Her wings were at once more beautiful and lethal than any that had been produced in nature. They fully ensconced her equally alluring body like a chrysalis of golden-white feathers - each one more smooth to the touch than any velvet or silk, yet sharper than any sword or spear through their edges and tips. They could withstand artillery fire and cleave away limbs like a blade through butter.
Truthfully, where they not wholly necessary for her to fly, she could easily have wielded them as her weapons of choice rather than the Empyrean Lance she kept to at her beck and call at all times, or the golden Sword of Sol which had remained sheathed at her side for the longest time since she took this most recent vessel - rarely being employed for battle and was predominantly reserved for ceremonial purposes.
The sanctioning of orgies within the nest, the christening of new seraphim within the Legion, and - as would be the case within the next mortal hour or so - the appointment of a new cleric within her church.
The one at present had led his flock well, but he was old flesh in need of a more contemporary successor. One strong enough to carry her commandments for more years than a measly decade or so.
The lambs of her flock - the body of her congregation - were effortless to cultivate. A lost world has no deficit of lost souls, after all.
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Shepherds were merely lambs given purpose and made to feel both loved and in control by doing so, while paladins were little more than leashed wolves commanded to guard the sheep and slate their bloodlust on those who would hunt them in turn.
But to appoint a suitable cleric would require a far more discerning eye than simply seeking out the most zeal within a longtime convert. While fidelity to the faith was expected above all else, clerics alone were entrusted with the truth of their “Blessed Archangel’s” grand design and given the powers necessary to keep the congregation in order.
“Your Majesty,” a voice called with reverence.
She could feel his presence and his intentions well before the words left his mouth. Before he even entered her chamber, in fact.
The seraph knelt on bended knee, his ivory-white wings unfurled high - a sign of submission to his creatrix and queen.
She knew him from a mile away. Dorumel the Corpse Slayer. A recent ascension into the seraph caste. So named and so honored for his service in dispatching a small brood of undying blood-drinkers newly risen from their graves and seemingly abandoned by their murderers for the sole purpose of going mad with orphaned hunger and ravaging the chapel nearby.
Those responsible were never found, those they left behind didn’t survive long enough for even the morning sun to consume them.
“A suitable candidate has been selected for your sanction.”
Her wings unfurled wide, revealing a luminous figure that would’ve left nothing to the imagination. Had he not kept his head bowed and his eyes closed, Dorumel would’ve bore witness once again to his queen’s nubile physique as she descended from her perch high above her throne; landing with flawless grace as she took her seat upon it.