Josirus stood before the wanderer, unsure who or what he was. He looked to be a Dark Angel, but he did not feel like one of the sons of the lions. He felt more like a lost soul than anything. "Brother, who are you?"
Zeruel ElâCalanhad was not one whom many would encounter under the usual circumstances that most would have thought. There was no foretelling that could have predicted such a moment which had now come to pass and yet as a question was asked, the other did not seek to answer it. Instead, the mist that spilled from the decrepit doorway pooled around them as if casting some scene from a forgotten terran folktale. His knightly helm beneath the discolored cowl offered no light to glean, no lenses to see and only brought upon the steady, rhythmic breathing that escaped from Zeruelâs helm.
If only could see past the mighty visage, they would take note that his armor was ancient, full of scars which spoke of tales. Tales which were beyond counting as the very aura of history hung about him like the dangling blade of the executionerâs axe. For those attuned to the Immaterium so acutely, it was more than obvious that he was not something typically found in the employ of the Golden Throne. Instead, there was an air of mystery that surrounded him, a nameless event that engraved itself within his very soul that could be felt by those who could feel such things. Yet still, his knightly visage was undeniable, the great beastâs pelt still chained to his armor as its pattern was forgotten beneath the myriad of customization in which he made. However, it was undeniable of what Legion he hailed from.
âI am Zeruel ElâCalanhad.â He answered grimly. âWho, pray tell, are you?â
His voice echoed through the hall in which they met, but the danger of this meeting still remained as the Astartes held in his hand a poleaxe that crackled with energy.
