Fearful Odds
The Exalted appeared, and the wall fell. Thousands died as the Archangyl of the First Circle contemptuously swept it's way through the defenses, Avernites cut down like chaff before a farmer's scythe. On into the city the Abomination's champion came, it's retinue following; past strongpoint after strongpoint it pressed, tenacious and indomitable defenders perishing even as others slowed the golden host behind. Eventually, the Exalted was alone, its forces halted for the moment, but it did not matter: nothing mortal could stand against the daemon. Soldiers were slaughtered, tanks were shattered, and warp powers were countered; still the Avernites threw themselves at it, trying to buy time. More time was needed, to bring the best that Avernus could bear against so mighty a foe; but the Exalted was relentless, single-minded in it's mission, and too soon had it arrived at the inner gates, to the threshold of the heart of Dis, and the vault where the Last Saint was guarded.
Yet the Exalted paused, for the gate was defended - but not by any mortal.
The lone figure stood before the entryway, clad head to toe in armor scored by scars yet unbreached, a blade bright with power in one hand and a shield stronger than adamantine in the other. It set a fighting stance at the Exalted's approach, an unflinching stare leveled through it's full helm at the golden daemon, waiting for the warpspawn to come and face it. Over many years and countless conflicts the solitary defender had fought and fell, against foes innumerable or overwhelming, and in the tongues of others became known by many names - the Defiant, Valiance, Knight Gallant.
The Doomed One.
In an instant, the Exalted charged forward, and the Doomed One met it head on. Blades clashed at impossible speeds, rending blows carved apart the surrounding terrain, and warp energy roiled and cascaded in terrible intensity. As the fight carried on, it became apparent: the Doomed One could not win. Dauntless and determined it might be, the minor god could not defeat so mighty a foe, flush the Archangyl was with the Abomination's strength and will. But with every passing moment, the Doomed One's power grew too; with every nick and hit upon it's body, the godling drew closer and closer to the center of it's domain, to the very core of it's ideal. Here, in this suicidal last stand, the Doomed One was in its element.
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One minute, two minutes - The Exalted, frustrated, intensifies its assault; the Doomed One, unyielding, redoubles its efforts.
Five minutes, six minutes - the Archangyl shatters the Doomed One's shield, only to rock back from the shot the godling fired, the massive gun there one instant then gone the next, another shield in it's place.
Nine minutes, ten minutes - With a shout of triumph, Tjapa's champion lops off an arm from its enemy; the Doomed one repays it by tearing out one of the daemon's eyes. The Exalted roars in anger, the godling remains silent, and both continue to fight.
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The Doomed One could not win - that was a certainty. But it could buy time, enough that those after it might fully marshal their strength. It could bloody it's opponent, enough that the next defenders might have a better chance. And it
would die standing, fighting till the last - for its cause was just, and that was enough.
@Durin most certainly non-canon, but I was inspired.
Also, shout-out to
@random_npc for creating the character.
