Blakk appears in the whiteness with the sound of a champagne cork. He drops
to the floor, exhausted from the fight and confused by the strange destination.
This is not his shades.
Cautiously he looks up.
This is some where very very different.......
The assembled rows of Ængles stare down at him. Disgust and hatred in
their blank black eyes. The light of their bodies burning into his souless-ness.
A movement ahead of him forces him to turns and looks along to rows to the form
they are standing honour guard for.
The bright shape writhes twists and moves, eventually condensing down into a figure; a woman in form fitting metallic armour designed more to arouse than protect. The mass around her hand condenses down into the shape of a long trident. She lifts herself from the throne also condensed from her mass.
Her voice rings with a purity of a single tone.
Her words focus the attention of ranks of Ængles on the Dæmon before
them.
"How dare you desecrate my realm with your presence!"