The Beast When There Are No Nations


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The skies above the Sahara were a blood red, swarming with grotesque creatures held aloft by their bat like wings. The desert below was in much worse condition, humanoid monstrosities with twisted horns swarmed forth from the craters pocketing the landscape, slaughtering all unfortunate enough to cross their path, including their own kin. The few representatives of humanity who escaped the carnage remained huddled and hidden in their alcoves, left to await their inevitable fates.

Suddenly the swarms above the Sahara part, a freezing wind descending upon the burning desert. Through the monstrous eye of the storm, The Beast descended; dozens of mangled monstrosities strung from its undercarriage.

The Beast takes the form of war itself, changing in its fury as we do. As we fear it, so too does it fear our brutality.

The Beast was an angel of vengeance that had long since fallen to the sins of man.

Across the shattered landscape, the beast was met with only the twisted sneers of the grotesque, creatures too foolish to truly fear what stared them down.

Once the mightiest of the forces, noble and cruel in equal measure, it was us that twisted it into such barbarity.

The Beast unleashed wave after wave of rockets streaking across the sky, showering the desert below with gore. The chilled air hung with the all too familiar metallic stench as the living storm of winged creatures swarmed The Beast, only to be quickly felled by the dozens.

What it inflicted upon us was only retribution for what we inflicted upon one another tenfold.

The Beast soon found its storm of missiles reduced to a drizzle, the sand below thick and muddied with the lifeblood of creatures above. Quickly the sound of machine gun fire soon filled the desert, as if the beats of a hellish drum, and a downpour of boiling rain answered its call in turn.

From this, we stared aghast at the violence lain in its wake. Irreverent to the reflection of our own nature.

The creatures struck back against The Beast, innumerable claws, clubs and maws scraping at its scarred surface. Perhaps, when the world belonged to men, such an onslaught would have brought down The Beast. But, as times had changed, so had The Beast. An outer carapace reinforced with bone and sinew met the assaults and refused to falter.

It was easy, then. To lay the blame for our own evils upon it, as a separate force.

The horned creatures sneers turned to panic, as they realised that this was no longer the animal, the hunter of the weak, that they had believed. This was fury incarnate, raw and untamed, determined to carry out its grim purpose.

But- in our darkest hour, when the world burnt at the touch of an eternal war-

The Beast was unrelenting, and as day turned to night never was there a moment when The Beast's steady beat of gunfire ceased echoing across the landscape. The vile swarms dispersed, by fear and flame, falling before vengeance inflicted upon them.

Only then could true vengeance be enacted. Atonement for our sins, through divine reckoning against those that would destroy us. The Beast was a monster no longer, it was an angel of war.

And as the few remaining creatures fled into the muggy night, desperate to escape the onslaught, only a single thought echoed through the incomprehensible consciousness of The Beast.

For when all is war, there's nothing left to fight for but peace.

-Writings from the Church Of The Beast

The war had begun.

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