the prophet awoke on the shores of the elysian mainland, lost, confused, and far from home. the memory of the violence brought upon his people was fresh in his mind, the kind of pain that nothing will fully heal. brushing off the sand from his jeans, the prophet rose and found the sword that he had escaped with, an ancient and powerful weapon which the teacher had said belonged to the angels. passed down from generation to generation, the exact origin of the sword had been lost to time.

once he had climbed over the first dune separating the beach from the rolling grasslands, the sunshine flickered across the blade, releasing a rainbow of stars from the hilt of the sword. shocked, the prophet let go, only for the blade to float in front of him. the eye in the center of the sword opened, and a deep voice in a tongue he did not know rang through his head. somehow, he knew what it meant. the angel mikael would guide him towards the outer realms where he would learn the language of the angels, so that he might answer back.