Engel: Fiat Lux Good angels are fallible ... they sin every day and fall from Heaven like flies. ANATOLE FRANCE, The Revolt of the Angels Roma Æturna, Vernal Equinox: The Lord has smiled upon this Consecration Day; the ever-present rain that bathes all of Europe has ceased its fall for a time as God's holy emissary, the Pontifex Maximus Petrus Secundus, delivers his blessing on those servants of His will arrayed below him. The ceremony lasts from dawn's first light until the last weak rays that make it through the ever-present clouds are seen over the roof of the Lateran. The wide courtyard echoes with the pronouncements and blessings in His Holiness' clear and flawless Latin. Beneath where the Pontifex stands, heads bowed in quiet prayer as they stand in ordered formation around the plaza, those for whom this supplication is meant try not to shuffle. They have been trained rigorously for years; however even that amount of discipline can wear thin after such a time, and they are nothing if not eager to Serve. Dictated by centuries of tradition as unchanging as the child pope himself, the Consecration comes to its inevitable majestic conclusion. As one, the gathered raise their eyes to the heavens. As one, they ascend, and flights of angels fill the dusk-painted skies. Alighting in the grand receiving gallery just off the flight deck of the Michaelitin Himmel, the large space is occupied by a multitude of other Engel who have just received the blessing of the Pontifex as you have. The fading light filters through a majestic stained glass window set high in the elegant marble-lined hall. The rainbow colors against the gold leaf which accents various masterful carvings and accents seems to glow, lending an air of festivity to the scene. The rustle of wings and excited conversation fill the air as individuals of different orders are inexplicably drawn to one another to form their Fellowships. After a little wandering through the crowd, greeting and being greeted by the fellows of your orders whom you know as well as trading pleasantries with those brothers and sisters of differing orders, you begin to hear something akin to the high clear tolling of a delicate silver bell. It becomes clearer as you move to the center of the room; as you move you know that none of these other Engel are the ones calling to you. As if at once, you are standing in a small knot of Engel when the bell fades, replaced by the mental equivalent of a rush of air; like an airlock being pressurized. And it is in this moment that you know that those gathered around you are your fellowship, for better or worse. You have a few precious moments to trade greetings and names when a young monk of the Michaelitin order, clothed in the soft golden tones of the order and very fair of face, presents Tiel with the flight orders for her band. You are to enjoy the festivities of the evening, socialize and partake of the Manna, get to know your fellows and then report to your individual cellae to rest. At first light, you must journey to your assigned town where you will protect and aid the people there. Tomorrow you fly to Frieburg. With a low bow, the monk wishes you all well before turning to deliver orders to other Michaelitin. Soft light begins to radiate from the marble walls themselves as the last of the light from outside is extinguished. It is there that you are left to regard your new companions.