Eternity

[Taelian Edevane]

49th of Frost, Year 4622

"He found Himself there, winnowed from the pain He had known, and the things He had seen, and the man He had endeavored to save. He was born not in Grace, so this landscape was familiar more to Him than any of his sisters, brothers and kin. As He looked out across the great golden fields of Adena in flames, He felt great reservedness like the withholding of a breath, and then finally He decreed.

'We will rebuild here,' He said. 'We will be born again under His light. We will know.'

And so Saren came to make His vow, even as the Gods above spited Him and spoke damnation upon His name, and as the Gods across that very golden field — those Corrupted like Him — wept and winced, desperately attempting to flee their own forsaken skins. He, in that moment, exhibited bravery untarnished, and unknown to any but those like Him: born of rot, of filth and mewling, willing to observe any Sin in order to lay claim to another breath of life."

Corruption, 1:9. The Book of Bel.

———

Dreams were harrowing things, sometimes. Powerlessness belied them: one could not escape them of their own will, and they could manifest anything within their domain, wanted or unwanted. The paradox, then, was that they emerged from the dreamer's own mind, plucked from their very brain to imprison them in a cage of their own making. This paradox was a strange, confusing thing, a question for philosophers to answer on the nature of mortal consciousness and will. Sometimes, dreams weren't originated from one's mind, though. Sometimes they were a doorway, a gateway through which the psychological body left behind the physiological one, traveling through a space too infinitesimally small for it to fit. Reverie was like a selectively permeable membrane, disallowing the body, but allowing the ebb of consciousness instilled into it by Kyrikain, or perhaps by reality, or perhaps by the natures of law and this world. The query of what consciousness was was not something even the Gods had an answer to, many imagined, because they had never given a satisfactory one.

"It is our creation," they would say, and never: "Here are its physiological roots, explained in detail traversable through magic and science." Perhaps there was no order they understood, or no answer worth giving. Perhaps it simply was a creation of will, even as everything else seemed to fit within their perfect cosmic order, layered on brick-by-brick by reason and truth.

All of the dreamers, an hour after midnight on the very morning they were meant to leave for Bel, had passed this selective membrane. They had tunneled to and beyond Reverie, though, and stood now in what looked like a city... with tall buildings, broken and besmirched with rot, surrounded by a landscape more foul, dark and empty than anything any soul present had ever witnessed, yet also unmistakably more advanced. The buildings were build of an architectural standard at least a hundred years beyond contemporary capabilities, with strangely illuminated signs at their anterior face, emanating a hue unseen by all present: they was lucent in a way that was brimming and warm, striking color into the atmosphere with a sort of pure radiance, imbued within the very frame of the sign itself. Despite the lights, the buildings were crumbling and hunched over, many of them already fallen into those adjacent to them, and the streets were empty of nothing but husk-like shells, dormant, withered meat in the shape of frail women and men. All of them wore bright clothing, but when touched they would simply crumble to ash.

A bell began to ring, so misplaced... a church-bell within a great, even endless city too far gone, tolling and tolling in the far distance as the five dreamers awoke from their slumber. As the bell tolled, the brightly-dressed husks began to awaken, only to quickly skitter with all of the perceptiveness and alacrity of roaches, disappearing or cowering behind walls, crawling along the edges of buildings and fleeing from that world-consuming sound.

Taelian gasped as if he had just awoken from a nightmare, holding his chest and shaking his head, low, his eyes averting towards the ground.

"No... no..." he murmured beneath his breath. "This is a nightmare... a nightmare." That bell, he recognized, was His call.

[Arkash]

One by one, Arkash crawled the streets touching the various husks that lined the feet of the futuristic buildings. It came to the point that he didn't wait to watch them turn to ash before he moved on to the next. His execution was almost obsessive, as he mindlessly moved from husk to husk, leaving piles of ash in his wake.

His bare, clawed feet padded the paved ground as he moved, claws rapping the asphalt with every thoughtless step... Until the bell tolled.

Arkash blinked his bright yellow eyes, darted his gaze to his surroundings, and settled briefly on the lurid lights hanging from their various placements on the towers surrounding them. The bell continued to reverberate and bellow through the vivid landscape, and steadily, Arkash seemed to withdraw from whatever he'd been doing with the husks.

He turned on the spot as the withered flesh heap beside him became animate, and kept his front to the being as it scurried most ferally and joined others in its mad dash for cover.

Arkash didn't share the same reaction as the Godling.

He didn't meet his surroundings with horror or shock, an air of intrigue clung to the frames of his bright yellow eyes as he stared at the neon lights that reflected from his shiny basalt hide. As the bell continued its deafening ring, he eventually found sense enough to cover his ears.

Deep breaths through his nose were fruitless, and only revealed the age of the place with the dusty staleness of the air that blanketed the city.

"Well... This is different," he spoke inaudibly beneath the world-consuming ringing, then looked to the others in his company. "Where did 'ew lot come from?"

"Come 'elp me poof 'ese roaches if 'ew's jus' gonna stand 'er," he spoke with a motion of his head to the alleys the brightly-colored husks had crawled into, then turned on the spot to chase after them, still with his palms flat to his ears.

Image source.

[Ford Edevane]

Ford’s night had been growing shorter and shorter the closer the time to venture to Vardrek had come. Once he had come close to the obelisk, he had felt the radiance, and something had felt off since that day. His sleep had already been fraught with images. Whether they were made up, instilled in him, or something darker, he had been forced to endure them. On the final night before their supposed venture began, it had taken him a longer than desired moment to fall asleep. He simply hadn’t wanted to. What he had been feeling and seeing was not something he could deal with, and he had been finding small boxes to put them into to be dealt with later time… And they were not something he could trouble Taelian with, he had enough on his plate as it was, and it was his duty to protect him in some fashions. This was going to be one of them.

He had just fallen asleep, that fresh feel of falling into slumber fresh against his fogged mind, when the bell had started to chime. He was annoyed. He had finally fallen asleep with the warmth of his husband nearby. Only when he went to bury his face into the warmth that was there he found himself missing the mark completely and rolled off of the side of an uneven ledge and had fallen. It was not a far fall, just a foot or so, but he had landed face down with a disgruntled and surprised “Oof!” The impact had forced him awake as the sound he was hearing had him pressing up onto his knees, allowing his thighs to relax against his calves as he finally looked up to see… Well, something he had not been expecting to see.

Lifting his gaze upward, he took in the sight that was before him. The illuminated hues had caught his attention first as his hand came to hold the back of his neck. Where was he? What was this? Again, the bell chimed, and he looked in the direction he could only assume that it was resonating from. And that was when he realized something once more, was off. There was a wrinkling of his nose as he pressed himself up to a stand. Perhaps not the smartest thing, but he had a vague idea of the situation. This was not his first and would not be his last.

Again, perhaps not the smartest, but he was going through things in his mind, checking things off in perhaps the only way he knew how.

“Tae?” He asked out loud enough to be above a whisper but not loud enough to yell. That would be the first thing to tell him, one way or the other, what had happened. A landscape foreign to him or not, there were other priorities that came first and ones that could be figured out later. He would regard the others in the group as second in priority before he would figure anything else out.

[Gloomcrest]

49th of Frost, 4622

Drifting in a sea of blackness, nothing but the sense of emptiness encompasses Jared’s mindscape; yet a voice reaches out from this strange abyss, and tells a story that the amber-eyed thief has never heard before; It was a man, yet also a woman; young, and old that hosted many aspects about the world which was distilled into a singular voice, almost alien in nature.

“All looked entirely lost; the people cowered on five hilltops that were nearly under tossed…
As the shadowy deep rose to meet them, who should unexpectedly appear… But…[######]”

The name was static, blurred, and quickly forgotten, yet the story continued to play; the imagery that this mysterious storyteller was present caused the drifting dream to blur in a gray haze before moving on to the next scene.

“Resurrected, with a host of creatures, queer;

Lickety split, the group and set out, in the least half an hour; all that had left came back to the tower. They entered an empty room, darkness grasped at their feet; With no way out except to drown, Their doom they were sure to meet.

But of course…[#######]”

Again, the name was censored by something enigmatic in the voice, cold & hollowed as if the life was drained out of them and the fleeting remnants of joy had faded into the ethereal. Only to be replaced by the dreaded noise of a bell tolling that grew louder with each passing second that the story was trying to be told.

“[#######], Before their very eyes, astounded, to a [#####] they led, and they stepped through it instead; And from that day onwards in [######], only a small island remained… The [#####] safe in [#######]... Their [#######] regained… And [#######] began to [######] again… Each of us leading, [#######]… Soon it will be [######]; to leave [########]…

Now [#######], the [######] has died, the [#####] is dark and deep… [####################]...

It was then that the final bell tolls that Jared’s vision of this weird play of story comes to a close, as if multiple hands that are unseen; grasp, and claw onto Jared’s body, pulling it away from this vivid story. Darkness envelops his form once more before his citrine-eyed gaze cracks open.

The Alistian thief’s breath ragged as his eyes began to dart in a panic as his mind attempted to comprehend what he had just experienced in his dreams, but all of this was quite bizarre to the thief.
His mind tried to process where he was as the decaying buildings that stood about as tall as various castles or even hills, holding the line despite being worse for wear. This strange place had nothing but emptiness… As if everything present was grounded to dust… Whatever this place is or was… It was far more advanced than Jared could have ever imagined the world, but wherever the light touched, it revealed so many flaws… The buildings were weak, the stones crumbled, and the foundation itself held on by an inch of life.

““what la fu…”
(“What the fu…”)

That was all the thief could say as his body, mind, & soul still felt weak, and a wave of uneasiness did not bode so well either. His gaze would drift around for a moment once more, squinting for a moment to only realise that the remaining members were also here. Taelian, Arkash, Ford, Moop, and himself were present… Something didn’t sit well, but only time will tell… As everyone was slowly coming to this waking world... one sand at a time...

[Tyranny]

THE DEFILED ETERNITY

Glade, 417.

"Can I tell you something, Rot?"

"What?"

"He frustrated me. I'd see him laugh, sometimes, beneath his helm — I couldn't see it, Leviathan knows whether he even has skin beneath that obsidian cage anymore... but I knew, because I was attuned to him in a way that no one else had ever experienced in all of the history of our universe. Five thousand years of marriage — who could ever beat that? And yet, as I nursed him... an eternal caregiver, he mocked me with the basin of Ichorwine between my hands, and at the end of his laughter another unseen grimace. Maybe I resented him... would you understand it if I did? Is that so wrong, to resent him? If I didn't care about this project of his, I could have died so long ago. I've wanted to... for such a long, long time."

"That isn't right, Eternity. For he said, 'As things nearer their end, even the pious and the faithful and the ordained question the Path given them. This is natural and true, designed within the artifice of the soul. But it is false: for doubt is falsehood, for pure is the doubtless, but none are ever pure.' Serenity, 3:17. Don't you remember, Saren? You wrote that passage with him. You wrote most of that book."

"Those verses were written with a steady mind," he murmured. "My mind's not so steady anymore. This feeling... I used to have, still have, this... love Brazim still consoles me with the concept of, it cannot sustain the unsustainable through time. I have seen what this pit looks like a hundred years from now, Rot. It's open... it's spilled out into the world, or whatever's left of the world. They called the last one the Bleeding... but it stopped bleeding. The blood stopped flowing before it had even begun to pool. They don't know what it will be like... if those doors open. They can't even imagine."

"For when the mouth of the Barrengates open — Markhan, Zahn and Ghalainn — the death of the world will toll and the bell will ring until its sound is emptiness, like a dull thrum. The gates will bleed until those arteries are ripped, and they will be gates no longer, but vessels pumping and pouring from the heart of decimation. As we seven Corrupted Ones have known ruin, so too will a billion souls for each of us, and a Living God as our pair.' Desolation, 2:8. Who will your pair be, Eternity?"

Saren chuckled, peering up towards the gilded, ornate ceiling that loomed above him, the crack running through it elongating more and more. It had almost run from one side to the next. "You've asked me that many times, Rot."

"You never answer."

"All of them," he said, his lips cool, the edges of his careful smile pulled up almost as if to sneer. None of this was visible to anyone but him — like Venadak, he wore a helm, though his was stranger and more impractical than any other. Saren's head was something of a sphere, a metallic bowl that wrapped around him with no peepholes with which to see, or orifices from where he could breath. It was a mystery and miracle that sound even escaped.

"All of them?"

"I'd take them all with me, my little sturgeon. 'For the cunts who never even tried to free me from this hell deserve to be tossed into the mouth of the Outsider, one by one.'"

"That's not a verse," the strange, fish-like creature declared, flopping as it laid along a golden rail.

"It will be, in the next version. The End, 19:11." He smiled, softly, and pulled his helm from his head, revealing the paleness that was his face... he had Elven ears, with black hair draping down nearly to his shoulders. As he removed his helmet, he turned it upside-down, revealing the very same basin he'd offered his husband as a source and root for his sustenance. Saren filled it with water, pulled seamlessly from time, and ushered Rot into his bowl. He hummed an angelic tune, a remnant of the glorious old days he once knew, and closed what was his helm and had become a fishbowl with a pot-like lid.

Rot died in there, suffocated, starved of air and left to wander a dark, empty space without company or food. Saren left him behind, eager to let him finally know his own death, unconstrained by the ramblings of an empty, diluted, maddened soul. He became alone, then, and whimpered and mourned of it. And then he disappeared.

And the bell tolled, and the bell tolled, and the bell tolled...

- - -

The bell tolled. Its thrumming echo changed; it did not always produce the same sound. It was... calling something—someone.

Each sound, different in its intonation and length, was like a letter.

L. The first toll.
Y. The second.
R.
I.
A. The end.

Red lightning leaked from the sky, and poured, and in the great darkness thunderclouds formed... and that choir echoed, and echoed, beyond their ears and into their souls, each of the tainted and empty wanderers, and the blemishes within the Eternity, as that red lightning crawled.

"A nightmare... a nightmare..." one soul cried, for he knew what this was.

His call. Who was He? A father calling for his daughter, urging her to defend the corpse and empty palace of the one man He still knew to love, even as His mind was plagued by a cancer so aggressive it had claimed His entire being and left Him a forsaken husk. With the bell and as it tolled, she came. From the great, darkened thunderclouds, she descended a mass of nothing more than red, crackling energy peering down.

Lyria. Forsaken, Light-Touched, Queen of the Verne, Warmonger of Bel, Daughter of Venadak.

"For there she was, winged with naught but pinions of thunder, crimson, her body a metal malice and her sword a scourge to her Father's foes. Loyal Lyria has not a mind of her own, nor should she any longer: she is but a vessel for her Father's mind, as He was for the will of the great thing within." Senescence, 5:23.

And the choir sang.

[Taelian Edevane]

Tae? his husband called to him. He heard his voice, standing there in the street, but the Draedan man did not answer. He did not respond as Arkash obsessively culled the brightly-dressed, skittering roach-men, nor as Jared stood on his feet. The Knight instead continued to look away, first towards the bell and then the sky, which he could see pulse and thrum. And then that red lightning began to move through, vibrating within the dark, grey-black clouds... and he whimpered, and began to cower. "It's her," he murmured. "It's Lyria... m-my... sister. Daughter of Venadak... his angel." It was not a word common to the Analects of the Path -- no, only one woman and even person alive bore that title. Lyria, Angel of Venadak. Legendary was she in the books of the Faith, a bringer of despair upon the foes of the Living Gods. Her mind was gone now, though: she was enthralled to the bells of the Infernal Plane, following the commands of a God too broken to interpret ally and foe.

Taelian shook his head. This... this was life and death. If Venadak had called her, willingly, then he was interpreting their presence here as an intrusion. Taelian began to shift, contorting; chiropteran wings sprouted violently from his back, ripping through his white linen cloth as black spines and plates formed on his shoulders and along his arms, his nails growing longer and sharper as his eyes burned a crimson red. He reached for his waist and grabbed Ard Fuil by its hilt -- strangely, though he had fallen asleep bare of clothing or items, he had an array of equipment now; his weapons, his belongings. Taelian pulled the blade from its sheath, an arcane red pouring along a canal that ran through its center, and his eyes flared.

He looked around, searching for Ford, only to see Moop physically fading before his eyes; her form began to vanish and crumble into ash, and within moments she was gone. "Gods," he cursed, biting his lower lip. The bell tolled again, and the choir echoed, filling the city with music as the radiant lights -- neon, Saren would call them -- illuminated further, the static energy in the clouds galvanizing them.

Taelian searched around frantically, until he saw his staggered husband rise and come to him, the man offering him a pensive smile. He turned to see Arkash and Jared orienting themselves, only to bitterly shake his head.

"We need to fight," he whispered. "Lyria... Lyria is one of the strongest creatures on Atharen, behind the Gods. I-if she is here for us... we h-have to... h-have to... we..."

He shook his head, tears forming within his eyes, welling until they poured down his cheeks. He couldn't perform Daybreak, couldn't take them away from Bel -- it was too dark for the gate, which responded only to light, to open.

The plume of lightning began to descend.

"I am a son of Venadak," he muttered to himself. "I am strong. I will fight her head-on... Ford, Jared and Arkash, I w-will give you... power." Channel Divinity. As if they were born to it, masters of the art, the three men would be able to wield Latham's divine abilities in his name, wielding them to fight the angel once she descended from the sky.

Dren: Gatebreaker
Gatebreaker is a unique ability in that it seems to mirror a particular technology: cannons, and mortars. Latham forms a Divinity-enriched, or ethereal, version of these weapons but only for a quick single-shot, firing a thunderous and rapid, glowing red-shell across large stretches of distance, only to make devastating impact. Gatebreaker is surprisingly versatile; he can form several ground-cannons at once and fire them, destroying entire walls in moments, or he can conjure arced mortar shots from the ground, or -- interestingly -- he can wield cannons and mortars over his shoulders or even his back, acting as secondary weapons of his. Due to the divine nature of these weapons, they appear to be easily shifted and reformed to his will, and can even meld with or phase through his body without issue. The cannons tend to appear as ethereal red constructs, rather than real physical weapons, though Latham may craft them with the illusion of physicality if he so wishes. Each shot from the cannons can vary based on the amount of Divinity dedicated to the shot, but they can range from punching vast holes in walls to blasting the foundations of entire castles away, particularly as Latham reaches Exaltation. Gatebreaker can be formed anywhere within fifty feet of Latham, but not directly on the body of an enemy.

DREN: GATEBREAKER TO ARKASH.

Kilek: Sunbane
Sunbane is an ability that truly takes after Latham's father, Venadak. The Draedan is capable of generating incredibly hot, devastating flame at-will. In most cases, it will first form at the center of one of his hands in the form of a fiery orb, identical in appearance to that of a small sun. At this point, Latham may reshape it into any form he desires, though the larger, more devastating and overall more powerful forms consume more Divinity. He is also capable of crushing it to create an expanding field of fire around himself, or slicing through it with a weapon to imbue it with a divine, undying flame. Considering the versatility of this ability, it is impossible to easily quantify. It can simply be described as divine pyrokinetics, the overall ability to control and manipulate flame. No matter the type of flame generated, however, Sunbane has a few consistent characteristics: it is always a solar shade of smoldering yellow, and it is much hotter than most natural flame at around 6000 °C. As a note, Latham does not need to create Sunbane through an orb or through his palm. He may generate and release it from any part of his body, and can condense it into a laser-like form.

KILEK: SUNBANE TO JARED.

Krikus: Dreg-King
His second passive bolster, Krikus - or Dreg-King - finally aligns Latham with the physiology of his father's retinue. Latham gains some of the physical traits of these infernal beasts, gaining addendums that he may choose to manifest at-will. He may gain black-colored chiropteral wings at will, alike to the wings of many Dregs in appearance. These wings are lined with an armored, silver-like trim along their span, with their fingers carrying this same gilded armor-like texture. Due to their divine nature, they can suspend flight even when tattered and wounded, and with them Latham can fly at extreme speeds of up to 300 km/h. Further, Latham's arms and legs grow black spine-like shards along them, few and scattered, but still notable. Appearing almost like onyx stones growing on parts of his body, they further remind onlookers of his relation to Dregs. They are most prominent on his shoulders, where around six of them run along the surface of those shoulders; these shoulder-shards can extend from his form and suddenly strike at targets within five feet like a scorpion. In addition to this, his feet become clawed and his maw becomes more powerful, with sharper teeth growing in where old ones once laid.

KRIKUS: DREG-KING TO FORD.

"Each time you use my power, it will require Divinity from me," he quickly explained. "It will conjure it through your soul almost like Raw Magic, and bring me closer to weakness and mortality. But... it will give us the opportunity to strike her. I will take her aggression head-on, while you all can act as my artillery, my flame, my fist. F-Ford... be careful with those wings. You don't know how to fly well; try not to follow her if she ascends too high. And try not to fight her alone. If I am incapacitated... flee."

He nodded, slowly, brandishing his weapon. It was time. Soon, she would come.

[Arkash]

That was to say that Arkash had been busy evaporating the brightly-colored husks, lost in the thoughtless haze of a dream until the toll of the bell restored some lucidity. Every resounding blast drew Arkash closer and closer to fully realizing his surroundings until at last, he blinked and knew:

No dream could feel so real.

Arkash swallowed, palms still pressed to his ears as he turned to face the rest of the group. "This is real," he spoke flatly as the realization struck him.

And then, Taelian spread his wings as he had before. Arkash took a step back and lowered his hands so they were in front of his body. Confused, he looked to the sky at the flashes of red as they tore through the clouds; the lightning of a storm so unnatural. Venom pooled in his mouth, its bitter tang all too familiar as the Rath's instincts urged him to run.

We need to fight, he said, And Arkash blinked his gaze back to Taelian. "Fight? Fight what?" Lyria. "Who?"

"Stronga' than the KINDRED?!" He begged. "How many birds?!" Called the Cardinal in frustration. The tears that streaked the Draedan's cheeks brought a halt to his otherwise ceaseless questions. Arkash reeled a little, brow soft above bewildered eyes. "Taelian..."

Relief seemed to accompany his features as the Godling found his resolve, and Arkash breathed out deeply. "Damn right 'ew are," he cheered on the Godling.

"...Power?" he asked with a raise of his brow. And then, an instinctual urge overcame him, some bounty of knowledge hidden under the surface like a vague realization that waited to be uncovered. Arkash lifted his hand, and from his palm, an etheric cannon emerged.

The Rath blinked as he inspected the impressive weapon, then smiled wickedly. From his other palm, another cannon emerged, and Arkash took aim at the sky. The plume of lightning drew closer, and Arkash blinked with uncertainty. A brief glance at his comrades saw him turn on the spot before he made a mad dash for the alleyway. His own shadow seemed to rise from the floor and wrapped his body in a second skin of armored darkness as he took cover within sight of where he imagined the bolt to strike.

it might have been too dark to open a gate, but conditions were perfect for Arkash to blend seamlessly into the shadows. It was as though he'd disappeared altogether while he hid in the darkness.

Guns at the ready, believing he was unseen, Arkash waited to unleash mayhem.

[Ford Edevane]

The bells had begun their infernal chorus, spreading their soundwaves to depths unknown. Suddenly, the sky was torn asunder with a flash of crimson lightning that was not just for a display of power. An imminent fear shot out from that lightning, almost as if riding the coattails of the soundwaves from the tolling bells. The crimson in the sky was fearsome, and as he had rejoined the others, his gaze did look around for the Gnome, finding that she was no longer there. He had not seen her fade, and hopefully, she was safe.

Rejoining the others as they all seemed to be adjusting to their current situation, they all seemed to be looking upwards from where the crackling redness had disrupted the atmosphere. Still, Ford had caught the smile, but the words that followed received a narrowing of eyes. The discussions they had before seemed it had gone from what they had hoped would be something less filled with death to a worst-case scenario.

As Taelian did what a Draedan should have, bolstered his companions, his eyes closed. Ford could not speak further of the situation, but he was already detesting the existence of them. Who were they? Nobody would know, except for Taelian, perhaps. But for now, the power that Taelian was given out seemed to be appropriate for those who had received them.

The tears had fallen, and the man’s voice had a shake to it that pissed Ford off. Although for a moment, before everything would hit whatever proverbial fan it was about to hit, there was kindness in a smile offered to the one who stared at everyone like they were his next meal. Ford appreciated the words, or at least the shift in the sentiment of the words, even if Taelian could not in those moments.

Unfortunately for the group, Lyria was around the corner, and Taelian had granted them a gift of his own making and essence. Taking in a deep breath, Ford’s body began to shift. It was easier for him to visualize, understand, and conceptualize what the gift was that had been bestowed upon him. He had seen it and felt it before. His sparring partner was not some mere old man who claimed to be the best fighter from days long since gone. Ford sparred with a Draedan, the son of Venadak. And although Ford was not completely stronger than a Draedan, he had learned a thing or two about how to use their power against them.

The navy blue shirt he wore would shred from the back as silver-plated spines tore through them, the black chiropteran wings unfurled from the spines, and the silver claws at the tip of each membrane turned inward as the wings flexed. The discomfort was felt by the human as the spine-like shards began to grow from his arms and legs. The shirt’s sleeves tore as the onyx spines protruded enough to pull at the material. Six onyx shoulder shards sprouted along his muscular shoulders, which earned grunts from the man as his body was adjusting to the addendums being grown from his own body, pulling from deep within his soul, touching on something that he had already known was there. His feet clawed, and his jawline became more pronounced as there was a cracking and snapping from within his mouth. His lips parted, giving a breath out as sharp Dreg teeth formed along his gums. Lastly, he could feel it. The life was draining from his hair. The normally bright blonde hair turned a near-ashen, some of it losing pigment completely and turning black. The color in his face drained, and the Griscian’s eyes finally opened. Gone were the blues that had been strikingly brilliant. Now, black-lined irises streaking crimson to a slate grey to the thinner pupil could be seen.

His hand lifted, pulling what was left of his shirt and dropping it to the ground. His pants had holes torn in them from the spines on his legs. And as Taelian stood, nodding to them, giving his final words of instruction before the imminent attack, Ford took his place at Taelian’s side and looked first to the Draedan. “Use me if you need to, and I do not intend to break my promise and vow. There is a reason he called for her.” His voice had grown deeper, raspier, and even mildly surprised him when he heard it. Ford did not need to say anymore. Once Taelian thought it through, he would realize why Lyria, of all the weapons in Venadak’s arsenal, had to be the one summoned.

With that said, Ford’s gaze lifted skyward and waited for the arrival.

[Gloomcrest]

As the amber-eyed thief clarifies his vision and position, Jared takes a moment to look at the rest of the group. His keen eyes glanced over at the Lorien Knight, who seemed distressed as if a grand revelation had appeared. Of course, it did not help that the sounds of a bell tolling away from a distance were making the situation any better; nonetheless, at this moment, the thief looked at the rest of the group, who seemed just as disorientated as he was.

The fact that Ford was calling out to Taelian with very little response was disturbing as whatever the Knight was witnessing must be truly terrible, and his gut was twisting, churning, Not from a bad meal per se but rather a sickening event about to transpire. Finally, after seconds of ruffling from everyone present, Taelian spoke in a quivered tone, mentioning, ‘it’s her…’ before relaying about having a sister who was a celestial being and the daughter to Venadak.

In a mere flash, the thief witnesses a grand spectacle of a scene as the Lorien Knight unfurls wings similar to that of a bat, destroying the clothing on his upper torso. Everything was moving too fast for the thief even to interpret what was going on, as in a matter of seconds, Taelian was finally suited with an array of strange armaments that he had never seen before. In the thief's opinion, something about his display gave off a sinister vibe.

Quickly looking back to the rest of the group, something horrific occurred in front of him as Moop merely crumbled to a pile of ash, her essence scattered into the wind. What was one whole now is nothing, just as the bell tolls once more, suddenly causing the city to burst into vivid lights that one could only dream of a painter creating. It looked alluring, and the thief couldn’t help but be drawn to the light as if a moth was called to a flame, but the thief quickly shook himself back due to the impending situation.

“Fight? What do you méan?”

Jared couldn’t help but be highly concerned about the situation, especially witnessing a stranger disappear in front of his very eyes. ‘Who could be next?’ was one of the lingering thoughts that the thief could muster up from his mind before his ears picked up a few words from Taelian, mention about giving power, which confused the citrine-eyed thief for a moment before a surge of energy that Jared couldn’t even begin to describe rushes through his tired soul.

This sensation felt unbearable as if his weakened body was burning from within to the degree that it felt like Jared lit his soul ablaze, which only grew hotter by the second. This was utterly different to how Jared felt when he used or manipulated umbralplasm, which felt heavy, cold, & lonely. Yet, something was telling the amber-eyed thief that whatever this was, he would be able to use it to a similar degree as he would with his mastery over Nightfall.

“Seems lik anothair death-defyéng bat-téll… to expairience anothair een such a shairt amount of time… fate must 'ate mon guts… non offence to all of you, though…”
(“Seems like another death-defying battle… To experience another in such a short amount of time… Fate must hate my guts… No offence to all of you, though…”)

What Jared could do with the new-found power bestowed upon him by Taelian, a son of Venadak, was something the thief didn’t have time to think about; All he could do now was support the group as best he could.

Relying on his innate mastery of Nightfall, the Alistian Nightfallen takes a brief second to configure a Compass out of all the available photons around him, Being careful about how to use Kilek as it was mentioned albeit rushed that using this power would drain his essence; Something the thief would rather avoid if possible, but to what extent his abilities could work against a god-like being… It was rather slim to none. Nevertheless, the thief was ready as best as he; Despite lacking combat experience, the Alistian thief was prepared to think outside the box despite the dire circumstances.

[Tyranny]

THE DEFILED ETERNITY

Death.

It was a thing Lyria had experienced many times -- death, and the things that came with it. First, when she was slaughtered by her Father for failing Him; for becoming the abomination that was an Empyrean against His Holy Will, even though she thought she was doing it in His name. It was the only way to cleanse her, He said, and so He culled her from flesh to bone and left her flayed, hung up on a trident-like gravestone for all to see. Then she died again when He lost his ability to leave Adena; she became His gateway into Bel and the outer world, and though He never asked her, the ever penitent daughter would have complied and given Him her frame whether or not He'd ever inquired.

Death was a thing Lyria was familiar with inflicting, too, even as a mere sliver of her brain was now occupied by her own conscious, most of it infected by her Father's engrams. She, as His husk, had slaughtered thousands... no, millions. The Endless War was endless indeed; a Draedan of her caliber could kill soul after soul, rending life after life. It didn't really matter in the end, because endless meant that no matter how many souls she scattered apart, her halberd's work would never end... but it felt gratifying to Venadak, as He occupied her, to have power over something again.

This was the only voice He had. The only body He could control, as it had been safeguarded from the infection inside of Him. Lyria, for all of her imperfection and her betrayal of His cause, had become His avatar.

"Vi...rus..."

She croaked out that one word. Virus. That was what they were, weren't they? A virus. They couldn't live without inseminating themselves within the creations of Gods, assuming command of the world and all of the belongings of their Creators to fulfill their own needs. These viruses were particularly insipid -- they were, in His own mind, here to hunt the one man he had left. They would be expurgated, inevitably.

Suddenly, that amassment of red lightning descended, crashing into the ground. As the crimson electricity crackled and jolted outward, writhing against the blackened city streets, the woman slowly rose from the seared mass. She stood, blond of hair and pale of skin, the color and texture of her face ashen and ruined; she was like a Dunash, almost, but somehow even hollower. Empty, dead, with soulless red eyes that glowered and glowed. "Vi...rus..." she murmured again.

The bell stopped tolling, and Lyria's head turned. Slowly, like a corpse barely holding together, she twisted her neck to view Taelian, who stood not far away against the edge of a battered building. "...Son..." she let out, followed by a palpable gag as a mess of blackened pus escaped her shambling throat, spitting onto the ground. Lyria moaned, grunting, and twisted her head back to a state of correctness. She disappeared, then, in a streak of lightning -- red lightning struck where she stood, and she disappeared within it. A moment later, that same red lightning struck where Taelian was, and he suddenly yelled out in pain as his body was seared. She appeared within it, throwing forward her halberd, pushing it deep into his pectoral and penetrating into his chest. Within a mere moment, she had torn through his left lung, her halberd ripping out from the frame of his form and penetrating to the other side. Lightning coursed from her to him in an almost mesmerizing red display; it moved like cilia and fluttered, appearing more like wavelengths than electric arcs. Taelian screamed harrowingly as he was utterly paralyzed, only for the woman to lift him higher and higher on her halberd, raising him into the air. It was only then that he was above her, the woman higher in stature than any of the men assembled to face her.

"BETRAYER," she screamed. Lyria moved bile through her throat, gagging and grimacing as a physically tangible mass arose through her esophagus and into her mouth, only to be excreted as she spat and vomited it all across Taelian's face. As it hit him, it began to melt him, burning his face as he screamed and writhed, acid eliminating his features until he was merely a mass, his skull surrounded by red, burning, seared meat. She flung him from her halberd, and with a single strike of lightning firing into him, he was dead.

The Channel Divinity ended... not long after it began.

"Vi...rus..."

She looked, then, to Arkash.