[10:00] Talguth says, "Ah."
[10:00] Grit asks, "Hm?"
[10:00] Talguth says, "The Time is upon us."
[10:00] Talguth says, "Grand."
[10:00] Kynodisme thinks, "...Time for the show...! Press all the buttons and levers. I wanna see what they do..."
[10:00] Sterling Montelione says, "Right, of course."
[10:01] Grit says, "Oh, right, his ritual...not like I have anything I could contribute anyway."
[10:01] Sterling Montelione says, "All may participate."
[10:01] Grit says, "I mean I don't mind helping in any way I can, might aswell make myself useful. Speaking of, have any of you seen Thomas, I have a bunch of wood for his expansion project."
[10:04] "..It's...heh..got a little..kick to it."
Blackwater's arm was a hideous mockery of nature from the start, a grotesque appendage that writhed with an unsettling life of its own. It resembled the massive, chitinous forelimb of some nightmarish cockroach, dark and slick with the sheen of its hard shell. Each segment moved with a sickening, insect-like precision, its jagged joints clicking unnervingly. Veins of pulsing, black ichor crawled across the surface when he was idle.
The exoskeleton split completely , cracking open like a shedding cicada, releasing a flood of thick, inky sludge that spilled onto the floor. The smell was rancid, a blend of rot and decay. Beneath the cracked shell, muscles writhed like a mass of snakes, swelling and bulging as they tore through the remaining carapace and move to swallow the earth below.
An expression of strain shifts onto the man's features as he grabs his right shoulder with his left hand. Themass of flesh that lands upon the earth continues to ooze and spread. With trembling eyes and grit teeth, the man actively begins to drool as he has to lock onto something.
He's not magical prodigy or a man who even knows how the finer mechanisms of magic work. Didn't have to worry about things intruding his mind before, at least when they weren't attached to him.
"....I can't feel it. Think it wants to..hah...try and eat more shit. One.....three......five....seven....eleven..." He called out numbers, finding a mental root to keep himself locked onto the task at hand.
He's got to pull it back.
Back to the original shape.
Flesh peeled back, revealing sinewy tendons coiling and stretching as they attempted/i> reshaped themselves. Thick cords of muscle twisted unnaturally, tearing through the viscera with wet, slopping sounds. All he can do is keep it focused on the earth, however. It begins to spreadtowards the group gathered.
"....I think..it's....hungry.."
(Blackwater)
[10:06] Christophore Garijn thinks, "...neat"
[10:07] The runework spreads far, the constant gloom the city was placed in darkened still by its growing influence. Impossible glyphs paint the sky, the midnight heavens overhead twinkling out as the stars were replaced with alien sigils, eldritch energies and esoteric powers invoked for this very moment.
Time seemed to grow to a still.
Those beyond this barrier of nigh-opaque black drawn to a gradual stop. The voice of the Mind Eater echoes out as violet unlights glint and glimmer in their new sky, a deep, sonorous resonation taking to the senses.
"[My thanks for your presence, for your observation. Even if you believe yourself incapable of assisting, know that by merely arriving, you have already set yourself as a component to this Ritual.
It will a simple play set into two acts.
The first, this siphoning of energy from the Timestream to enweave into the structure of this material.]"
A thick strip of bark manifests with its word, a carved bit of tree-flesh taken from the husk of Solais itself. It still bleeds, dark ichor seeping out from it, the temporally-sustained skin of the empty vessel floating into the center of the runic formation.
"[The second, the Writing of a Story to herald its use, the reignition of Solais by manner of temporal displacement at the height of Atrellya's siege. I cannot tell you what role you shall play in this Story; if you do not want to participate, I suggest you depart before the Quill is presented.]"
The latter portion was a bit more esoteric than the former, it seemed. But regardless of any others reaction to this Ritual's beginning, energies would start to spike within the grand runic formula. Just as the Mind Eater had predicted, this would be fun.
(Talguth)
[10:11] Something resolves from the shadows in the treeline just behind Nix. A pair of cautious red eyes peers at her, drilling into the back of her head.
(Felice Halbmond)
[10:12] Chris nods a few times while he listens in on the explanation. By now he had a decent enough grasp at what kind of reality altering shenanigans Talguth was able to do and with that explanation, he had enough agency to at least play his role in this kind of rite.
"Right then. I suppose that means I'll be playing the role of whatever brings death to Atrellya, since that fits my niche the best. Or brings an end to the sorry state Solais currently is in. Either would fit my faith the best I think."
He hummed a few times while he wonders just how that kind of story would start to play out. And how much he'd have to do in that. He didn't realy have a chance or so to do any of those reality altering plays before afterall.
"Direct me then when it is time."
(Christophore Garijn)
[10:12] The ivory-haired knight of Astra keeps her attention to Talguth, her mind open to the echoes of the Mind Eater's voice. A hand reaches to the back of her head, scratching at it until a new voice invades her thoughts — eyes of blue swiftly move to the shadows.
Glaring.
(Nix Bargiel)
[10:12] Nix Bargiel thinks, "I am prepared."
[10:12] Esoti glances at the bark of Solias. He's spent much time fertilizing and tending to the tree after it's withering.
Yet here, this man holds a chunk of it, oozing with a dark and ominous goo.
The first time he stepped foot in gloomlight, he didn't like it. The unreality portal made him vomit the first time he stepped through.
Over time, his feelings warmed towards the town. Yet now, seeing the great tree's flesh stripped, and drooling profane ichor... He's sickened the same way he was the first time the portal yanked him in a direction that cannot exist and can only be described with insane rantings of delusions.
Still though, he steels himself. This is the best way to move forward, and he wishes to help.
(Esoti Liam)
[10:13] Nix Bargiel thinks, "I am as well as I can be, then."
[10:14] Frode only came by to watch what would happen but it seems if he wanted to know he would have to be apart of the ritual. He crossed his arms and tilted his head.
"Oh what the hell."
They thought it would be interesting to see where this goes so they decided to stick around, taking a seat on one of the chairs by the table
(Frode)
[10:15] Nix Bargiel thinks, "Alright. Later, then."
[10:15] Kynodisme keeps headbobbing after Garret's arrival. Whatever visible musculature/posed stance the Monster had in mid-air appeared to relax just a tiny bit more.
Unclear if it was camaraderie.
But the attention is quickly sapped away by the twinkling lights of Unreality & the pataphysical making themselves known. The appointed time, the convergence of many a great thing, was upon Gloomlight Square -- And supposedly centered on where Talguth isn't is.
"Mmmm, Timestream ritual..."
Is the only comment the Monster makes to Talguth. His silhouette makes a desert-heat-mirage-esque effect, as if tiny wisps of Mana in the background were occasionally sacrificing themselves to Kynodisme.
Could his presence be used like an extra battery for the event?
(Kynodisme)
[10:16] From the shadows a set of red eyes blinks.
Then is gone.
(Felice Halbmond)
[10:17] Over at -that- side of the square, a chronomantic ritual of great potency and import is unfolding, guided by the wisdom and the will of the Exalted Spirit of Freedom, Thought, Authority, and Creation.
On this side of the square, a man's cockroach arm is unzipping itself to reveal the stinking meat horrors beneath.
Loramelian - and anyone else with a deeper sight attuned to spiritual matters - can see not only the surface nightmare unfolding here but also the complex play of energies roiling beneath. Chaos knit deeply into that unnatural squirming flesh, intertwined with the occult-tinted breath of Helheim itself...
The abrupt falling of a nigh-complete darkness is perhaps a blessing, obscuring the malformation of Blackwater's flesh. Slightly.
Tendrils of flesh snaking forward like so many serpents seeking a meal...
There is a moment's stillness, a paralysis of indecision, while Talguth explains the process unfolding just off to the side.
The siphoning of energy from the Timestream...
"...All right. It's all right. We've got this. Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen." Quiet, assured words. And then they're pivoting rapidly on their heel towards Grit.
"I need to take something from your energy. A precursor to the greater ritual of cleansing. Can't do it without your willing, free agreement and permission. Yes or no, lad?"
(Loramelian)
[10:17] Loramelian thinks, "Whet the appetite. Calm the flesh. Use the hunger."
[10:18] Cassia M. Silvanas says, "Awesome im not too late."
[10:18] Christophore Garijn says, "Time is an illusion anyways."
[10:18] Aedin Tanis asks, "'S it?"
[10:18] Aedin Tanis crosses his arm and plops down on a random seat.
(Aedin Tanis)
[10:18] Blackwater's arm is weird.
Talguth's glyphs are ever-interesting.
She wishes she could wholly manifest an unglyph of similar structure, or the same alien runes. As opposed to the arcane, the reality defiant runework of Talguth's really sends her into a mental tailspin at times, because it's not like Agarthan demonic script that dizzies the mind- it's just Nothing. Or something similar.
"If it's anything like what I did, it'll be something like...
...a role to play in a story.
You get to roleplay. Sounds fun, no? Pretend.
Except it's not really like pretending."
Maybe Sterling's a little bitter for his own reasons, at the moment.
"Well.
I'm ready, anyways. Show us the feather, boss."
And they're definitely not semi-secretly jealous that their own feathers aren't a part of the Author's Quill.
(Sterling Montelione)
[10:19] Grit would still stand there, quietly observing the interaction between Loramelian and Blackwater. He wasn't sure what was going on between the two, only that Loramelian took a knife to his arm, which normally, wouldn't phase the boy, not one bit. Being that his own magic was of blood and bone, having cut someone's arm clean off, having slashed open a few people from cutting them at this point, and being surrounded by undead everyday when he lived at Atrellya. The Sight of someone's innards or organs, or anything alike, normally...wouldn't bug him. (I'm so sorry for that joke)
But, right now, Grit wasn't really normal. The visions he saw, when he peered into unreality, when Sterling showed him visions of what one could only describe as a nightmare born from his own unconscious fears and anxieties. They still haunted him...more than anything he had seen or done in the past, more unsettling was that the boy still couldn't discern the meaning of what he saw...
So, despite his expression remaining as unexpressive as ever...he'd take a step back at the sight of Blackwater's 'arm peeling'. For the first time in a long time, Grit had felt disgust...maybe even fear as he gazed at blackwater's surgery...
In truth, the boy had even been hesitant, some might afraid, to use his own blood magic since he saw what he saw in unreality. Not even bothering to use it to enhance his body, as he trained by cutting down trees, like he normally would.
In his own mind, it's not as if he thought or knew any of this. While he might be a well spoken, now thirteen year old, troubled kid. He was still, at the end of the day, a thirteen year old troubled kid. The ability to rationalize his own mental blocks and issues, would require life experience and maturity that he simply doesn't have yet. To him, he didn't know why he suddenly acted like this, why he was extremely hesitant to use his own blood magic, why he was now scared at a sight he thought he was so used to.
Grit would then turn to Loramelian, who asked him a question, Grit taking a few moments to even acknowledge that he was spoken to, "R-right...do what you need to do." Grit would say, his voice...somewhat shaken. His expression remained ever stoic, but his voice began to differ, which was quite odd for him...
(Grit)
[10:19] The Aenite had slowly began to land upon the brick-paved ground beneath him as his gaze turned its attention to the nearby area and those present, even as the Mind Eater´s voice echoed into his senses.
Until the Homunculus paused mid-motion.
Just as an armored heel had nearly made contact with stone, the descent was halted.
Whoever the Knight-Commander had sought was not present.And with the state of his arm, the less contact with any aspect of The Stream he had, the better.
Instead?
The Once-Dead spared a brief moment to bow his head, before turning on the spot to make a departure - There was still plenty of work to be done, elsewhere.
And time was painful to manage.
(Garret Richter)
[10:20] Garret Richter thinks, "Best of luck - But best if I am not present unless truly required. For my own health. Should there be a need for "motes" after, still? Do inform me."
[10:21] Loramelian says in telepathy, I'm going to try and weave - whatever it is I have to do to stabilize him into your story.
[10:22] Naturally, being a metaphysics specialist and a user of time magic, the owldrake known as Pittwald was all but compelled to arrive in Gloomlight.
To observe, and to understand the works of those who came before him and their methods.
To contribute to the monumental effort of stopping the hordes of the fel.
To give aid where it was needed, perhaps.
Either way, he´d do what he could, his perception, both physical and otherwise, focusing on the magic, its flow and its function in a way few magi were able to do.
"..."
He did not speak, but it was not as though his intent was not blatant. He´d accumulated many tools over the decades of existence, and he´d use all of them, if only they were applicable.
and yet, Something else caught one of his eyes.
Just to the side of the massive owldrake, a man was undergoing a truly violent sort of partial transformation. Loramelian was already tending to him, but the owldrake nonetheless made sure to dedicate some of his attention to the scene. Loramelian was an older and more experienced magi, but if his aid were needed...well, he was a doctor after all.
(Pittwald)
[10:22] Loramelian says in telepathy, There ought to be a place for something of horror and hunger in it. There usually is.
[10:24] The dragon would ruffle her wings, the light that glitters off of her ivory scales dimming as night would further come to the sun that has yet to come from the land. Impossible glyphs, alien sigils, esoteric powers... Well, when you've been experienced to some things for a decade, you get used to it. Time, alteration, and change...
It is nothing of her own. But the people that surround her, both non-magi alike, are. And so she stays, her domain of blood and potential soothing the common folk who may be more... surprised to see what they lies before them, darken the skies and the stars.
Freedom and choice, there shouldn't be any harm, or there will wont be. Albeit the city may be getting many more complaints about the lack of notice for a large-scale ritual such as this.
Both at rest, and tensed at the same time, crimson slits would shift towards the bark, similar but very different to what she saw of the previous tree. So this is what the ritual is to be, the reignition of Solais, or the attempt of such to surge against the demons efforts. To serve their own civilization, and to keep their people safe rather than vanished by the Atrylleans.
She will watch, and serve in her own way if her story matches what is to be done. But her own being written by another is something the prideful dragon will not enjoy, and such they will see of what comes of all of this.
(Ksceniya C. Montelione)
[10:31] This was an act measured more so in months than it was minutes. Its end was no more notable than its beginning, it seemed, save for the finale infusion of energies that have been gathered thus far. A great deal of power suffuses itself through the glyphwork overhead, neon greens arcing together with emerald glows as violet unlights swirl in the spaces in between.
A kaleidoscopic dance painted over the Cosmos above, a dizzying display of temporal powers. For some, a horrifying mess of confusing colors. For others, a beautiful painting playing out just for them.
It was clear enough what the Mind Eater thought of it, glee evident in its actions as it guided the powers invoked down into the floating bark, glittering glyphs shining bright upon its surface as it seemed to fizzle between this Timeline and the next, a blurred half-image overlayed in each direction.
Quite similar to Kynodisme, actually.
But the time to contribute their own circuitry to the Ritual has come to pass, ironic as that might be for an act as temporally-disrupted as this. The last remnants of power sink into the displaced bark, the cut sliver dripping with decayed sap more akin to a slab of purest green, and it slowly sinks down to rest within the Mind Eater's Grasp.
It inspects its work, once, twice, then sets it aside as two rifts open in empty space. The first manifests The Right Hand of Creation, a massive claw of pallid, yellow flesh bathed in Absent Divinity. The second presses forth The Author's Quill, a feather larger than most were tall, which is quickly claimed by the former and wielded as it should be.
Two artifacts combined to achieve true Pataphysics.
Those who remain present have already given their consent. And so, the Quill is dipped into a mirror of ink, its nib blurred between this dimension and the next, and it begins to Write upon the Narrative of Reality.
A Story, manifested.
Final Frontier is under siege.
Comets of Helfire rain down upon the etheric shieldings protecting the settlement, energy magics warding those non-Magi who have yet to be evacuated as the armies clash. Demons wage war against the second bulwark of the North, Solais a greyed husk hanging over the conflict.
Yet even as the constructs of the Proto Institute set themselves ready for battle, even as the Titan of Acantho's making rises from the dunes, their odds were bleak. Hope, dwindled to near nothing, a grim determination to take their foe with them all that remained.
But who, exactly, pushes themselves to the forefront of this engagement? This would be no story for the famous, for the named, but those who remain ever-set into the backdrop of history. Those who, without this Story, would not be remembered.
Who, exactly, are you?
The Story latches onto those present. It can be resisted, certainly, but where would the fun be in that? Who would they be, the individual that consents to participate, once translated into this Pataphysical work?
Would they be a nameless slave of the Atrellyan armies? A feared Demon set into the ranks of one of their elders? An Animunculi, freshly printed for this very battle? Reinforcements from their allies, troops from the south?
Only they could truly decide.
(Talguth)
[10:41] This is normally the part where he begins his banter and quips in response to others' especially with Talguth's ritual going on right to the left.
At least the darkness would block out his current struggling, if not only barely.
"T-time-stream me up....a..."
Nope, can't do it.
His excellent retort is swallowed out by a low groan as the man wheezes silently. A seed made my Primal Chaos was forcefully blooming, if only barely.
It wasn't its time yet.
As Blackwater stared at his newly transformed arm, a ripple of unease crawled up his spine. The mass twitched violently, spasming as if reacting to a hunger deep within. He could feel it, like a gnawing void tugging at the edges of his mind, urging him to feed it. The limb was no longer under his control. It had its own sinister will.
Suddenly, the blackened flesh of the blade began to undulate, throbbing as it continue radiate both chaos and the occult. The edges of the tendrils quivered, and then, like melting wax, it began to shift. It begins flowing downward in sickening waves of slick, oozing muscle. It further breaks down from mass as it dissolves into a mass of tendrils dark, fleshy appendages that squirmed with a life of their own.
These tendrils snaked across the ground, twisting and curling with purpose. Each one pulsed with the same oily sheen, dripping thick, inky fluid that sizzled as it touched the stone beneath. The ground hissed and bubbled as the tendrils latched on, burrowing deep into the surface. They moved like serpents, slithering into every crack and crevice, expanding and consuming as they went.
Blackwater watched in horrified awe as the mass of tendrils began to devour the earth beneath him. The stone itself dissolving under the writhing mass, adding into it's size as the tendrils spread. Each new tendril sprouted more from the writhing flesh of his arm, twisting in grotesque harmony as they burrowed deeper. The ground beneath him wouldn't be solid.
It was a roiling sea of flesh and darkness.
He'd need a moment or two before participating in the ritual.
"...."
(Blackwater)
[10:42] And thus the ritual started. And thus it was already gone. The time shenanigans. All the little things, all the ritual work. It was just time and pataphysics that were at work. He did not expect a bigger involvement afterall on that part.
That came later, as the story was being written. As he was made to play something in the story of the frontier that was about to come. A role to pick and play.
He did say that he would play a certain role that he and his faith would fit. And in this case…
The story unfolds like many. And on a stage this grand and large, it was not uncommon that larger than life forces were being seen. A war of grand scale. And there was always someone that was watching those wars.
In this play, Christophore took on the role of Morana, aspect of Mortyl, the Valkyrie, of bloodshed and wrath. She who is present at every war.
For now, she was unseen, watching. The battle had not been started. And it was going to be a glorious one, where so much blood was going to be spilled.
In this story, Chris had no doubt. He would simply play his role to the best of his abilities. And hopes that if it becomes true, Morana would not make a sudden visit to him afterwards to have a word to say to him.
Or maybe does. He kind of wanted to see her again afterall.
(Christophore Garijn)
[10:47] That knife in Loramelian's hand hasn't actually touched Blackwater's flesh - no, whatever's happening here seems to be driven entirely by internal forces afflicting the man.
But it is held at the ready, its keen blade now glimmering with a fresh wash of white metaphysical fire.
"Good lad," she says with a certain gruffness, one untouched by anything like anger. "This won't hurt - but it will be... strange."
This study of Blackwater's circuits had an initial purpose, after all, before it was so thoroughly derailed - to help the Faeborne identify the signature of certain dark energies in the essence and circuits.
So when she turns her gaze on Grit, she knows where to cut.
Not the kind of deep and permanent severance that might change his very nature - that would require a great deal more ritualistic preparation. But a swift, surgical swipe nonetheless that whisks intangibly right through the boy's skull.
The energy currently humming through his circuits is torn loose, an odd sensation like the breathlessness after a fall - a natural rhythm disrupted that the body cannot immediately reassert.
And before it could-
Loramelian pulls back her gloved hand, a clenched fist, and -yanks- the Hel-sent occult energies out of Grit. They come to her calling freely and willingly, wisps of sullen red-hearted darkness coiling around her hand, and gritting her teeth she conjures a strange aurora of kaleidoscopic broken-mirror shards to encase them.
Chaos, unmistakably, warping and wrecking senses and sense itself.
"Here, here," she croons at the ichorous tendrils, and flings out her hand to shower them with a food more fitting to their endless, ravenous hunger.
The seething energy falls from her fingertips like oily rain.
A tasty little meal for Blackwater's arm, fashioned from its own substance, to whet its appetite.
Andat the heart of each droplet? A tiny metaphysical trap-rune, snuck in like a pill buried in the midst of a snack.
She has woven it hastily, just before the Story can truly set in - a trigger to collapse the circle of Unreality energies around Blackwater, trapping him and his arm in a cage of Thought-Identity-Memory
'You are a hungry, hungry demon of Atrellya, with a hungry, hungry arm. Devour what you can, and make armor of your enemies.'
And when she herself falls into the story...
(Loramelian)
[10:48] Kynodisme already lent his power or did he? to the ritual, glyphic constructs winking in-and-out of view over Gloomlight. The background space flickers, a blurred, watercolour mess of swirling edges contrasting against the distant image of the Final Frontier.
A story, manifest.
Transpositioning part of his magickal will into the pataphysical, imagined desert oasis-city, Kynodisme blends together something that shouldn't have existed. The fear of the unknown permeates a silver-feathered, hooded humanoid figurine with a distinctive pair of blue-golden eyes & a massive multicolor Austereia-lined mirror upon their back.
Someone, or something, among the Animunculi represents the Monster in this story.
The phantasmal image of Infinite floats above the illusory view of the Carnation District.
"I.F.F. ping detected. Enemy approaching..."
Kynodisme's personage unto the Animunculi seems too comfortable. Mana swirls in the shape of prismatic Mobius strips envelope the desert skies, almost flooding a portion of the greying branches of Solais.
His character was set.
Cold, hard steel repeating the dying whispers of something that wasn't supposed to be.
A Shatterpoint of the Timestream accompanies Infinite and Kynodisme's ghostly presence in the empty, imaginary space behind. It might have been a point of convenience for The Mind-Eater to latch onto, the Story given a boost in focus of the locus geni.
For a split-second, the Cetus' outline looks more like a familiar Water Skurn, an outstretched left hand of his meeting Infinite's right hand all the while pointing towards the heavens...?
A small wave of runes departs Kynodisme in the rough form of a painting; The Story begun to outline a drawing, a space where sights and perceptions begin to immerse those present. Convenient. Was that a touch of Father Time's duly chosen boosting things along?
(Kynodisme)
[10:49] Alright. Sterling. Don't repeat last time.
That universe ended. That timeline is over.
And so the Demon Sage of Tomorrow borrowed from a different timeline, a different realm. A universe where the only safe measure was to not exist, to be Unmade. A time she had already witnessed. That she has ended, herself.
The Echo of She-Who-Was crawls through the sky.
A void-creature, dragging itself through the air with oversized legs that rest their obelisk-like bones on the earth, tipped with raw shapes of claws rather than limbs, screeches into the day. Loaned power from Atrellya's finest of summoners, of seers, of tellers, from another time. A borrowed piece of The End, foretold in scripture.
A long neck that breaks apart and bents in wrong ways. A head wrapped in bandages lets loose only the third eye, which is now her only. Wings grow from the spots on her head where once-proud dragon horns stood, to dilute the madness of the void, bloodied and white. A mockery of 'purity.'
A bleak history, a worse future.
And a piece of it comes into ours.
The Frontier, assailed by a myriad of golden eyes from the sky. Akin to an imperfect, but worse- for it was no demon, but a twisted soul, wretched, baring down on the end. The same which killed Kakku, drove him into the corner, pried the Lumin King's crown from his dying hands in the last flash of light that world will ever know.
It was back.
The deformed shape of a crown hung around its neck, the wrought flames of emotion, Biblos, danced off of her chest and shoulder. Atrellya summoned a monster from the Void, almost the same as Unreality, from the world where the borders were thinned and made dull in the eternity of black.
And it lands.
Like a vulture descending on the husk of a dying institute, She-Who-Was falls, like a corpse herself. But, they live, of course, because that world couldn't put her down. Because this world can. And in any case, death was a mercy. Perhaps she'll find it here.
Others', in droves, before her own, likely.
After the Institute is laid waste to, the stars will fall. That is this trans-timeline summoned horror. It starts with the masses, wading through demonic, flimsy allies to crawl to the front of battle. The spearhead bulk of flesh to strike against shields and barriers, and to pry open the underbelly of defense.
The first to be heralded in bolts of light and the ire of all their turned machines, weapons, and forces combined.
If you asked her, she'd tell you, 'no, I did not want to play as the freaky void entity that I did, last time.' But she did.
She wanted to see it die.
Placate a little gut-wrenching horror in her stomach.
(Sterling Montelione)
[10:51] Frode watched in amazement at the artifacts manifesting before him, a story to tell, a battle to describe but it required characters and Frode thought of who he might be in this fictional world. He closed his eyes and envisioned such a scene, sifting through faces, magics, alignments but now of the combinations resonated like one that seemed to be most like him save for the alignment. in this dream like scape he would be that which only seek battle, neither of the villains or the hero's but an agent of chaos to spur carnage and bloodshed. A smile took his face.
(Frode)
[10:53] Esoti's imagination runs wild as he looks through.
Who is he...
Something close to who he is would be best for synchronization. Yet it must be different enough to be an entirely separate concept from the timestream.
He is... A soldier from Aen, seeking revenge on the demon who killed her husband when Atrellya invaded Aen, prior to the attacks on Meranthe.
For this soldier to leave Aen in this time is insubordination of the highest degree. To go AWOL when the country needs people for reconstruction. Yet she does so all the same.
She already sought aid from the proto institute in gaining a prosthetic arm. And allied with various non-humans. The hatred in her veins runs so deep that she is willing to commit such blasphemies as prosthetics, and allying with beastkin… and even worse... synthetics.
And so, she faces down the demon hordes, shoulder to shoulder, standing next to those she despises. Lesser beings. inhuman filth. She is disgusted with them, almost as much as she is of her own false arm.
Through the battle, she keeps formation, sending absorption magic, and terrible anti-magical energy through the field, draining demons into husks. Until... it appears. The demon that killed her husband. That Kaor MUST die. She rushes forward, and grabs the demon. Her arm glows ominously, as she speaks.
"Ever since Kraus made demons... you've been despised. He created you to be hated, so that if people see the loving Akuma of Mother Atmos's caring embrace, they'll be reminded of your impurity. And so... FOR REVENGE, AND TO CLEAR THE NAME OF THE KIND AKUMA, YOU WILL DIE!"
As she speaks her last word, the bomb in her arm detonates, sending shrapnel and gore in every direction. The Kaor is no more, and the only reminant of the woman who sacrificed herself is a single dogtag, reading 'Sahre Liam'.
(Esoti Liam)
[11:01] She reaches back, and turns on her personality matrix, what a fun use for the device she had used for years, putting her waking mind to sleep and waking only a part of it to play this part, making her true self asleep while being used as processing power, she had to write on the fly the code for the character she wanted to play.
Her head glowed with runes for a moment
[Mental] [Sleep] [90%] [Awaken] [10%] [Process] [Subconscious] [Golem] [Awaken] [Personality] [Wolfram] [Database] [Memory] [User] [Cassia] [Initialize] [Personality] [Wolfram]
Upon the end of her sequences, her head falls down for a moment, then a image appears over her person. and her head looks up.
Upon the waking of her chosen persona, she would become a person she rather actually hated, but the personality matrix would overwrite her own prejudice, she would now play this part as best her memory would allow. The Two conversations she ever had with Wolfram were not REALLY enoughfor a full personality construct. But she would try her best.
Upon this story she would play Wolfram, As best she could, standing with sleek automaton body, though her personality matrix was unsure if Wolfram was one to stand at the forefront or the back of battle it decided to play him as a tactician.
Standing and carrying out commands to its various robotic units from the backlines, carrying out support orders and buffing the defenses.
Ordering the shields of the city to be bolstered, to keep the automatons stocked and ready, and prepare for a mixed ground and air assault.
It did dawn upon her she did not know what magic he used either.
But winging it always worked best during improv, and damn was she good at that.
Fully falling into the story now, confidence rising.
A call, and robotic servitors whirred, coming to his call going into action as the world around them turned to a sandy hellscape, the final frontier, the last bastionon the western half of the continent appeared.
'Let them be washed away by reason and show the truth of our superiority over them!"
the voice rang out, supporting and multiple commands issued, a call to defend, a call to....
It is absolutely ended with the sound of rining then bending metal, as one of the shields breaks and down from the sky descends a bolt of hel, crashing right through one of the Automaton's arms.
(Cassia M. Silvanas)
[11:01] The Kitsune hovers in. She ignores all else, intent on attending the ritual - playing her part - and working towards the safety of her station. The quill wrote a scenario she soon be a part of. So she melds into the story quite well. As herself.
The sixth ARES unit, surrounded by fallen kith and kin, descends time and time again upon the onslaught. Wicked, bone-sharpened claws ready to tear through demonic flesh. Decisive strikes are made against the bulwarks, the leaders, and those of otherwise importance.
In tandem with their squadron, they fight back the tide. Synthetic after synthetic is traded for the few demonic lives they can eke out.
But it is not enough. It is not nearly enough. ARES-1 has fallen, ARES-3's shell - specifically crafted to combat demons - has been breached. One of the Monarch's many failsafes has been triggered, and a denotation of Pure Unbridled Energy has swallowed half of the district.
Ash and fel surround them, and Bishop and Ghost being the last two to stand.
So they play their last gambit, to weaken the demonic horde.
It is sacrifice. Loss of love and life. Tragedy. There is no decisive nor pyrrhic victory. Only the passing of a torch, and the hope that they did enough.
(Jaizara)
[11:03] The drugged and tainted occultic essence is eaten, and with it? The rune inside activates, snapping Blackwater onto the battlefield.
When did he get here?
It's a blur.
His mind isn't in the mind space of mind for a ritual like this, but he's thrown into it anyway.
A nameless demon on the battlefield of Atryella, a lowly but noble wolf.
A Black Hellhound.
A starving beast.
It sits in wait, tendrils of shadow and occult looking upon the soon to be ensuing conflict. In the wave of demons, it lets forth a ferocious howl, allowing it to echo for all to hear.
No one significant.
No one of any note.
A simple, lowly, hungry demon.
(Blackwater)
[11:07] Grit, would, find himself, one could say, victim to visions of not his own making once again. Despite whatever interaction he had with Loramelian and blackwater his vision would be overtaken by the scene played out from the mind eater. Visions, that, unlike the last time he delt with the likes of Psionics and unreality, were not a nightmare made from his own sub-concious. Though, it would be soon obvious, that his own subconscious fears would have their own role to play in the vision he sees...
This time, it was a set, a movie, a play, all appropriate to describe what he was in this scene...
He was a soldier, though that might be a bit of a stretch. A demon, not unlike one he would have associated himself with prior to his incarceration. Though somewhat atypical for a demon from Helheim, he could not speak, only act on raw destructive instinct...He'd be unleashed to spread destruction and chaos in his wake, as he slashed, crunched, and battered his way through whatever poor combatant would be in his sight.
This was a war after all, sentimentality, honor, even the reason for their fighting, it didn't matter, whoever was left standing was the winner, plain and simple. Though, the demon didn't think of it that way to him, he just wanted carnage, battle, to feel his own mortality weighed against another's as they slaughtered one another. If there were one emotion that did drive the beast, it was fury and rage, not towards anyone in particular, he was just a seething mass of carnage and fury...
From another's perspective he would look like a black scaled, towering, reptile with four yellow eyes and large looming wings...A recognizable sight to the boy, if he were aware of himself and the vision he found himself in, though, he was not.
Eventually, after crushing, severing, and blasting his way through whatever he was Infront of him, he found himself face to face with...a wall? So blinded by his own furry and instinct did he not realize that he had infact...been cornerered. Magi and soldiers surrounded the beast bathed in the scarlet blood of soldiers and magi that he had already slain, He'd look around, to see the scared but resolved faces of those willing to kill and be killed, then let out a mighty roar as he rushed Straight forward towards the nearest clutter that had him surrounded!
It was for naught though, as the towering demon charged, a barrage of gunfire and various magics flooded towards him! Much like a wave of crashing sea water towards a seaward cliff, it would wash over him! Too much. While the dragon was strong, he was alone, and they were many, his tough hide covered by even tougher scales we're not enough to withstand the assault...And in that instance he found himself losing half of his body...returned to dust, as he collapsed, Dark purple, tainted blood would pour and pool all around him...
Even as he lay there, dying, the furious dragon would not yield, he'd use what little strength he had left, to growl...then roar towards the enemy soldiers and magi, blood curdling and extremely loud as the beast let out it's last...As what followed was a lone soldier, possibly a commander or captain, who knows the dragon didn't care to distinguish what his enemies were, besides them just being his enemies. It would walk up, casually climbing his snout, as the soldier would pull back the hammer on his pistol, curse the beast out for what he has done...then pull the trigger...Then...nothingness, it had died...it's corpse left to stay and rot there as the overall battled Ensued.
At the end of it all, the beast was a demon, just acting on instinct and fury, A tool to be used by those with greater ambitions, greater sentience, maybe even greater purpose...
Grit would suddenly jolt back to reality, whatever Loramelion had done to him, was done to the boy standing still, unconscious, as he stood thereseeing visions not his own.
The half-demon boy now found himself back in reality, though, he was in arguably no better shape than when he was in the vision, as he immediately fell to his hands and knees, covered in a cold sweat, his blood red slitted eyes, were now dilated, and proceed to puke his guts out on to the cold tile of the square below him.
Once again, mystical psionic bullshit had caused the boy to crumble to his own sub-conscious fears and anxieties, though this time, it was given form by Talguth's influence. Either way, the boy would continue to just be on his hands and knees, posted there thinking about all the things he saw...all the things that haunted him...
(Grit)
[11:10] The moment the story manifests, several things happen with the owldrake.
First, he ceases to be.
For many years now, an immutable part of his being was who he was. The magi, the medic, the scholar, the seeker of knowledge, the friend, all of it wrapped over by a false name and a neat bow. Yet, that being did not participate in this story.
Naturally, thus, he could not exist.
For most anyone, this paradox would be solved simply, after all, as they observe it, the must think, and thus they must exist, yet Anthal´kyr had changed that about himself.
His body irrefutably existed, it could be touched and it had an observable, self-evident effect on its surroundings.
Ye, the mind, the part that proved existence, was not present in it. It was an exquisitely crafted shell, made by a combination of the will of its former inhabitant and countless external forces.
The mind was elsewhere, stored as though it were an object of dimensions and mass, in a place just as real as a dream.
Then, was it real at all?
There really was no answer to that particular question, and perhaps, the owldrake would have ceased to exist right there had he been his younger self in this situation.
but, he was not. Anthal´kyr was ironclad, real. and, uniquely capable of seeing. Reinforced by impossibly complex runic sequences and a will cemented over decades, and yet growing.
However, that effectively made the owldrake several entities.
and, it was naturally reflected in his role in the story.
A girl without a shred of magical ability to her, stumbling desperately in a crowd.
A seasoned soldier of the Frontier, enhanced with his own magic and esoteric techniology, carving his way through one Atrellyan beast after another.
A vulture, soaring miles above the battle, a coincidental witness to a monumental event.
He was them all, and more. Simultaneously observing and participating, simultaneously making decisions, running, fighting, thinking and not.
When an elderly man, the son of a barely average merchant was torn in half by a demonspawn constructed out of hundreds of limbs, it was he who died. When a master magi unleashed her life´s work blowing the arm off a Kaor, it was him who did so. Yet also not, for As much as he was part of the story, he was also witness to it.
He had, in a sense, become the embodiment of the concept of struggle, its failures, its successes and its perpetuations, all at once
For Anthal´kyr was at the same time himself, a singular owldrake, born with only a distant relation to his divine predecessor. Observing, learning, comprehending. Anchored to his sense of self, yet willingly drifting away from it, influencing a story already told one minute detail at a time and watching how the impossibly complex ritual shifted in response. Again and again and again.
He thinks, therefore he existts.
after all, who is to say that if one thinks enough, one cannot simply be two. and if one can be two, why would one not be ten, a hundred, a thousand?
indeed, how could they not be?
(Pittwald)
[11:11] From the house on the hill, Ezra steps out. To join the square. To speak, to laugh, to prepare... Any number of things all together. And so he too is drawn into the ritual, into the story. A skip, a twist and...
She is a synthetic. An Animunculi.
Chaos twists and shimmers around Ezra, twisting at the Metaphysical near them. Surrounding them with illusionary images. The scent of smoke, the sight of gleaming metal surrounding his form, hinting at a feminine form instead...
An instinctive thing. A response, perhaps, to the seed blooming nearby. To the forces wielded by his mother... The forces that linger within himself.
She marches up, blade flashing, cutting down another demon, but there are more. So many more. Already, one arm has been sheared off, oil and synthetic blood pouring from the wound.
An old model. One based on a much, much more famous one. Dusty and unfinished, only brought to combat readiness when the Frontier had scoured private workshops to use every last resource.
Does she even have a name? She knows nothing. She's been awake, alive, (was she alive?) for hours. She knows the model she is, but... There aren't others like her. Half-made shells, proofs of concept that weren't finished.
An abandoned prototype stirred to life only to die.
Another blast of occult energy comes her way, striking into her frame, making her stagger back. She will fall soon...
And unlike her namesake, she will not rise again.
Ezra staggers, the illusion of white hair descending down their back as they take a knee, the power of the story overwhelming them as they're drawn more into the ritual...
(Ezra Ueda)
[11:11] What would Loramelian be in a story like this?
Someone born to be the villain, defined by a destiny that shapes her long after its defeat, someone thoroughly infused with those nefarious energies she wields so capably and naturally-
Someone who has chosen, time and time again, to be something, anything, than that which the world would make them.
To take their scars, and turn them into weapons.
The Inverted Saint.
Sleek and silver. A being of plentiful articulations, of angles and planes and the soft whirring of servomotors beneath its mercury-sheened skin. The true form, now, is hiding.
Last off the line, a synthetic so new there was not even a time for a name. If one would have given, anyway. For the only identity it needs is its purpose.
It is a hunter-seeker, a chameleon, adaptability made not from fallible flesh but forged of molten metal.
And within its heart there is nothing-nothing-nothing. A black hole of hunger, an insistent and fathomless void.
Through the battlefield it goes-
Deliquesces to roll beneath an errant blast of lightning. Soars on vulture-jagged wings above a quake that splits the earth. Sprouts leg-after-leg-after-leg-after-leg to skitter low and stealthy beneath the shadow of a towering ogre.
It goes.
And it kills.
Slim finger-knives from the shadows, acupuncture with a real edge. Perforated hearts, livers, kidneys. Pinpoint deployment of efficient tactical strategies that maximize its trail of murder.
It goes, and it kills, and it sups, that Horror in its heart snatching up the essence of its enemies as its reward.
A tale of beautifully efficient carnage is all it leaves.
(Loramelian)
[11:25] In Reality, the Mind Eater continues to work. It produces a Spear from absent space, clawed hands clutched about it as it stabs it into the tilework below. Those who are not enraptured by the Story can witness it carve upon its length similar sigils to the Ritual concluding around it, False-Glyphs set into its framework as the bark irradiates potent chronomantic energies.
Such powers slip outwards, partially sinking into the Spear, a temporal grounding rod produced alongside this missing puzzle piece.
But the Story continues all the same.
A Story may be found in all things. Each and every sapience carried with it their own tale, even if it would be only they who would know of it. Countless lives are lost in this invasion, countless Stories untold by the simple swing of a blade and the cut of a neck.
So many lives, extinguished. So many individuals, ceased. From the greatest Powers upon the field to the smallest specks of insignificance, each and every one had their own tale to tell. How many did they not witness within this Greater Narrative?
This was, after all, only the smallest fraction of a fraction.
But as the chaos of the battle unfolds around them, as silent observers watch on while void-beasts from alternate Timelines manifest, as machines and man spill blood in service of Meranthe, as demons and darker things still rend flesh in service of Indras, a single spark of Hope descends upon the battlefield.
A light, small, unnoticed. A glinting glow within the canopy of wilted Solais, the husk slowly shifting as a single gleam of neon green is overtaken by a blinding, gilded white. Holy energies cast out across the battlefield, moments of despair and sacrifice reversed almost immediately.
Wounds close.
The darkness, beaten back.
Solais shines bright in Holy light for this brief moment, a radiant warmth bathing the battlefield at the crux of the conflict. Will this be enough to turn the tide? Shall it renew hope in the battered defenders, inspire the next charge against their hated foes?
Difficult to say.
But, for the time being, Solais reigns.
A relatively straight-forward goal for such a grand amount of fanfare, it seemed, the reignition of Solais for this briefest of moments at the height of the battle. Such was what the Mind Eater envisioned, but a Story could not entirely dictated the way Reality played out.
How exactly do these Stories end or continue onwards, these individuals who have given themselves up to the Greater Narrative?
(Talguth)
[11:33] Meri Emeraldi opened up one of the bottles of wine and tipped it up on the spot.
(Meri Emeraldi)
[11:34] As the narrative continues, Ezra falls more and more into their role, pulled along with the story. Eyes glance over Cass, a faint smile given to her for a moment, before their eyes are pulled towards that idea of Solais instead...
A moment of hope. Rekindled power. From the precipice of death does the Animunculi push forwards. Light from her core sparks out, her form shimmering with incandescence, as if carrying the light from Solais inside of herself into battle.
Her blade flashes, strikes, as she takes the momentary invigoration to charge forwards. Her story will likely still end in tragedy... A statistic. Much like her first model, to die in service of Meranthe, and to die fighting Atrellya. But she will take as many of them down with her as she can, she swears. For as Solais glimmers and shines, she takes that inspiration too, to push on.
For even something dead might yet glimmer with an echo of what it once was. Like a phoenix giving one last spark...
(Ezra Ueda)
[11:34] Morana, once she saw all the fighting started descended into the battle. The yearning for blood and slaughter too great to hold back. In this story, Morana was present, but not fighting. It was as if she was bathing the blood without lifting a finger.
She observed and did as she had to. A warrior woman named Sahra Liam was pulled along as she died, bringing her soul and spirit to the netherrealm. ARES-1, defeated and dead, was next along with all those countless lives of unspoken heroes. And many more that had neither soul nor spirit to begin with.
ARES-3 came soon after, delivered, along with countless of the demons who would be brought over.
Only for Solais to reverse so many of the wounds on the side of Meranthe. A 'Tsk' came from her, as in this moment, death and wounding was reserves once more, being brought back just before Morana was truly delivering them over the threshold of death.
But the demons themselves that she was collecting and moving through? They did not come back. Unseen as she was, she simply delivered and oversaw the bloodshed, while her entire being was coated in blood of both sides.
(Christophore Garijn)
[11:38] As the part of the story played out by Esoti's supposed relative reaches it's conclusion with her death, he simply sits on a nearby bench, sobbing.
Even the glimmer of Solias's return, and the hope it represents isn't enough to bring him out of the terrible funk he is in.
He sits there, having to re-live seeing a family member die again. And worse yet... Everyone in Gloomlight heard what she said at the end. It's going to raise questions. Uncomfortable questions.
He sits there, weeping.
(Esoti Liam)
[11:40] Esoti Liam thinks, "Why did my mother show up... I thought I'd be free."
[11:42] Kynodisme continued their focus on the task at hand, the vision of The Story from Talguth taking precedent. The spear in Reality either goes unnoticed, or unheard:
As the view of Infinite flies overhead, winking in-and-out of existence, ghostly magicka permeates the Carnation District proper. The Animunculi 'guardian' evidently awakened in this fictitious timeline, Infinite and the phantasmal image of Kynodisme in The Story follow the massive blast of Holy Magic that signaled a last hurrah for the Frontier.
Infinite casts a multitude of Timestream spells, or fires a Mana Cannon barrage from their cybernetic, synth-feathered arms into the Atrellyan artillery regimen. Cambions and lesser Kaors are casually turned to dust within the constant chaos wherever Infinite goes.
There was just one problem for the Timestream- and Lifestream-supercharged Animunculi in question:
There's only one of them.
No matter how many Mobius strips are summoned, no matter how many Demons are blasted away, Infinite fails to make much headway on their own beyond temporally withering the immediate opposition. Dusty mirror, dusty fingers.
A bomb, a failsafe of raw Mana goes off somewhere within the Frontier at the death of another of the Institute's finest,
The blast's shockwave sending Infinite's flight pattern overhead towards the coast. The Animunculi ends up in something of a stalemate in the battle, an unseen regenerative power enabling them to take on seemingly infinite - Pun intended - Magickal punishment, but the Atrellyan army had plenty of equally-literal cannon fodder in reserves to fire in their general direction.
Drawn-out.
Even the golden, regenerative glow of Solais returning wasn't enough to definitively sway things in Infinite's favour; A lengthy & seemingly never-ending last stand that draws a little of the remaining horde's attention away from the main battle.
Ephemeral runes dance at Infinite and Kynodisme's combined pataphysical wills. Ready. Aim. Fire. Focus on your attack pattern, not the tragedy unfolding & the inevitable fall of the Titan.
(Kynodisme)
[11:43] The matrix working upon her implant whirs, clicking for several seconds as all the information around them comes to life and it takes Cassia's sleeping mind a while to process all the information around them, eyes flashing back open after a few moments however.
The falling of the faint hopeful light, repairs not just flesh, but metal too, the form of the android is knitted, reformed, arm that moments ago had been ripped to shreds, was reattached and reformed under the light of Solais.
Droids destroyed, scattered to the wind, would not be replaced, but for now the android stands, power rekindled and reborn, metal floating around them as they send hail after hail of raining fragments back out onto the battlefield, no more support, now was the time to fight or die.
Shields failed, but the android did not falter, sending creature after creature back to Helheim, death wa snot yet the time for the Frontier, they would endure, they would survive!
The power of the android, being made up on the fly by the personality matrix, was a wonder to behold, metal magic, used to create artificed works in moments and send these whiling devices of death hurtling into the enemy. Guns firing and running out of ammo to just be thrown into an exploding fragments, knives that spun like chains and whirled out into the amassed hordes.
(Cassia M. Silvanas)
[11:45] wonder.
Whether it was at the Tree of hope returning or at the complexities of the ritual facilitating that change was impossible to say. Perhaps it was both.
After all, he was the many and the one, and both had something to wonder at, indeed.
Simultaneously nonmagi struggling to survive at all, warriors fighting the endless tide, observers and actors, those that belonged and those who did not, felt the light of hope.
Indeed, even past the countless wards shielding his mind, a piece of that light snuck its way to Anthal´kyr himself, shedding light on what he himself was not aware of.
That terror, ingrained into the deepest layers of the subconcious, of that which was now playing the role of villain in the narrative he was a part of.
And, for the first time in years, his attention slipped from that. for a moment.
It was still enough for an epiphany.
Gratefulness.
Once more, the source of that feeling was unclear, or perhaps multifaceted.
Be it from a single being, or thousands, whether they knew the architect of the event that had brought light, there was gratefulness to the Mind eater, now.
(Pittwald)
[11:48] Thomas G. Equisol thinks, "Loramelian, I require your assistance."
[11:48] Reality, and Story-
Loramelian's mind is capable of doing two things at once, or they'd never had made it as long as they did in the Oracle's chair.
So the dark Faeborne, body moving with the jerky awkwardness of automation, begins to weave a second circle around Blackwater-
This one more inherently arcane, runes glimmering in the kind of silver that holds a thousand shades hidden within its shining depths. A circle designed to capture his portion of the narrative, to store memories of power and slaughter, to make meals of nightmare with which to help him become whole again.
Silent, dogged preparation. Her strong suit.
And the nameless silver vulture, the flowing hunger, the subtle death?
It is not something that Solais' warmth can touch.
Whatever darkness lives inside It quails for a moment, a shame and a secret flayed open to be revealed.
The light- the light- the scouring light-
But no. No. It is flexibility, It is motion, It is will, It is... Adaptation.
Down, down with the heart of It to the very belly, nestled in layer after layer of protection. Let the hunger hide; the maw will open deep as it must to drink Its fill.
If It is not what is needed, then It will become something else.
A shifting supple surface gone dim and matte dons the vivid mercury-mirror of Its 'natural' state, shattering Its pretense at stealth. This glorious skin catches the light and hurls it back in eye-searing brightness, creating a weapon of Its very existence.
Armored in reflected glory, It makes itself a nightmare of wings. That brief spark of Solais' holy light is carried over the battlefield, prolonged in life and exposure, a searing star.
It burns, burns, burns, eating away at the darkness within, a Pyrrhic pyre.
Thus does Hope inspire heroes to labor, to struggle, to die.
(Loramelian)
[11:49] Grit would, after having been given visions from Talguth fall into a very deep sleep, which might be odd, considering his state after witnessing the visions. He'd murmur in his sleep a few words, "Viola....Rebecca...okay..." Grit would murmer. Before immediately waking up.
He'd stand back up, and was...noticeably more composed and relaxed than before...how odd, considering his damn near shattered mental state he was in before.
(Grit)
[11:49] Thomas G. Equisol thinks, "... A prayer, hopefully."
[11:49] Thomas G. Equisol thinks, "Miriam's faded."
[11:49] Thomas walks into a square of a lot of people standing around staring at nothing, seemingly enraptured by some unseen force, while great glyphs turn abovehead in a midnight sky.
Just Gloomlight things.
(Loramelian)
[11:50] Thomas G. Equisol thinks, "I do go to battle, and she has blessed me already."
[11:51] Thomas glances skyward, at the glyphs, before he returns his sight to Loramelian.
(Thomas G. Equisol)
[11:51] ARES-4 is struck just above the heart. ARES-6 is gashed across the midsection. The two units, bound by fleshy, mortal constraints, are nearly brought low.
But the ritual proceeds, and fate is turned towards humanity's favor. For once, they're given a high card.
Flesh knits together. Wounds seal and the occultic horde is weakened. In a flash of radiant shadow, Bishop streaks towards the back-lines. They continue their work, weaving around gnarled talons and sweeping blades; dodging vicious, dagger-lined maws and spell-fire alike.
The Butterfly's Reprise flares, and silvered morphos embed into channels cleaved by claws. The striker unit advances up the ranks, to tackle each threat it deems ''important''.
They are not slaked by the blood of countless Kaor, unsatisfied with the piles of carved flesh, so they ascend futher-
-and, as they always were in death, fall victim to the unmatched power of hubris. Bishop lines themself up to strike at the army's overlord, and is quickly dealt with.
Wounds are gifted in exchange for their life,
but the kitsune, like the rest of their order, is scorched to ash.
Jaizara retreats from this fate, returning to reality. Her part was played in full, her sacrifice definite and her fake-life extinguished. A poise of apathy and disdain is all that she now bears.
A bitter taste in her mouth, a disgruntled twitch of the lips, and nothing else. The rest of the ritual has yet to be witnessed.
(Jaizara)
[11:59] The conscious, waking portion of Loramelian turns to Thomas, moving too slowly for any natural gesture, puppet of a mind bisected.
The runes she has woven around Blackwater will hold; she can turn her attention to prayer. A strange segue, perhaps, from the works of Hel to the works of the gods-
But she is the Radiant of Duality, equally at home in light and in shadow, so it is equally natural for her to dip into the Lifestream's well and draw deeply from its bounty.
Tongues of black and white fire lick harmlessly over the arms that lift, one gloved hand for each of Thomas's shoulders. Opalescent eyes come to meet his, strange gleams through her mask.
"You stand as leader and final defender of Athelios' city," she speaks, voice curiously soft and mostly devoid of inflection, "voice of His will upon Meranthe. May His power keep you safe through the dark days to come, standing against the enemy as one day we must all do atthe ultimate battle."
"...Your time to join that war Beyond has not yet come."
The flame flares up to sweep over him, extraordinarily and bitterly cold -
But the misery is but momentary, and in its wake new energy tingles through his circuits, life invigorated by the reminder of death.
(Loramelian)
[12:06] Whatever was happening within Gloomlight was to aid in the defense of Meranthe against Atrellya, and he wasn't going to question the ritual. As Loramelian turns to him, he doesn't flinch away when the licking flames of black and white land on either shoulder from the former Oracle's hands. And it's there they make eye contact - one unmasked, the other masked.
The leader and final defender of Athelios' city. Sure, put more weight on his shoulders. But it was a weight he seems prepared to shoulder.
The Equisol's eyes shut, briefly, as Loramelian extends her prayer towards Athelios over him. While the coldness and chill of Helheim washes over him and prompts a brief shiver, it's only a temporary lapse. Energy sparks and draws through his form and eventually there's a solidified huff given through his lips.
"Thank you." Is this the time that he speaks of what he wishes to happen should he die? No. Because Athelios watches over him, and he'll return, one way or another. "I'll depart for now. Expect my return."
Confident.
(Thomas G. Equisol)
[12:07] Loramelian says, "...I... assuredly shall..."
[12:07] Thomas G. Equisol says, "Good luck with what you're all doing."
[12:08] Talguth says, "Nearly done."
[12:09] In reality, Sterling has all her eyes firmly shut, whilst her hand has pinched her brow. It is an expression of disappointment the body channels as a result of the story not going quite how she intended.
The bird cannot die. It won't. Not easily. The death of the universe could not end it, so too are the tools of the Institute unable to rend its feathers apart to find purchase on scaled flesh underneath. An owldrake, in all but name, which rent its terrible habits onto the land.
Scraping and clawing at metal.
Stealing it away, taking, and devouring. Unwavering chaos in all of its eyes breaks down the order and the finely made workings of both the lifestream, and the tools of the Institute. It watches as death-throes send off detonations and waves of rippling concussion, as the sparks of hope become again, real.
Solais reigns.
The lifestream thickens its focus.
The timestream observes the intruder.
It cannot remain. Its contract is fulfilled. And the little perverse wringing of the story slips away.
A rift in its wake, nethradin pouring in, scalded by the lifestream mending itself in kind. They take hold of the advantageous situation. Some fight, some scatter, some flee, some dare not even to poke their heads out. But it's a short lived rift, whilst Solais' holy shadow washes over the world's wound, and eldritch feathers fall in its flight.
She can't get that thing out of her head.
If it makes sense it'll manifest.
It's taken a root somewhere in her horns, after all.
"...hff."
It was fun, but she's played her part, of a savage and terrible beast that was beaten back by the light of the tree, after all. There's a small victory in that.
Very little more.
(Sterling Montelione)
[12:10] Grit would look around, still calm despite what he went through from Talguth's visions, almost eerily so. Perhaps whatever he saw in his dream allowed him some measure of calm? Grit, either way would notice how the others seem to be int he middle of the ritual still. Grit having already finished his visions, and then had the unexpected deep sleep...would just go to sit on a bench, quietly, as he observed the others still going through it.
(Grit)
[12:14] In Reality, the Mind Eater lifts free the Spear crackling with temporal energies and floats it towards Jaizara. When they awaken from the Story's spell, they would find it already clutched in their hands, the bark heavy in whatever storage method they preferred.
This strange event that had taken place, this Story Writ upon the Greater Narrative, all woven together towards a single purpose.
To pull free Solais from an earlier point in the Timeline and overlap it with the present, if only for the briefest of moments. It hums a cheerful tune to itself that is difficult to follow, slipping away from memory just the same as the events that played out in one's imagination.
Like a dream fleeing recollection once thrust back into the waking world.
Its voice echoes out, both in instruction to Jaizara and to the crowd still present.
"[My thanks, all. I hope you enjoyed this experience as much as I did.
Jaizara.
Plant the Spear before Solais and, when the time is right, replace the missing bark upon the great husk. The Spear will be unmade and, if all goes as expected, Solais will shine bright.
If only for a time.]"
(Talguth)