As children know their drunken father’s footfall at night, so angels know her tread and weep, helpless, despairing as the axe cleaves in twain the monolithic gates to the Underplane, sealed and hidden at the heart of heaven, long before the time of men.
Clad in the charred and smoking armor of an alien civilization she advances, holding out gauntleted hand to welcome the return of the enchanted tool – axe forged from the blood and titanium bones of ten million screaming dracrothropes – in time to hew limbs from the few brave demigods that would bar her passage. This: her mercy, now exhausted.
Behold, Underplane: infinite leagues of blasted bog and sulfurous, writhing forest, land of barbs and strange growth. For one as she this presents – at last! – a challenge, but time is short and with whispered word her armor transforms them into a gleaming silver spear that streaks across the sky.
Today she slays the rape-son It had on her… and reclaims the withered, dying kingdom, cradled in her fury.