[Suzerain of Sheol]

Watching a patrol pass down the street -- half a dozen armed civilians, two ex-soldiers, and a middling psychic -- Shealtiel tried to imagine them looking so self-assured if it ever chanced that they had to defend the city's order from more than the occasional brawl or property dispute. These people seemed to think they were still living in the old world: in the complacent peace of secular civilization and overbearing government. Just what would these... "guards" do if a Sariel took it upon itself to pass judgment on their precious city? If one of the Horsemen just happened to be passing by? Were they counting on those two sanctimonious imbeciles to save their pitiful lives? The bottom scrapings of the Legion, those two, barely worthy of the title "Saint".

There's me, he supposed. For now. And though he would never be so brazen as to think himself equal to any, or even most threat of the post-apocalyptic world -- especially on his own -- he knew he'd pull more weight than their entire militia combined if trouble came calling while he was enjoying the comforts of their prosperous little wasteland enclave.

Sighing, he leaned against the building to his back and turned his attention shifting to the other people making their way up and down the street. He could feel the Mediterranean sun heating his heavy robes, but the warmth went no farther, could not touch his frigid skin.