[Suzerain of Sheol]

The entire APC lurches as Jeanne throws on the breaks. Apparently, they have arrived.

As the group makes their way out of the armored transport, they can make out the corpse of Saint Typasius through the dust-cloud raised by the vehicle's passage.

The golden powered armor of the Saint is rent, his torso a splayed mess of organs and cybernetics, all splashed with silver blood. One of his swords remains in his hand, though the hand itself is severed and lies shriveled several feet away. The other sword has snapped in half, its hallowed fires quenched forevermore.

There is no sign of the Rephaim, though the faint imprint of tracks in the hard-packed sand can be made out, trailing away from the site of the battle. They are of a size that they can only have been made by the enormous undead warrior.

High above, ravens wheel, eerily silent, though none have yet descended to feast on the flesh of the Saint. Perhaps some lingering touch of the divine keeps them from desecrating what little remains of his dignity. In the dead man's wide, unseeing eyes, there is a look of despair, of utter failure. Of an eternal life's devotion betrayed in that last of moments, cast aside in the disgrace of defeat. With this one blemish on his beatific legacy, Typasius has undone all the great works of his life. He shall be remembered for this, and for this alone.