Upon the mountain. Act I

 (Tugging)
The comfort of being coddled here in this dark void,
this rift where I am but flotsam adrift,
It's tempting to release the buoy that is securing me to the surface
and allow myself to be swallowed down the maw.
But, I feel this persistent pull,
I'm being drawn in.
Oh, what wretched clamor doth bleed through
to my embryonic refuge,
Pummeling its way into the aching crevices?
Suddenly, violently, my eyelids burst open.
It all returns to me,
Every treacherous detail,
Every triumphant war cry.
Har Megiddo.
Baking beneath the swollen sun.
I suppose even Ra must eventually sleep as well.
(Storm the gates!)
The sky above is a nebulous, ozone deficient distortion,
hiding behind serpentine heat waves.
The very atmosphere seems to be reverberating with the
turbulent cacophony of war.
Time has slowed.
A pulsing throb plagues the right side of my head,
right beyond my brow.
A smoldering mass of rubble must have sent me
careening into the nether,
for I appear to be be-speckled with dust and gravel.
Holy land shrapnel.
Perched upon the precipice
overlooking the earths laceration into hell,
spies a heavensent.
His scout.
Filthy feckless mongrel abomination.
Too divine to get his host of heavenly fingers
caked in blood, mud and clots of gore.
Target established.
A sudden blast of adrenaline allowing me to overcome the anchor that is dizziness rushes through my veins.
I become reacquainted with my feet.
The chain mail hisses as it readjusts to the shift in gravity and settles,
pleasantly heavy, against my shoulders.
It's a comforting yet illusory weight.
Rather worthless, really,
considering the foes I've been cutting down on this day to end all days,
But once this coward from above falls to my blade
his heavenly armor will  significantly improve my chances of survival.
I still intend to die on this day nonetheless.
Scrambling over the mass grave of corpses
that blanket the cracked sun parched earth,
I can't prevent a grin from gracing my face
as the scent of the roasting cadavers fills my nostrils.
This is where I belong.
The stone niche that is my destination isn't far,
Perhaps another twenty yards or so.
It's hard to be decisive given that I am peering through warped waves of heat.
From his outcrop of vicarious seclusion,
I will be within the blind spot.
The rock is cooler here in the shade,
at the foot of this leviathan of rock.
My ascent is treacherous and progressing slowly.
As I slither my way from handhold to foothold
I feel intense anticipation narrowing my senses to a honed point.
I'm consumed with single minded tunnel vision.
Nearing the peak,
I pass through a veil and the atmosphere quite suddenly feels pressurized.
It's the heavensent.
Had he not been so engulfed in the events upon the battlefield below,
he may have sensed my approach.
But, he didn't.
Closing the distance,
I could not pull my gaze from him (it) if I dared to try.
It's an odd thing, being so close to one of them.
Earthly perspective no longer applies,
as if they, themselves,
are releasing a mind altering fume into the air.
I can taste the newfound colors as they vividly twinkle
off the surfaces of every grain of sand and dirt
like spears of eldritch  light cast from the hand of Zeus.
I found myself hypnotized
and very nearly slain during my first encounter with one of the higher kind.
Drawing closer I began to smell his thoughts,
Musty, leather bound battle cries
and sickly sweet bile scented carnage.
The most prominent being a sort of oxidizing iron of the odds of victory.
These things are not easily put into words.
In the midst of the experience
your mind simply accepts that these things are.  
The mingled plethora of cries and howls,
both triumphant and agonizing,
from man, beast and Host alike,
are distant,
muffled from my narrowed focus and
muted through this Hosts atmospheric sphere of distortion.
I'm closing in and I know that my precision
must be perfect when I strike,
For I will only have one opportunity.
A stealth assassination is the simplest way to succeed.
His back is to me,
But a few feet left.
But what sudden shift do I sense?
The stench of festering, decomposing alarm commingled
with maggot wracked septic deception.
He knows.
Before the thought is finished processing
I have already raised my muted crimson cleaver
half a head above my own.
Time seems to cease its insistent forward march
as my mighty companion hangs overhead,
suspended in stoic victory
as it gazes down upon its hard earned meal.
The fall is graceful, elegant almost,
and I bury it deep into the blank,
perfectly unflawed skin lying between the throat and shoulder.
I can feel my blade vibrate as It cleaves through his clavicle
and the bone scrapes along both sides of the blade.
His grievous wound spurts,
regurgitating his life upon the side of my face and chest.
It's warm, hot even, as in runs in thick,
fat slithering rivulets beneath my mail.
It's almost erotic.
I leave my blade buried and hold him in place
as he starts to seize and convulse,
As the spurts become shorter and less energetic.
At last he goes limp and slumps against me.
But there is still life in him.
In one swift movement,
I rip my blade free and slam it down into his skull.
There is a very audible SNAP as the surrounding air rushes
in to fill the void that was his own personal heavenly atmosphere.
He is slain.
Quickly, I unfasten the armor and let him fall forward,
Into the pit.
Let the hounds have him.
After a hasty observation of my surroundings
to ensure my safety,
I fit myself with the armor.
It's almost weightless and will not hinder my movement
but I know it was forged in furnaces of purest light
by the hand of Michael himself.
It will be my best protection,
Besides my own wits, of coarse.
That was but one of the thousands.
They are called The Heavenly Host
for good cause.