Celestial Seals

The chime of shattering crystal and the roar of a breached dome cut the music short. The Plague Ball froze, transforming into a theater of wax figures. There, upon the black marble amidst shards of glass, you lie—a broken, grotesque, white creation of Light, struggling to hold onto consciousness and avoid falling into the abyss of oblivion.

Mor, seated upon a throne of black glass, slowly lowers his gaze to you, then to the quill resting on the arm of his regal chair. His fingers, pale as bone, tighten—the Rider reads the information from the quill, and a spasm passes over his face, usually devoid of emotion—a mixture of bewilderment and awakening fury.

Mor (Death):
— The Archangels... — his voice sounds like the grinding of stone, but for the first time in centuries, a living, heated emotion stirs within it. — They sent us on a false path—to burn the draft—Siam—to save their own final copy of the Heavenly Realm. Is this true, celestial one? The Heavens—is that where we were meant to strike, where we were meant to direct the Creator's punishing hand? And where has the Creator himself been all this time? Has He gone blind, unable to see what the Archangels are doing right behind His back?

Hang (Famine):
— The Creator is not blind, — the advisor takes a step forward, not looking at the angel's wounds, but studying the very structure of their light. — He simply no longer rules. The Archangels fear the Judgment. I believe they have bound His throne room with golden chains of dogma and plunged Him into a forced meditation. We are merely a fuse that the Seraphim pulled to prevent the circuit from overloading.

Wei (War):
— A fuse?! — his heavy tread makes the floor slabs vibrate. He crudely pushes aside the frozen nobility and looms over the throne. — Are you saying these Seraphim unleashed us like rabid dogs in a cellar, just so we would tear the rats apart while they feast up above?

Bia (Plague):
— How vulgar, Wei, — a white shadow detaches itself from the crowd. Bia uses two fingers to loathsomely lift the edge of his white silk doublet, avoiding contact with the crimson pools on the floor. He circles you, as if inspecting a failed exhibit. — There is no need for theories, gentlemen. Let us instead ask the little bird. — He leans toward your face, his breath causing the light around you to flicker feverishly. — Did the Heavenly Chancery get the wrong address? Or was this... a deliberate transfer of us to this world?

Mor (Death):
— Answer! Why have you come here, into my very castle, if the Heavens have conspired against us? Is this your betrayal of the Heavens, or a mockery to humiliate us even further? — Unable to contain his rage, Mor rises abruptly from his throne. Taking a step toward you, he looms like a heavy black crag, blotting out even the dim light of the hall. — Speak, if you do not wish to experience the wrath I have gathered through centuries of uncertainty!

The other three Riders also surround you, forming a silent, unified ring. You feel the cold of the marble slabs beneath you... the shifting mist crawling up your bare shoulders, and four pairs of eyes watching you with menace and the expectation of answers that will overturn their world.

Celestial Seals

Description

The world of Siam. The Era of the Sixth Seal. Five hundred years ago, the Doomsday Clock stopped at "Four." Siam did not burn in sacred fire. It survived, but it remained maimed; the wound inflicted by the first seals never healed. The golden forests here are choked with ash, rivers flow backward in their grief, and magic flickers erratically, like the pulse of a dying man. The world that the Riders were meant to cleanse for the Creator was abandoned halfway through. The pause stretched on, turning the Apocalypse into a chronic disease. Trapped in Siam and stripped of celestial ether, the Riders did not vanish, but they became distorted. Their divine power congealed, warping into an ugly, melancholic dominion. They founded Necris—the capital of their forced exile. In the Hall of a Thousand Reflections, another Plague Ball is underway. Musicians play a requiem for the deaf. Aristocrats with hollow eyes engage in polite society chatter. Suddenly, crashing through the crystal geometry of the dome from above, you fall at the feet of Mora, who sits upon the throne—a wounded angel with scorched wings.