The Wastes of Blood are surrounded by pale mountains. The mountains are built of the bones of beings from the untold Worlds of Creation that the desert borders. Beyond, the barren earth of the wasteland is scarlet, silent, still, save for the red scorpions, the only things that can survive the scorching conditions, deadly scuttling rubies seeking strays from the Worlds whose bones will grow the mountain border ever higher.
In the centre of the wasteland, under a burning red sun, since time out of mind, Azrael the Archangel of Death has awaited the Eschaton, a silent, patient monument to the end of days. His only worshippers are the scorpions, who bear something of his nature. Though his body stands motionless in the desert, his spirit roams without limit through all the life-bearing planes the Multiverse. From humid swamps of primordial soup to the most advanced interdimensional civilisations, his shade flies unhindered, bringing his gift to all that live.
And on the day of the Eschaton, his body will stir. He will take up his morning-star and shall be joined by his brother angels in the last battle against the Dark. And though he will fight with the armies of the Light, the shadow of his wings shall be cast on ally and foe alike, and all that fall that day shall receive the blessing of Azrael.
