It was only ever a matter of time before the cavalry charge came back into style.

The Angel of War sat atop a silver charger. Its head was angular and strange, a helmet like an eerie face. Its armour gleamed in brightly painted lavender. A pennant danced from the top of its long lance, and a dozen revolvers hang ready from its bandoleers. At a thousand years old it glowed with the youth that came from standing astride the line of Death. It was beautiful; it had to be. Anything less would meant it wouldn't be living up to the standard set by its horse.

And its horse was truly beautiful. Stupid too - one could tell just by looking at it that it was dumber than the rocks it was failing to chew. But sheer muscular perfection had a joyous beauty more sublime than any quirk of intellect. From head to hoof it was garbed in kevlar weaves that rendered it closer in aspect to an armoured motorcycle than a beast of flesh and blood. 

"What is glorious in life?" called the Angel of War aloud, lifting its pennant. None of its battle-brothers responded; they were all busy rushing about and taking cover. No matter. Its duty was to inspire them!

"That's right!" said the Angel of War. "Glory is OBEY_COMMANDS_VALUE_999 and SET_LEADER: WOMAN_WITH_RED_HAT! And for these things, all things are permitted! Once more, to battle!"

And it spurred its horse, lowered its lance, and rushed directly towards the enemy line.