Power From On High...

Chapter 1: Part 1

Clouds careening across the sky sometimes have messages. As light as air, they hold the key to life.

A drop of water.

A drop of water within the cloud waits, as if on the edge of a leaf.

A message? Of course. Water holds a message. How could it not? When you drink, does the water not tell you that you are being satisfied? When you bathe, does the water not give you that fresh feeling, telling you that you are clean? When you drown, does the water not tell you that you are not where you are supposed to be?

A drop of water.

A drop of water held by weightless cousins.

To its family, the drop of water says goodbye, proceeding to fall, with a message.

Birds, unaware, barely miss the droplet in their flight.

Winds surges, bending the path of the droplet, eager to give its message.

What's this? Something unnatural? An advanced defense mechanism of sentient life protecting a city? It allows the droplet, regardless of its defensive measures.

The droplet, magnifying the sun, catches the eye of a boy out in a massive crowd and he smiles while petting his lion.

The droplet spatters upon the head of a being who is teeming with the forces of the universe incarnate.

The being looks up at the sky.

The droplets of water freeze upon the being's head and in being transformed, the message is lost.

If only he got the message.

Cronus leader of the tribe Eterlas, revered as the eldest, most feared and well respected force upon Mars, stands up from his seated position upon the throne, Fayhime, of Throne Hill right in the center of Center Park. Fayhime. The throne that he had spent the better part of his impossibly long life, fighting and politicking to earn. It was a nice sunny early morning. This was Dullav, the third day of the week, of the third day of the month of Ahasoo, the fifth month of the year.

Cronus stood before a crowd of his people and the entire population murmured with excitement in apprehension of his address. He was of dark skin and remarkably tall, eight feet, two inches. His eyes were a deep bluish silver. Most maresse, meaning Martian females, would not say that he was outwardly attractive, but he had a unique face that was somehow greatly appreciated. A bizarre beauty. His face was clean-shaven and had been for over one hundred thousand years. It is well known that when an Angel decides upon the style of their appearance, it stays that way until they change their mind; if ever they do. He was rugged and he had an enveloping presence.

Cronus wore red armor that shone like rubies in the sunlight. A golden cape of the finest sthriha, which is spider-worm silk, adorned his shoulders. His silver hair was straight and slicked back, disappearing into the neck of his armor.

The sun was poised high in the sky. The weather brought a calm wind and above the whistle of it, millions of voices whispered.

"Eterlasons!" He bellowed, unleashing a tremor of sound from his throat that shook his audience like the voices of an army numbering in the hundreds of thousands. It shattered the meager silence kept by the army and citizens before him; true silence swiftly followed the roar.

"I hope my voice is enough for you mar and maresse of Eterlas. Do you honor your leader?" He paused, "Do you?!" Cronus shouts, hunched forward with his right leg on top of an unused speaker, trying to look every soul in his massive audience in the eyes. "I would hope so. Praise me with your answer!"