[h1]AS ABOVE[/h1]
[justify]It is rare for the elder of elders to leave his abode, for his reach is such that he can carve the heavens from the safety of his celestial nexus. It is [i]rarer[/i] for the master of the Cultivators to move within other universes without portents of calamity; yet it was possible, for nothing was impossible under [b]Krü.[/b]

A celestial lighthouse pulses in the black sky, a pulsar whose rhythm was a flat second. [b]Tick, tick, tick.[/b] Each rotation was a blast of radiation that could fry electronics and rip skin from bone. Yet this star was not lifeless, for it was host to a planet whose life was neither electronic nor biological. The grey dusty surface was host to great spires, coiled towers of twisting metal that undulated within the galactic breeze. The extreme gravity and electromagnetic interference from the host star slowly pulled the planet apart, great chunks of the world floating as islands whose fate was to slowly drift into oblivion. Creatures of geometric shape and unorthodox material drifted in the airless void, performing their dance of life antithetical to the flow of time in this universe.

A perfect staging ground.

[b]Krü[/b] sat upon a smaller floating island, his body laying against the grey dust. There was no way to describe this being as human, for his anatomy was as alien as it comes: His torso was held like that of an ostrich, his striding legs capped with hooves akin to a deer. His neck was long and flexible, and his head was rectangular with the jaws of a spider. Four dull grey eyes peered forward, intricate purple runes carved into his irises that rotated with unending patterns. [b]Krü[/b] was blind, yet he saw all.

His four arms held a great cloth, fingers driving a needle into the intricate pattern as new threads were forged — strands of time woven into the tapestry of fate. Each stitch furthered his conquest, forging plots and games whose subjects did not know they were playing.[/justify]
[hr]
[h1]SO BELOW[/h1]
[justify]The more the world changed, the more it stayed the same. The presence of extraterrestrial life and divine intervention did not stop the need for drugs and violence: In many ways it only grew the demand. The destruction of the far east, the forging of [b]Neo Babylon[/b], all of this might have shaken up the criminal underworld — but it could never destroy it. Power had merely changed hands, and it was high time for the lords of the old world to take on the new.

[b]”[/b]You are sure?[b]”[/b] Bone-thin fingers laced together, the clacking of jewellery barely audible underneath the thrum of Drill. A ghastly face gazed up, eyes little more than illuminated spheres puppeteering a corpse. The Lich of Rio. His undead face was impossible to read, but the cocking of his head showed… Caution. Unsurprising, really.

[b]”[/b][color=purple]We are.[/color][b]”[/b] The face of someone ill-suited to the favelas gazed back, someone too [i]white[/i]. But still, this fellow held onto a suitcase filled with power The Lich could have only dreamed of: The power to take Neo Babylon.

[b]”[/b][color=purple]All you need to do is say ‘yes’.[/color][b]”[/b][/justify]