden, he looks and sees Margret sitting next to a rose bed.

"It's time to come inside; we are about to begin," said Barjon. Getting up, the young girl turned around and left the rose bed. Margret has grown these past few years. She was tall and lean, her eyes a darker shade of green, and her hair was cut short and wrapped in a tiny bun. She still puts beads in her hair and wears purple shoes. As for her beloved doll, she still has him. A reminder of the past in her room in the church. Accompanying Barjon, the two went back inside the church and awaited mass.

They watched and listened to Ambros's service while sitting at the very end of the room. To the people of Vitrolun, he was their light in the darkness. Many found comfort in his words, as he always seemed to improve things. While listening to the service, Barjon began to hear a soft voice whispering in his ear. At first, he brushed it off, but then he heard the voice again, this time in a louder whisper. He turns his head around but only sees the wall behind him.

"I hear things," he said to himself.

"Are you Michael?" replied the voice. Barjon feels his body tense up. He has not heard that name for some time now. His breathing slowed down, and his heart raced faster in his chest. Margret noticed this and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Micheal looks at her and nods his head.

"Yeah, just....just fine," he replied. Taking a deep breath, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and continued watching the service. After Ambros finished his sermon, he thanked the townspeople for coming to church and wished everyone another blessed day. With the townspeople leaving the parish, Colum and Fiona approached Ambros about plans for today.

"We have to make another supply run, Ambros. We are running low on medicine," said Fiona.

"I agree; what are our options?"

"Blackridge is overrun with necro mages. Too dangerous. Cussington is abandoned. Solaris and Ash Valley are too close to Bezerker territory. Illmoor and Malimoor are our best choices.

"I would not advise that," said Barjon, who overheard the discussion of the others.

"What do you mean?" said Fiona.

"Illmoor and Malimoor are too far away, not to mention we risk running into bandits on the road."

"We can handle a few bandits, Barjon," said Colum.

"You have not heard. The bandits now work for the Ember Council. With their backing, they can plunder legitimacy." Ambros did not like the sound of this. The Ember council was a collection of trade unions scattered over Ireland, Scotland, and England. In the past, Ambros has relied on them to allow safe passage into Illmoor and Malimoor. Now that does not seem to be the case.

"If that is true, I take it you know of an alternative?" said Ambros. Barjon nods his head.

"There is an island far off the coast, near the Tolego Sea. It's green, and I know it has abundant healing plants and herbs. I have been there many times."

"Any inhabitants on this island?"

"Just a pod of Selkie's," said Barjon. Selkies are mythological beings found in Faroese, Irish, and Scottish folklore. Selkies live as seals in the sea, but they shed their skin and become human once they come on land. They usually come on land to seek companionship, but since a Selkie's natural home is always the sea, they still long for the waters. Ambros liked this alternative so far.

"What's the island's name?"

"Elne."

"How long does it take to make the journey?"

"Two days. One going and one coming back," said Barjon.

"Very well, Elne, it is. We leave in an hour, so I suggest we get ready." Barjon went to his room and closed the door. Removing his habit, he places it on his bed. As he gets dressed, he hears the soft voice again, coming from the trunk underneath his bed. Kneeling, he grabs the chest and pulls it out. Inside was a cloth covering the bottom. Removing it, he sees HellFire. The sword is locked in its sheath, unable to be drawn. Barjon places a hand on the hilt and feels the temptation to set it free. However, he slowly removes his hand from the weapon.

"Free me," said a voice. Barjon shakes his head.

"Nunquam iterum" (never again).