The Wolves of Paragon

The Nephilim, sons of fallen angels, moved as a single unit towards Kaynan's fortress. They dragged their unruly werewolves with them. Then finally, when one more defining stride forward was taken, these giants came to an abrupt halt.

A few of Heaven's holy Warriors scaled the two highest towers and perched atop on bended knee. Their bows were strung with silver arrows. The Nephilim force made no further advancement.

"What are they waiting for?" Joshua, Kaynan's Watcher, asked as he moved uncomfortably beneath his armor. His dingy white shirt, covering most of the breastplate, hung loosely around his leather-laced pants.

"If I'm not mistaken, they wish to play," said Bowden with eyes fixed on his enemy.

The Nephilim knew the Warriors were tireless fighters, swift and cunning, but most of all, they had patience. Close to five hundred Nephilim stood in the cold rain and waited for the Warriors to make the first move. Five rows of one hundred facing the castle from the East Tower to the West Tower. And from somewhere close to the midst of their assembly appeared a lone figure hidden within a dark, bloody cloak. Those behind the walls of Kaynan cleared their eyes from the falling rain and gasped.

"Who is that?" Esther asked.

"Moloch," Joshua replied, "Prince of the Nephilim, commander of the Whisperers, Governor of Perdition, and caretaker of DooMuss' affairs."

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Illustrations: Wikimedia Commons