"Ask of me, and I shall give the the heathen for thine inheritance, and for thine possession, the ends of the Earth."
A yellowed parchment drifts down from the sky, fluttering in a light wind.
"Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron. Thou shalt dash them in pieces, like a potters vessel."
A soft light emanates from it as it splits into two, two become four, and four become eight.
"Be wise now therefore ye kings. Be admonished ye judges of the Earth."
Soon a flurry of papers swirls towards the ground as a single figure materializes in their midst.
"Serve the lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling. Kiss the son lest he be angry, and ye perish in the way..."
The papers settle to the ground, some catching the wind and blowing away as the tails of Irae Iscariot's cassock billow out behind him. The light glints off the cross that hangs from his neck, and reflective glare hides his eyes behind his glasses.
"...though his wrath be kindled but a little."
With a flick of his wrists six silver daggers appear between his fingers as he holds his arms in front of him in the form of a cross,
"You who call yourself a god, prepare yourself, for the judgement of the true God is upon you."