“Vitalis: A Lament for the Lost”
In the shadowed age of stone citadels and burning torches, where kings reigned beneath banners of faith and royal priests spoke with tongues of heaven, there dwelt the Guardians — celestial sentinels bound to protect mankind from its own abyss.
Among them shone Vitalis — the Angel of the Eternal Dawn. His wings gleamed like molten starlight, and his voice trembled with the harmony that first shaped creation. He stood watch when men still remembered the sacred breath that gave them life — when quests were holy, and crowns were heavy with duty, not desire.
But the hearts of men changed. The age of kings fell to the age of merchants. Gold became their scripture; desire, their creed. Temples turned to markets, and the sacred flame of virtue dimmed. Without reverence, the earth groaned — forests decayed, beasts turned mad, skies wept crimson rain. Humanity wandered in a storm of its own making — wild, godless, unmoored from the image of light.
Beyond the mortal veil, where eternity turns like unseen gears, the Four Ancient Wheels of Power began to move — celestial mechanisms older than suns. Their rims burned in the Golden Blue Spectrum, the color of divine balance — mercy and judgment intertwined.
From their motion came a thunderous decree:
“The harmony is breaking. Summon the Guardian of Mankind.”
And so, across the firmament, a cry echoed — ancient, vast, and filled with sorrow.
The earth shuddered as a figure descended from the high abyss of light — wings unfurled, eyes radiant with compassion and retribution alike.
Once more, Vitalis, the ancient guardian, rose above the ruins of man’s rebellion. His presence was not wrath, but remembrance — the call to restore what had been lost: kindness, love, and the purity of the divine image within.
For when mortal hands forget how to heal, only the hands of the eternal can lead them back to the light
Supra
The angels’ wings are not of feather or flesh, but of divine prism — sculpted by the Creator from the essence of light itself. Each span is molded from a crystalline substance beyond mortal comprehension, clear as quartz yet alive with inner radiance. When white light streams through them, it shatters into the full spectrum — red through violet — painting the heavens in ribbons of living color.
In peace, their wings glimmer like a thousand brilliant diamonds, refracting serenity across the realms. Each motion leaves trails of rainbow mist, every hue whispering a different emotion: red for courage, yellow for hope, indigo for wisdom.
But when the call to battle resounds, that beauty transforms. The colors ignite, merging into a storm of incandescent flame. The spectrum contracts and surges — red burning hottest at the core, violet flickering at the edge like divine fire. Every strike of their wings releases waves of radiant heat that sear through shadow.
In the high sanctuaries of heaven, when the war is done, their wings shift again — from fire to lightning. The colors sharpen into electric currents racing through translucent crystal, humming with the frequency of celestial power. The entire spectrum dances in living motion, from crimson arcs to violet sparks, until all hues converge once more into pure, holy white — the light of creation itself made manifest in flight.
