The awakening of the Will brought forth several unintended consequences for those who felt its tug and pull. The ear-splitting scream of its psionic pressure, lashing out to those specifically denoted to be called upon. Those whose true purpose was to serve Idea, and not themselves. And specifically not some child drawing on the coattails of Idea's creator, who sought to elevate himself to a level he could have never obtained - not with a thousand years of work and a million hours of effort. The call permeated the psionic bandwidths, passing through and beyond the Midnight Fog, unimpeded by its childish attempts at stopping the power of a god. Through the dimensional rifts and changes, through the galaxies and light-years spanning the distances between those who he sought to empower.

The true purpose of the Will was coming. The truth of its existence drawing nearer the light of day, to be seen and looked up in awe and glory. The brilliance of it was impressive, for those who could sense the power that flowed through him. Of those present before him, only Megalodon would have the capacity to do so. The others were blinded, blinded by their proximity to the childish usurper. The creature who went against everything the Val'gara were meant to be, and chose instead of follow the teachings of the ignorant, the blind. When the blind led the blind, you only moved in circles. And Thane's life had become one circle of unimpeded ignorance.

That circle would soon be broken.

Far and wide the psionic scream went, a deafening roar to those who could feel the presence of it. Could sense the sounds traveling the uninhibited highways of the Multiverse. Few heard it and understood its meaning, fewer more felt an inexplicable desire, a powerful need to answer that call. They sought to find themselves basking in that ambient glory, to touch the power with their own hands. It called to them with the fury of a thousand suns, and they had no choice but to answer.

-------------------------

The Hellion of Val'gara spent most of his last days trapped. Broken and bleeding inside the body of another, absorbed through some arcane magic that he couldn't begin to fathom and understand. Of course, it wasn't his role to understand. Only to consume, to convert, and to control. In that, he failed when faced against Lysander. Yet, his escape was imminent and he'd successfully found his outlet during a foray into a world unvisited by most from beyond their region. Now, he floated along the bleakness of space as nothing more than a cloud, unable to find the power to reconstitute himself a physical body.

Compression of the Mist was always the main option, the way he'd formed his body a hundred times over - and the myriad of most of his existence. Yet, now, he couldn't gain the energy to do that. He was hungry, so very hungry. His bio-force faded, levels dropping to nigh negligible levels. He sought only refuge and fuel, something to sate his ever-growing hunger. And yet, in this expanse of space, he found little. Stars dotted the horizon, and he headed toward them with the only goal being sustenance. Yet, he found none. The closer he came, the further they seemed to stretch. Always staying just beyond his reach.

In the distance, something twinkled. Something nearly unseen, and his sentient mind could only barely feel the presence of it. But it moved, quickly. It launched toward him with the rapidity of light, perhaps even faster. It sought him out, no matter which way he turned his mist-body, it followed. He sensed it coming, and in his fear-riddled mind he saw only his death coming for him. Attempting to run only brought about ruin. In a matter of seconds that stretched into eternity, it caught him. The force of it hit him like a freight train hitting an egg. It crushed him, tore him apart molecule by molecule. And then, he simply ceased.

-------------------------

Azaroth sat upon his bone-formed throne. His fingers clasped around the fanged skulls of the dead. His eyes cast down from the pyramid's apex. In time, he'd sought out to rule once more - and with nothing of worth presenting itself he'd drawn himself back to his roots. A primitive planet, who still believed in the concept of Gods. He had taken that mantle happily, and now he sat with his six arms stretched before him - his eyes cast on the loin-cloth covered people, building statues in honor to his power.

Even from here, a million light years from Soran, he felt the draw of the psionic scream. He chose to ignore it. To let the scream rest in the back of his mind, though he felt the tug of it pulling him toward Soran, off in the distance. He never lost track of his roots, like many of the others. He still sought only to rule, to consume. However, this planet would server well as a new home world for the Val'gara. Even now, the people below were mutating beyond recognition - though they saw it only as a gift from their lord above.

As he sat, ignoring the scream and watching his new empire be built right before his eyes, he began to feel something else. Something...tingling. It was like being erased from existence. Something he'd felt before, but hadn't expected here. Nothing close by had that kind of power, at least not that he was aware of anyway. His fingers started dissolving, and immediately he began to panic.

Willing himself to remain, he fought against it with his entire might. Yet, it was never enough. He had no choice, it seemed, but to become nothing. As if the very guiding hand behind his existence decided it no longer wanted him to remain as his own, and began to erase him bit by bit. His body dissolved, and with it the hold he held over the people. They rose up immediately, dismantling the things they'd begun to build. And then they wailed, terrifying screams of those without a God, but who were only used to subjugation and rule.

Azaroth, too, ceased.

---------------------------

The Voidmistress was doing what she did best. Killing. An uprising of goodwilled mages sought to burn her from her home, and it was those mistakes that brought many to their ruination. Her power lashed out, and their magic simply seemed to slide from her body. The bleakness of her, the darkened mass of her body, dotted with the outlines of stars and galaxies. An entire universe held within her crystalline form. Their magic flowed through that rift, into her world - into the realm which she ruled like the Christian God. It become repurposed, and turned into fuel for her existence.

She fought them tooth and nail, literally. For all the power she held within her own realm, here she was powerless. She couldn't lash out with furious fire, or watery death. Only with her strength and agility. And she did just that. Her nails were like razors, flowing between them with the grace of a trained warrior. The fluidity of a snake, motions occured so quickly that many couldn't track. All the while, they fell to their deaths. Throats slit and blood staining the grass at their feet.

"When will you children learn? You cannot kill me, not with the poor display of strength you bring to bear."

As she said these words, her body stopped. She faced them, her eyes shifting from one to the other. And then, without warning, a blood-curdling scream echoed through from her lips. She clasped her gut, and bent double. In a normal person, this might be construed as period pains. But a woman without a vagina couldn't have such issues, and instead it made one wonder what it could be. She fell to her knees, pain rampant. Anger flooded her, anger at not knowing. Not understanding. What was this pain? What source did it come from? What did it herald?

She had no chance of finding answers, as the crystal that made up her existed exploded. An entire galaxy unleashed instantly on a single planet, two existences crashing into one another. They both perished in that moment, destroyed by the destruction of Caitlyn herself.

Like the others, Caitlyn simply ceased.

---------------------------------------------------------

Isaak spent the last hundred years in maximum security lockup. After his stint with The Collective ended, he sought only to further his own vain goals and gains. He was perfect, and he set out to prove that perfection. So, having that in mind he began to take on tasks. Usually ones that would prove how perfected his craft of murdering people truly was. And then he got caught. A high profile assassination gone wrong, and maximum security didn't agree with his vanity.

He fought daily. Years and years added to his sentence with each dead watcher. They fought back, but they never could match his grace, his ability. In the end, they'd decided to simply lock him away in a parallel dimension, a dream-state where he could do whatever he wanted and think of himself as a free man. Now, he fought daily - but nothing came of it, no one got hurt. No years were added. He simply fought shadows of his own mind, and in his ignorance never seemed to figure it out.

But today was different. Today, the sun didn't shine. In fact, it never rose at all. Instead, the only thing rising were his eye lids. He awakened, and immediately everyone tensed up. Laughter rang, a loud, raucous laughter that could make even the bravest of men piss their pants in its lunacy.

And then, he - too - ceased.

---------------------------------

Back on Soran, The Will of Idea stood unmoving. The sound of his psionic scream died, dropping to manageable levels and then disappearing entirely. As Taluge-X rose its maw from the depths of Cocytus, Will's body simply ceased to exist. And then, a few moments later, reappeared at the northern coast of Lialita. His fingers flexed, and his arms stretched out. Power flooded through him, and the nature of his existence came to bear upon a group of roaming Niraans.

Each member of The Collective arose from nothingness, where they once ceased to exist - they once more constituted living creatures. Their eyes were blank, frozen stares. They stood in all their glory, all their power. And yet, something was still different. It was like they were tethered to Will, tethered to the idea of him. To the existence of him. He flooded power through them, and their power bolstered far and beyond what most would have thought possible.

Even together, before this, they were weak in comparison to what they brought to the front now. The Niraans never stood a chance. Their mouths opened in unison, one acting at the same as the other - their mental hivemind reestablished through the Will of Idea. Their voices rocked in unison, and the Niraans who heard it stopped. The scream permeated them, ripped through their flesh and removed it from their bones. Their muscle, the sinew, the flesh. It all evaporated in the raw display of power.

As quickly as it began, it ended. Their mouths closed, and their blank stares shifted to normal views. Their heads turned, each surprised at being alive - remembering vividly the moment in which they ceased to be any longer. They turned toward the presence, the force which drew them here. Which utterly destroyed them, only to rebuild them into something far stronger than they'd ever been able to achieve on their own.
"Master." They said in unison, natural voices melding together harmoniously.
"My children, you have arrived. It is good to see you, to touch you once again. To feel your minds. You have been gone from the herd for far too long, but I have need of you this day. The usurper is here. He holds your mother hostage. He holds us all hostage, and has betrayed the very ideals of what we are about.

He waved his hand in the direction of the coast, down toward the central section of it. They could feel him there, along with the other. And the shark.

"His time is at an end, he has yet to understand that though. Disiciple, too, is here. It is time to fulfill the destiny I was created for, it is time to end the reign of the usurper and return us to our former glory. You, my children, are the tool. I am the hand the guides. Soon, he will be drawn to us. Soon, he will confront us. He has no choice. He has no saving grace. This time, there will be no retreat. We fight to the death, we fight to the bloody end."

They nodded their assent, not that they were given a choice in the matter. They recognized The Will as their supreme ruler, and they would do anything that he asked of them. It was time for a fight, once more they found themselves mutated and whole. They found themselves true to their creations, to their origins. It was time for a fight, and they were prepared. Possibly more so than at any other time.

The Puddle…

The Vesuvian Storm…

The Lake of Flesh…

Right Hand of God…

And The Fallen Tree…

Everything that has, does, and will exist has potential. No matter how small, no matter how large. No matter how strong, and no matter how weak. The past holds what is arguably the most potential, for the past is an accumulation of things that have already happened--of things that once, or still exist--and with the right type of knowledge and equipment, those things can be observed, their origins traced, and their existences defined with meaning and distinction, all stored away in the past.

In the past, a traitor named Satan was born; in the past, a traitor named Narcissus was born; and in the past, a group of traitors seeking to usurp power was born, and their name was the Collective. Each of them had failed in their own unique ways: Satan lost the battle to God and His angels, Narcissus lost the battle when he tried to run away and got eaten by Alutrosity for his cowardice, and the Collective lost their chance to rule the Val’gara when the Stalker nearly obliterated Colossus in his rage-fueled return with the world ship crashing into the planet, for which he too failed in being unable to control his emotions.

So much treachery, so much stupidity on all sides, on every front. The former act burned him alive, and the latter methodology in which the act was conducted drowned him to death. This was why he Singar acted like such a scathing piece of shit toward people he didn’t respect, or regarded as being inferior to him, for what he saw in those inferior beings went beyond simple acts of evil, and ventured deep into the realm of self-destructiveness. Amph and its partner--through their reckless attempts at coercing an answer out of Singar, did nothing but anger Liaita’s indigenous creatures, ushering in their own failure.

In the past, Singar knew that when he had Tage inject Thane with his nanomachines, that when he left him to be swallowed whole by Dreadnaught, that he had done the right thing, not for the Val’gara, but for himself. Since that very moment he had seen it all, had seen everything; every success and failure of the Cataclysm through the dormant ley-lines present in the nanomachines, viewing all of it through the Stalker, whose experiences were shared through the Val’gara psi-link. It had been no mere coincidence that Singar aided the Stalker in dealing the finishing blow to Ceasar’s precious Wood, just like there was no coincidence in him discerning the location of Colossus, and showing up in advance to save that naive Disciple from being engulfed in the Stalker’s fiery wrath.

Were his motivations selfish? Only a fool would believe otherwise, but it would also require a fool to believe that selfishness and cosmic utilitarianism were mutually exclusive.

Had Corruptor any intent to bring harm to the Val’gara, he would have left the Stalker where he belonged - in Gluttony. Had he the thought to bring ruin to their race, he would have aided Nudist who-so-blithely stepped onto Mire, claiming the world his own before ejecting it from its crystal shell. Certainly, he didn’t believe in things like their horseshit mantra of convert, consume control; if the Val’gara wanted to harvest the entire cosmos, Singar would not stop them. In fact, everything he did right now was to ensure that they could continue doing just that, for something deep within his angelic mind told him that he would one day need the Cataclysm to perform a certain function, and that their very nature would aid in fulfilling it. He just couldn’t stand the idea that everything they did had ultimately been for the sake of cosmic consonance and not done out of a need to spread their existence, for when had the Val’gara ever bothered to consider sparing a planet’s inhabitants, let alone the planet itself when it had been so ripe with life?

The Val’garan deity was a liar. It had martyred itself in the name of an idea which it had never once invested so much as an ounce of effort toward achieving, and Singar relished that it was dead.

He wanted the Val’gara to prosper. He wanted them to thrive, not on false ideologies created by stupid gods, unable to live with the carnage they wrought upon the universe, but as beasts, as mutagenic monsters destined to be what the wolf is to the lamb, and what a single bear is to an entire pack of wolves. After that, humanity would hear the pained cry of slaughtered wolves, and the terrifying roar of bear, breaking into their homes, feeding off their resources, feeding off the people.

Indeed, the first contact prepared them, and the second contact would propel them forward.

In the past many things had occurred, in the past many creatures, many entities were born. In the past they died, their bodies decayed, an oil pool formed from the fossilized corpses--oil which Corruptor would slather the gods with and set them ablaze… a present presented as a conflagration of flames that would chart a course for the future.

Presently, Singar floated above the collapsed Rock of Cocytus, encapsulated within a shell of searing crimson text, shrouding him in a thin veil of smoke as it burned the surrounding air. He felt the barrier ripple and distort as it was hit by the dragon’s magic-depleting beam, its decadent energy eating away at it just as quickly as it was broken down, eventually ending in mutual destruction.

An angry shout,
.
Born inside a metal chamber,
.
Projected from within wrathful maw,
.
Screamed at him as it scaled along Cocytus’ rubble, its steel claws skewering the pile before it, only to smash and pulverize them against the others as it acquired another grip, leaping bring itself farther to its destination. A green, otherworldly glow projected from a pair of, jagged scars running the length of beast’s triceps to the undersides of its forelimbs, casting its light over the rubble as well as the Lake of Flesh. The foul aura caused Singar’s lids to go from narrowed and relaxed to wide and on full alert, the translucency of his dark-indigo eyes fading to reveal pupil and sclera. He knew what was coming for him, and immediately formed a white-knuckle grip on the handle of his sword. Its malice visibly distorted the air, churning it into a vortex that sucked everything down to the source of rage, fueled endlessly by the metal mayhem clawing its way toward him.

Eerily, Singar felt a tinge of inexplicable emotion as well, images of Heaven, Hell, God; brothers and sisters brutalized beyond any chance of recovery, scornful sneering, glares of resentment, and hate-fueled meteorites shooting from the sky all around them, smashing against a primordial marble with an impact a hundred times greater than the first extinction event that would one day follow. He remembered this. He remembered how he had gone from being Kalaziel - Angel of Creation, to Singar the Corruptor.

"That was… unexpected," Singar thought, his grip loosened on the sword, mouth agape as he felt the hungering force pull him closer to the mad monster. With no time left to think, Singar braced himself, unsheathing the blade in a swift motion meant to coincide with the beast’s final ascent. The vortex of rage swirled with chilling, spectral manifestations of every person, being, beast, monster, deity -- everything Corruptor ever hated, ever loathed, despised, disdained, was disgusted by rose together with Taluge-X and attacked.

Yellow plasma thrusters engaged on the soles of Taluge’s feet, his jaws parted wide enough to swallow Singar whole, and propelled himself at the fiend with a speed that left a vacuum in its wake, prompting him to summon a second sword and bind the blades at the hilts. Strafing to Taluge’s left, Singar flung the double-ended sword at Taluge’s open mouth, catching vertically between his teeth. It was enough to hold the beast’s mouth open for a few seconds, but in that time, Singar not only made efforts to steel his mind against the onslaught of provocative emotions made manifest, but began to channel his inner-voice at Taluge, more specifically the cyborg aspect of his tri-formed mind - the Offspring to the Arcane Project, Tage.

"LISTEN TO ME YOU IMBECILIC FOOL!" For once in his life Singar actually meant not to sound insulting, but just because he had steeled his mind against the raging manifestations, did not mean he hadn’t been affected by them. This was the best he could manage, but by time he finished that single projection, Taluge snapped the swords keeping his jaws pried open and swung his head around to meet Singar’s retreating form. Concurrently, Taluge, frustrated by the momentary restraints placed on his mouth, and the stress induced by having to deal with it, slammed them shut with so much clanging force that a shock-wave erupted from the impact, pushing Corruptor some several yards back.

Stumbling through the air, Singar righted his path, chest pounding from the sudden impact, "I AM ON YOUR SIDE!" Failing to heed the Angel’s words, the shadowy platinum plating covering Taluge’s ulna and radial bones slid back, exposing an extendable rail-blade on the former, and rail-gun on the latter, each surging with electromagnetic current. Bringing the rest of his body around, abandoned restricted by nothing but the guidance systems controlling his flight-path, Taluge unleashed a storm of negatively charged crimson plasma, which in-turn reduced the bullets he fired off to molten globules of metal at Singar. Good thing the Collector already had his two swords unsheathed, for in that instance, he activated the supernatural vacuum force that it possessed, causing the globules to condense and be squeezed into a pressurized stream flowing into the pocket void, disappearing until such a time came where he chose to release the contents.

By now Singar was beginning to grow immensely vexed by the beast’s continuous assaults, and absolute refusal to listen to any form of reason he had to throw at him. His head tilted ever-so-slightly to the right, the left corner of his lip started to twitch, exposing his teeth as his the entirety of his mouth gradually furled back into a silent scowl, eyes shifting to a bloodshot viridian as his pale fists began to glow with holy fire. Corruptor had certainly not forgotten who he once was back in Heaven, nor had he forgotten how to use the powers he bestowed upon him since birth, and neither did he feel fear when Taluge rocketed toward with him with his tail reared back in that familiar throwing posture.

:IF YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR NEW FAMILY," Singar projected with extreme agitation, swiftly avoiding the swing while landing a devastating right cross to its neck, "THEN STOP RAGING FOR A MOMENT AND LISTEN!" Another roar, another hailstorm of bullets, followed up by a barrage of missiles, and another purifying return blow to its angry metal face a long exchange, indeed…

Meanwhile, far blow, on the ground level, the foul green light had begun to inflict the same violent emotions upon the Stalker, feeding off his most painful memories just as it had done to Singar in an effort to produce the most virulent, vicious, bloodstained, mayhem-inducing rage. It dredged up the fall of Brobdingnag and his untimely demise, his frightening descent and brutal crash against the slush-soaked, fat entrenched, endlessly wafting putrefying stench of Gluttony in all its cruel loneliness. The light illuminated his sin of wrath when it shoved the memory of him bolting through the strange cosmic tunnel where different worlds intersected one another, grabbing onto that worldship and smashing it into Colossus all in an attempt at annihilating the Collective.

Twin waves of blood, gore, and fleshy fibers swelled within the lake of flesh and slammed back down with a destructive weight that sent shock-waves rippling throughout the tributaries pouring into the ocean. The follow-up wave spawned two more behind it, spreading wide and sweeping together in a great clapping motion which sprayed the surrounding grass and bergs with a fresh carpentry of intertwined intestine viscera, stomachs swelled with an abundance of acid splattering across the surface, resulting in a fetid mix of digestive fluids and smoking feces. A single split opened up like a zipper, and an extremely long spine whipped straight up and lashed the rubble before it, nerve cords glowing with potent electrical impulses tinged the color of forest pine needles.

The cycle repeated itself endlessly, each repetition creating a figure more distinct: shoulders, humerus, radius, ulna, carpals, meta-carpals phalanges; the waves solidified and produced intricately woven muscle fiber. Deltoids formed on the shoulder, and next to those the pectoral major, and lower still the biceps, medial epicondyle, brachialis, brachioradalis, flexor capri radialis, flexor carpi ulnaris, flexor digitorum sublimis, hypothenar, thenar, and across the rib-cage, his fibia, tibia, tarsals, meta-tarsals, neck, eyes filling, ears rising, nose pointing. The whole of his anatomy and musculature grew up, over, inside, and around, climaxing at the bloodcurdling cry that emitted so much more than violence, but pain, guilt, trauma, and fury...

Healed by rage.

Thane craned his head to witness the commotion that had brought him back to life, pitch-black eyes staring up at the battle being waged between Taluge and Singar, Disciple watching with complete indifference to the conflict, clearly too consumed by his own thoughts of what to do with the Val’gara. Guilt or no guilt, pain or no pain, the Stalker would not remain an idle fool for like Disciple for any longer than the few seconds of observation given granted to assess the situation. Presently, Singar was his benefactor, the Val’garan benefactor, and he would not allow anything to interfere with something that benefitted his family. Flesh solidified on his wings, and with a mighty flap, the Herald lifted himself off the ground and went shooting toward the beast who sought to impede the Cataclysm’s resurrection.

Growth built up in the Stalker’s neck as he made his ascent, eyes appearing to move in independent directions while curved horns sprouted from his skull, a snort emitting from his nostrils. Arriving halfway to his destination, Thane opened his mouth and shot a massive chameleon tongue at Taluge, at the end of which was an abnormally large ram’s skull covered in a sticky mucus. The impact was absolutely sick for it was a combination of bones crunching, metal denting, and mucus squishing together as its adhesive properties took effect, and the Stalker rapidly reeled himself forward. Surprised, but not taken aback by the action, Singar swiftly moved out of the way of the Herald’s soaring tackle, which despite being smaller carried enough force to throw the pair into a mad descent, nevertheless incurring more of the Angel’s vexation.

He didn’t need all this chaos.

Landing initially on their heads, the two monsters toppled over on their sides, commencing a deadly tumble and a lengthy struggle for control to acquire a dominant position over each other. Taluge shot its double-jaws at Thane’s eye, only to be met with an explosion of flesh-growth impeding its path to his brain, while simultaneously seeking to ram up the dragon’s nose and clog his sensory circuits. A swarm of crimson nanites spewed from Taluge’s horns and swiftly picked apart the growth, liquefying it into a snotty ooze that caused him to sneeze in the Stalker’s face, the nanites pouring all over him in the process. In response more growth swelled upon his body, literally shedding his skin, muscle, even bone and organs, only to regrow them just as quickly as they fell upon Taluge in a weighty pile, whose reaction was to revv up the blades of the harmonic chainsaw running the full length of his tail and start sawing through it all.

Finally reaching the bottom and practically entangled in a weave of nanomachines and flesh-growth, Taluge began pumping as many bullets and plasmic shocks into the Stalker as he could to stun him, whilst the Herald attacked back with pulsing waves of positive bio-force, smashing into the dragons armor. This battle could seemingly go on forever with how much of a pain it was proving to eradicate the Herald, and how difficult it was to breach the Raging Singularity’s armor, each dismantling the other’s assault before it ever had a chance to take effect.

Fortunately, they had Corruptor, whose telekinetic death-grip formed a wedge between the two mad monsters, and pried them apart, tearing flesh and metal in the process. Angrily, Taluge shrieked in rebellion, while the Stalker clawed viciously at the invisible wall holding him back from slaughtering his quarry. In his adamant refusal to suppress his rage, Taluge activated his ley-lines and started siphoning power from every potential source, and for a moment detected the psi-link of the Collective and their malicious intentions for the planet, a sensation so intense he nearly broke Singar’s grip.

"This is what I’ve been trying to get through to you," Singar relayed back through the ley-lines, a message which the Stalker heard as well as Disciple.

You’re protecting this world for this creature!? Thane questioned, shocked. We are to harvest this--

"YOUR loyalties," Singar scowled with irritation and genuine rage, "are not the my ONLY loyalties."

"So you mean to betray us?" The Herald’s muscles swelled, the combined fury of his and Taluge’s working in unison was starting to produce cracks in the wedge separating them.

"YOU BETRAYED YOUR PEOPLE," Singar lashed out, "when you obliterated your own mother."
Finally, Disciple began to speak in defense of the Herald. He has expanded what was built upon in the Passages, has he not?
Raising an eye-brow at the ignorant Disciple, Singar threw his weighty retort, "He is still alive, because I activated what I gave him long before he ever became a member of your incompetent race."

"Then why do you choose to stand in our way now if you’ve done nothing but help?" Disciple queried with confusion.

"Because I’ve done nothing buthelp", sweeping his hand across Liaita, I am done handing you things. "If you wish to find Colossus, you know where she is. I am many things, but a liar is not one of them, and I’ll stab you right in the face, TO your face if you truly wish to test that resolve."

Throughout of all this, throughout the entirety of the conversation, as Taluge gathered the energy required to break free and unleash his metal mayhem upon the Collective, he felt something worse. Something far worse than a group of wayward Heralds whose names neither knew, nor motives he understood. This tinge of premonition, droplet of acidic memory in a corrosive sea of pain drowned the destruction of the Dark Realm, his forced existence at the hands of Magnus, his condemnation to Phlegethon, and the petty scrap with the Stalker.

He could feel their presence, he could feel the Aptosites. The organization that had murdered Zucroas’ clan and led to the creation of the Abomination called Alucroas. The pull was irresistible, but he could not simply allow the one home he had left to be destroyed either. A decision had to be reached and quickly, the crimson nanites pouring from his horns were a testament to his stubborn will, spreading and infecting the terrain, in addition to using the rivers of flesh as a fast-moving carrier. Since the finale of the Stalker’s fight with Ceasar Kong they were active, having previously remained dormant in the Herald’s bloodstream since long before he had even became a herald.

Singar, feeling Taluge’s distress, and knowing that the Collective had every intention of coming after him for all the harm had apparently caused the Val’gara, he decided to take matters into his own hands and strike two birds with one stone.

"Go take care of your nemesis," Corruptor projected in a restrained tone, suppressing the rage still lingering in the back of his mind from his exposure to the foul green light, "we will exterminate this plague."

"WE!?" Thane asked flabbergasted, eyes wide as his wings spread out, tail swishing back and forth across the rocks.

"No, no, no…" Singar corrected him with a vague grin. Disciple and I will handle the miscreants. It is as I said: I am done handing things to you, and if you try to take this world by force, I will kill both of you. Go harvest another world, and prove to me that you are capable of getting things done yourself.

Releasing his hold on Taluge, who took several long seconds to contemplate his options, bellowed one final scream at the Stalker, before his plasma thrusters engaged and he set off to locate the source of his newfound strife. Soon, he disappeared into the clouds, and before long he had breached the atmosphere of Soran and was flying through outer-space as little more than a platinum glint amidst the stars.

"It is time you Val’gara learn the perks of cooperation. All of your in-fighting and applications of force to achieve your goals is exactly why you are here, and is why I am here righting your stupendous mistakes." Singar chastised Thane for his ignorance, each barb, each jab, every poke, and prod at his ego, and scathing judgment thrown against his abilities pushing the Herald in the direction he wanted him to go in.

"Go

Harvest

Another

World,

Peon."

By now, Thane’s face had begun to twitch. Never in a million years would he admit openly to it, but some primitive aspect of his mind, some old tribal obligation of Niraan past woke up inside his brain. Frankly, he was sick of dealing with constant interference, constant interlopers, endless attempts at impeding his path to victory for the Cataclysm when all he really wanted to was go out, hunt something, kill something, and be satisfied with the feeling of the victims dismembered pieces digesting warmly in his stomach.

He wanted to be an animal again, free from worrisome complications, free from political bullshit, the likes of which Disciple, the Collective, and Singar were all entangled within. This, he rationalized would be his way of proving his capabilities as a Herald, but more importantly, achieving the redemption he sought to gain for his own peace of mind, and being able to indulge in an act that was, for all intents and purposes, simple, plain, and natural.

Just thinking about such a prospect gave him a strong feeling of emotional sobriety, and with that, without bothering to look at either Singar or Disciple, flapped his wings and ascended into space in search of a suitable world to one day call Val’garan.

"You certainly have a way of manipulating people," Disciple commented.

"You should know the feeling." Singar replied back curtly. "It is what you were made to do."
Discontinuing the brief exchange of words, Singar began to telekinetically dredge the Lake of Flesh, dragging up the broken, shattered pieces of the Spirit Tree that Ceasar had used against the Stalker. Though dead, it had its uses, and presently, Corruptor stood in possession of a holy artifact, something that could give life and just as easily take it away in an instant.

The Right Hand of God.

Breaching the Lake of Flesh with his runic strings, Singar dove deep beneath the currents and retrieved the sinking artifact, reeling it back up to the surface via telekinesis whilst inflicting a deep cut via the strings themselves. It took minutes to achieve, but within that short time-frame, had collected nearly all the broken pieces of Wood and gathered them together to form a pile of obsidian bark and branches, all resting within the palm of God’s right hand, which by now floated back to the surface.

“Bear Fruit, Great Tree of Eden. Bear Fruit And Allow All of Creation To Feed Upon Your Knowledge.”

Slowly, the bark began to fuse back together and form the smallest of stems. It had all the nutrients it would need to grow into an enormously splendid tree, one from which all Val’gara would be free to nest within its canopy, one that would soon come to enshroud all of creation beneath its leafs.

Follow me, Disciple. Singar ordered, blinking to the ground and commencing a swift series of footsteps, each one carrying him several hundred miles closer to where the Collective awaited.

From their high-ground position, the Collective could see the massive form of Disciple hovering toward them, tentacles spread far and wide for thousands of miles given his mountainous size, and Singar blinking through the trees with his typical fearless gait, and blatant disregard -- and more importantly, disrespect for the enemies in front of him, the disdain for these wretches dwelling visibly in the malicious viridian glow of his eyes. In the great distance beyond, Agron and Sarach awoke from their time of recovery alongside an endless swarm of fairies, dragons, elves, the Insect Nobles of the mountain range whose homes had been destroyed. The desert nomads who had tamed countless sand worms, had learned to commune with the Agronians and Sarachians.

The past held so much potential, and the trauma of past events, the cries of victims was beginning to reach its first terrifying crescendo.

The present brought a confrontation the likes of which had not been seen since the Val’gara’s failed conquest of Earth-F67X.

The future, always a blink away, a lightning bolt away, a hundred thousand droplets a thousand feet away from hitting the Earth. This was not a manifestation of the Midnight Fog condensing into water and coming down. This was real rain which passed through the Fog untouched and unhindered, unlike the false blood rain which came pouring out of the Vesuvian Storm, onto the lake of flesh, where it provided the kick that Eden would need to accelerate her growth.

“Welcome to the past, welcome to the present, welcome to the future.”

They stood with the resolve of true soldiers, battled hardened combatants whose years - even prior to their service with the Cataclysm - were spent on the battlefield. The rain-soaked sky above lingered, yet didn't seem to touch them. They broadcasted their position mentally and physically. The imposing nature of themselves, the gestation of their life once more given. Rescued from turmoils and trepiditions. Some had even forsaked their morals, their very nature. Wantom murder for hire, or even murder for the pure sake of murder. They became something less than they'd been meant to be, and for that they expected nothing but punishment.

Instead, they were redeemed. Brought back into the fold, made Val'garan once more. Their lives restored to them. It was a miraculous thing, the way The Will looked upon them. His eyes showed nothing but admiration for them. If they'd known it, they would have called it love. Yet, in their long lives they never experienced that particuar emotion. They called it nothing but the connection between them. The bond that spread amongst the few standing on that hilltop was strong. Strong enough to be sensed by an outsider with the touch for it. And yet, should he choose to try and usurp that bond, to force himself into it - to even touch it with the slightest hint of a breath of wind, it would sear his mind from his body. The burn of it would reduce his body to ashes, his soul to embers, and his very existence nothing more than a memory - and a foul one at that.

So, they broadcast it. They cared little for what the petulant child of a weak God wanted, nor what he thought he could do to them - what power he thought he held over them. He was nothing, a speck of dust that was better off a brown stain on his parent's sheets. They allowed him to sense them, to find them - they did nothing to hide themselves. In fact, even as rain poured down on the surface of everything else - the clouds above them broke. A perfect cylinder, allowing the light of Soran's sun to shine down upon them, a beam that revealed them all the more clearly. They stood shoulder to shoulder, so to speak. Nasty snarls and vicious, nigh-venemous smirks on their faces.

A few steps ahead, The Hellion stood next to The Will. His eyes followed the movements of Singar, and his senses followed the progress of Disciple. That one simply would not die, would he? Why would Singar allow that, though? His precious lapdogs, his precious toys. The man was a pure manifestation of greed, but Hellion doubted the other even knew the folly of his plans. His machninations meant nothing to the true Horde, they cared only for their tenants. Tenants Disiple betrayed. Ideals Thane put to the side, in order to further his personal goals. And these few, these pathetic, ignorant children sought to have a soverign above him? Above those who remained true to their cause? They never deserved the titles they held.

"Prepare yourselves, Collective. They come. They bring battle." Will spoke to them through their bond, the words flowed mind-to-mind. Singar might think to hear their thoughts, but the bond was everlasting and protected. So, Will wished him luck if he honestly thought he could try something so pathetic.

"Not all of them, Father. I sense Thane the Disgraced and some other creature departing the planet, should I stop them?" Hellion's words flowed with venom, and even as he spoke his muscles - both mental, physical, and otherwise, flexed. It was like a vast pressure put to bear on the planet, nearly breaking through the upper layer of the crust. The pressure would be felt by nearly anything on the planet with enough nerves to register it. Though, only a few would understand or even know the cause.

"I think not, Hellion. Let them leave, they're of little consequence."

"As you wish, father."

The pressure alleviated, though it only remained for a scant moment it was a welcome relief to those unable to withstand it. As Thane and Metal Mayhem broke through the atmosphere and into space, they passed through the grayness of a now seemingly benign section of the Mist, which encapsulated the planet. For them, it would seem nothing more than just another layer of clouds on top of the last. Almost as immediately as they passed through, it reformed - and a pressure of smaller force took the place of the first. The planet was quarantined. Locked down. Nothing could make it back in or out. Not until this battle was resolved, one way or another.

Lightning broke across the surface of that layer of clouds, and tore down through the ordinary clouds below. The storm above them became enigmatic, and again only a few would truly understand the cause of that - what it meant, or what it could be. Time would tell, and Singar would soon find out how utterly unprepared he truly was - as the poisoned rain began to fall. Hellion licked some from his lips, and smiled as it fizzled out useless.

"Let the dance begin, Singar."

Hellion dispersed, his body blowing into millions of particles and reforming below - directly in the path of Singar. Awaiting his arrival. The others remained, their eyes focused onto Disciple - preparing to finally end this pathetic cretin's banal existence.

((My post is a direct continuation of my post in Sea of Ignominy. All quotes are from there.))

The fungus-eaten prophet regarded him and in its shining stare Amatlavira thought he saw pity. You will live while all you know dies,
sleeping for ages in secret grottoes beneath the earth, sleeping amid worms and dirt, arising only when we require you to carve a new wound in the world. Your soul will grow fat with years of sacrifice, and you will accrue a hundred names which will be uttered as curses and prayers alike...

Until at lassshht...
You will yourself become the Stilborn...
And on the day of your rebirth...
You and He will return to another, older name.

And as they reached toward him, and Amatlavira felt everything he had ever been wash away in the river of a far greater mind, still he heard it call out --

WHAT DO YOU SEE?

Amatlavira had spent centuries pondering that very question. Would it be a world aflame he saw at the end, or crushing cold? Would he bury the cities of the Niraan race beneath earth and rubble or would the flesh of his brothers run like tallow from villages burning like pyre candles in the night? A thousand times the words of the worm-eaten prophets touched his thoughts. When at last he met his purpose, when his god-given reflexes failed him and the tendrils of flesh curled around his throat and crushed him in the tumor-lake’s embrace, he found the answer:

CHAOS

Not the silence of death but noise unlike anything, anything at all. Voices upon layered voices in the languages of a thousand thousand worlds, each touched by Narcissus when he spread himself across time and space in the dreamscape all those years ago… each the fruit of the seeds he propagated before being struck down by his brothers on the dawn of his rebellion. When Narcissus’ soul plunged into Hell and his humanity was broken by the Sounder, only his hunger remained.

Like a ravenous ghost, it devoured planets and gods alike, gorging itself on the faith of lesser mythologies, swallowing princes and paupers. Amatlavira was stretched thin over the flashing constellations, visions of worlds at the pinnacle of technological achievement and others still fanning the first spark of single-celled life… and the hunger… gleaming chrome interstellar shipyards picked clean and abandoned, steel bones adrift in the vacuum; primordial seas drained like bowls of wine and left behind with the empty promise of the life that could be and never was.

AND SUCH HUNGER--

The hunger consumed and consumed, its lone impulse to find itself somewhere in the multiverse.

And so it did.

The Stillborn they called it on this world: an aborted god which lingered like blight in Soran’s pantheon, shunned from the light of the fairies and dragons, a god banished into the pits where the small creatures hid from it in fear and carved its name into the roots of the earth, into the undersides of stones and the bones buried in the deepest graves. The Stillborn, the moldered prophets whispered to him in the farthest of the forgotten pathways, and Amatlavira had lived in the shadow of that prophecy.

Until at last he stood in its light – light from the red wound in the sky, blaring down despite sunlight or moonshine, penetrating the Midnight Fog or any other obfuscating presence. The Stillborn’s constellation was not so much a nebula visible in the sky as a wound on the face of reality itself, equally visible from every vantage point, and its bloody light glared deep into the Lake of Flesh, cast itself at a thousand refracted angles across the glacial surface of the Ninth Circle before Cocytus crumbled.

And at last they were reunited… the conqueror’s soul and the insatiable hunger, and Amatlavira, the vessel to weld them to the world.

The immense pool of flesh rippled, trembling from its center out to the very edges. As if again seized by counterfeit life, and despite the cold of Cocytus itself, the lake bubbled, then pulsated. The heart of an atrocity restored to life at long last, a heart that beat, once... twice... and on the third, a fundamental change occurred. The hand of God abruptly submerged, as if into a trench a thousand leagues deep. The bowl of Cocytus He gripped in His palm sank only to the divine fingertips that clutched the stone cold for purchase, evicted by Singar from Hell itself.

A silent interlude passed. In it, a soul was welded into a new life; a river's path was diverted to a lost tributary; blood flowed again through abandoned veins. A mind retrieved its identity from the shore of oblivion, and in doing so, a name returned to its owner.

Neither did the heart beat overlong before it stilled, then once more surged with its unholy animus. The lake flowed upward, through the fissures in Cocytus' shell, leaving the Ninth Circle stolen from the coffers of Hell itself to sit in its own freezing waters as they wept from its wounds.

This was how a god awakens - without any juvenile appetite for wanton destruction. Rebirth is its own testament. Its own trial...

Should ever Cocytus be returned to its place at the bottom of the deepest pit, and the ledgers of its sinners checked, there would be absences, souls conspicuously unaccounted for. Old and mighty souls.

Yet the contents of Cocytus were a mere morsel beside the feast yet to come.

The fallen angel Singar wrenched the Hand of God from the fetid sea. Offal and blood poured between the fingers of the All-Father, solidifying into tendons and sinews like roots for the obsidian tree that sprouted from a wound in His palm, gore dripping from the stump of His wrist erecting the tree a grisly pedestal that anchored it in the Lake of Flesh. Lesser structures resolved out of the formless ocean of organs, evolution thrown into overdrive, cells arranging themselves into cancerous configurations, killing themselves just to try and try again, cannibalizing one another in the mad frenzy of creation.

But is not any work wrought by God a holy one, no matter how sinister His labor?

The Tree in Eden followed the insane evolution of the garden below, branches spreading outward like the manifold arms of the faithful reaching out in devotion. Many of their sword-sharp edges disappeared at impossible angles where the tree penetrated, thorn-like, beyond the skein of physicality and into the many dimensions beyond, drawing blood from every plane in the Multiverse to nourish itself. Under, within and over the Midnight Fog, the unholy Yggdrasil bloomed and grew until its canopy reached out of the very orbit of Soran. Though the Collective sought to lock the world, where the Stillborn’s light was strongest the Spirit Tree’s branches flourished, curling around the blood red constellation till the branches of its canopy became its cradle.

All at once, the mad growth hesitated, pulsated like a heartbeat, then stilled. Eyes gazed out of a million embryonic faces across the surface of the Lake, twitching back and forth, taking in every possible visual of the battlefield, all the while the frontiers of Eden’s new garden continued to rapidly expand, engulfing all nearby terrain at an alarming rate. Fairy-folk, dragonkin and Niraan tribesmen alike who found themselves trapped at the Lake’s edges were speared down by obsidian tendrils and dragged screaming into the garden’s many mouths, only to be regurgitated as the Lake continued to push in the mad rush to satisfy its hunger.

Hunger…

From the stump of the Hand of God to the uppermost limbs of the Spirit Tree, the new Garden of Eden was bathed in bloody light by the Stillborn. It pulsated far overhead as if it were not a constellation but a living thing, a beating heart, and the Yggdrasil not a tree but a conduit. A womb. A storm of cosmic proportions materialized in the chamber formed by the cradle-like fingers the top of the tree, lightning rattling around inside, supercharging a black cloud of highly condensed energy, lashing out at intervals to strike the Lake of Flesh and whip it into a frenzy of creation. Abruptly, many of the obsidian spokes at the very peak of the colossal world-tree thrust inwards, disappearing into the roiling heart of the storm, a hundred spears extending into other dimensions, tearing themselves free where necessary to prevent damage to the tree itself.

Some disappeared into the void only to emerge on other worlds, striking with meteoric impact, spreading their cancer immediately into the surface and beginning to fester and grow. Others emerged in a hundred of the most populated places of Soran itself, skewering dozens or hundreds of lifeforms, digesting them into a suitable form to feed the birth of an entire forest of world-trees whose roots began to spread through city, earth, water and stone. A few still carried not the promise of life but the whisper of death, brute projectiles gaining speed as they hurtled through dimensions and in-between spaces, packets of killing energy traveling at strange angles between folds in the fabric of spacetime.

Simultaneously, as if in one last convulsive act of defiance, the Hand of God flexed its trembling fingers before squeezing them shut, nails cracking the surface of the Spirit Tree before those cracks healed and the fingertips sank, leaving no evidence but ripples in the black stone. Singar had made a single, vital miscalculation when he loaned his strength to the seed he hoped would spawn a new generation of Val’gara…

He failed to comprehend that Narcissus had already touched the Hand of God, corrupted it, inhabited it. He who was the Son become the Father, Brother become Destroyer, Slave become Master. From the gnarled vein-roots at the base of the world-tree, where the bloody sinews of the Hand of God met the Lake of Flesh, a structure like an anglerfish growth thrust out and hovered in the air. High above, a crimson ray from the Stillborn pierced the obsidian canopy where the Spirit Tree forged a hole in the gloom that both the Will and Singar projected over the planet.

It caught the grisly pearl at the perfect angle, at first projecting an eldritch sequence of lights over the Lake of Flesh. Any lesser mind that beheld the pattern was instantly broken, thrust into psychosis or catatonia by the sheer weight of information contained within. Then those lights coalesced into a more coherent shape… a tangible image materialized over the surface of the Lake of Flesh…

An almost humanoid torso, save for the ribcage that hung free from his chest and formed the clicking teeth of a vicious and impossible mouth… the lower body that was a knotted mass of black tentacles, swirling around a singularity of red light, the one arm plated in obsidian crystal of the same make as the tree and the other enveloped in hellfire. From Narcissus’ curved skull emerged the naked branches of the world-tree, disappearing into the air where they vanished into other dimensions. His face was expressionless, and lacked any anatomic features save for the slits of a nose and two all-too human eyes with the color and depth of a glacial crevasse.

BROTHERS… FATHERS… CHILDREN…
I COME BEARING MY FINAL GIFT
OF LIFE
AND DEATH
FOR THE VAL’GARA…

His promulgation ended in whispered, eerie laughter like wind whistling through the branches of a tree… and punctuated by nuclear explosions, as at last the final killing branches projected from the world-tree crossed over the dimensional barrier and hit their marks at supraluminal speeds: Hellion as he dispersed and reformed below Singar, the fallen angel mid-stride as he marched arrogantly towards his enemy, the Collective where each focused on Disciple, and even Disciple himself was pelted by several of the obsidian missiles, each delivering a payload that would leave continental craters on the planet and wreak equal devastation in the astral realm.

TELL ME
WHAT DO YOU SEE?

During his passage through Soran’s atmosphere, the scarlet-tinted sapphire that was Taluge’s eyes, and basic method of detecting external signatures, picked up on a hazardous substance that was apparently existing in a benign state. Unwilling to chance a false reading, the beast cautiously chose to activate his ley-lines, creating an oval-shaped shield, the same color as his eyes around his body, ensuring safe passage for himself. The Stalker also caught wind of the Mist--recognizing it by the sheer malignancy of its very nature--to infect, corrupt, and absorb whatever it could overtake into itself, in addition to simply remembering what it felt like to have it flowing through his veins during his time with Hellion in the Entropic Passages. Closing his eyes in momentary remembrance of that past, a surge of positive bio-force flowed passively off his skin, gathering together to form a spherical pattern of protective tortoise plates, only much stronger, and far more reinforced. It prevented the Mist from touching the Stalker’s body, as he likewise shoved the memories of his past to a dark corner of his mind, and began to construct a wall with which to lock them in. He could not afford to wallow in regret any longer...it was time to rebuild that which had had broken; his resolve hardened, and his eyes reopened to take in the real darkness of outer-space.

--

The Corruptor's blinking perambulations ceased, his gait changing slightly as he proceeded to traverse the remaining distance to the awaiting Collective with fully grounded steps. It took nothing beyond his mere nature as a divine being to sense the psychic emanations radiating off the bastards like a blightful beacon, broadcasting their malice across all of Soran. This... "Will" of Idea thought itself a higher being - one who could inspire - but in Singar’s eyes he was little more than insufficient kindling, no greater than the dimly glowing cinders with whom he sought to ignite into fires of burning grandeur. He had witnessed this type of arrogance before in his brother, Lucifer, the Archangel who had begat the events leading up to the current apocalypse about to transpire here, likewise seeing it again on a continent to the far south.

The past can be so unforgiving.

”Is that not right, Kala?”

Though brief, the jab taken at him by the monster beneath Cocytus’ rubble caused Singar’s nostrils to flare, head canting to the grass at angle that only vaguely allowed his gritted teeth to show. In that instance, he remembered himself plummeting through the clouds, the golden gates of Heaven growing farther away with each second, at a speed that would have been astonishing to a mere mortal. Unlike humans, who wished to ascend and reach a place beyond their Earthly domain, for the longest time Kalaziel had simply wanted to return home, until he finally realized that his heart--like the gates, was beyond his reach--that he had abandoned any hopes of reuniting with his father, because any love he had for him became burnt to a crisp by his “fellow” fallen. Since that time, he had learned to rely on his own sense of justice, never again choosing to dole it out in another’s name,God or otherwise. The Collective were hardly any different from his own kin, for they too sought to usurp power, and as for the Will? His existence was a hubris comparable to Satan himself, and in terms of his ambition, when placed in the same light as the Morningstar’s...few things could be more ironically insulting in its justice.

”You say that as though your suffering is over,” Singar affirmed to the Devil, his head rising again to see the sunlight shining down on the Collective through an aperture in the clouds. At the same time, he felt his connection to Taluge and Thane abruptly cease, like there was something between he and them, at which point he became aware of the quarantine zone surrounding Soran, and his expression became viciously pronounced.

”See that?” Corruptor asked tauntingly, ”their warped souls, just like your arrogance, knows no bounds.”

Now more enlightened to the situation, the doors to Singar’s mind opened, unleashing a rolling wave of psychic force that collided directly with the one let forth from Hellion. Though brief, the impact was tremendous, causing the air itself to ripple with violent discharges of intense static electricity that surged into the surrounding trees. The temperature of the moisture contained within them skyrocketed, superheating it to an unbearable degree, leading to the trunks bursting in a spray of bark, branches, and exploding, telekinetically curving around his frame. Concurrently, and with a haste that seemed to accentuate the chaotic atmosphere, the dark cracks in the earth became a bit less dark as a faint blue light began to fill them, quickly becoming more luminous. The sound of something bubbling followed its way up the fissures, accompanied by a steamy hiss issuing out of the lesser cracks, finally culminating in emergence of a spiritual substance that was all too rapidly taking on a more tangible state-- a mass of countless, seething boils, the form of which was comparable to a dense liquid, that held strong cohesion as it rose to full view. This essence within the rock’s name was Agron, and as it had done in its battle with Megalodon, and its clownfish partner, so too would it bring the fury of the planet earth down onto the heads of the Collective; its ferocity manifesting as a conflagration of its blue aura activating in defensive response to Hellion’s mental flexing. Against such force, the aura frothed with the excess of Agron’s still-escalating rage, deliberately giving way to the ex-Herald’s downward press and fell inward, pushing down on the terrain, whilst using its fine control over geology to shape several enormous, interconnected craters.

Flying high above Agron was the rock serpent, Sarach, who earlier had accompanied the shape-shifter in its battle against the Sharkborg, the red diamond structure of its eyes, and the rigid towers protruding from its back flowing with crimson ether, the source of power which kept it aloft as it flew through the stormy sky. Despite its shy nature, which was in stark contrast to Agron’s, Sarachians exhibited far more aggression and hostility when faced with a threat, hence why its aura glowed red, showcasing its lack of fear whilst also using the pointed shape of its body in conjunction with the protruding towers as a means of cleaving through what it perceived as an attack on its being.

During the brief exchange of psychic flaunting, Singar became aware of the Mist surrounding the planet, and an insidious plot took root in his mind. From that root, a thousand, million, billion, trillion, numbers that rendered the very act of counting completely and utterly obsolete in this state; gold hilted knight’s swords, sheathed in silver scabbards, bearing runes resembling wavy lines glimmered into existence, not just across the Liaita but the arrowhead continent of Aeros to the east, the frozen tundra of Thanus to the north, the towers of Kinji which circled Soran’s equator and reached into space. Over the hilly jungles of Jani, and the living nightmare continent of Ghethos to the west, and at last, the south pole of Athans - land of the Fading Plains that had not-too-recently descended back to ground level, courtesy of a broken curse that Singar himself had lifted off the land’s prince.

With the exception of several thousand that burrowed underground, at an angle facing Singar’s front, the sheathed swords ascended like silver missiles, the runic lines carved into the scabbards surging with an ominous red energy, indicating the presence of a decadent magic coursing throughout them. Lightning crackled and the scabbards slid off, flipping over so that their openings face upright, producing a powerful force of suction which funneled the poisoned rain into a void, draining the sky of the malignant Mist. This was only the beginning, for as the Midnight Fog seeped out of the raindrops covering the scabbards, the rune-based symbols displayed a brief, ominous message, heralding the activation of a virulent spell, before the entrance was completely sealed over by the Fog.

השבור יהפוך שוב לשלמות, ובשלמות, במוות.
העיוור העיוור ייפול קורבן לשחיתות שלו.

Ultimately the Collective was just scum masquerading as ash floating atop the surface of a stagnant pond. The Disciple also knew just as well that when the fools relinquished what little kindling they had left within their souls, that when they expelled the Vesuvian Virus from their bodies, that they were no longer Val’garans. Now, in their heretical zeal, they sought to besmirch the Cataclysm under a false flag by committing wanton murder, all in the name of power, all while seeking to gain dominance over the last, hidden remnant of Idea’s legacy: Colossus. In insulting her, in trying take control over her, in trying to make up for a monumental failure to protect Mire, they dishonored Idea by choosing to throw childish tantrums. Scum floating on the surface of a fetid pond would never be able to understand the oceanic depths of love, of devotion to race, of family, so perfectly and painfully exemplified when Idea sacrificed himself to protect his children.

Were the Collective willing to do the same?

Though the Disciple had once hoped that in their time away from each other, the Collective might repent, and change their ways in favor of a unified Val’gara, it had abandoned hope the moment the Will plucked it from its prison and snapped its neck. Now they were rotten to the core, and all the Disciple could do now was try to preserve what little unity that was left--and, unity he would indeed preserve, even if it meant aligning himself with the children of Soran, if only temporarily. His tentacles unfurled and extended like an eagles wings, casting an empathic psychic line out that would reinforce speak into the minds and wills of those seeking to oppose the Collective. Initially he was met with caution and apprehension, but as he tapped into the memories of this world’s inhabitants, the Herald of Colossus bore witness to the Aptosite invasion, and in doing so, was provided insight as to the nature of the Raging Singularity, and to a lesser extent, why he had been willing to allow Singar to protect his home in his absence.

Moving on, the Disciple capitalized on the events which proceeded it by peering into the memories of those who had bore witness to the invasion of the Entropic Passages by the Stalker, Hellion, and Beelzebub, back when they were all still on the same side. While just as hostile toward each other as ever, back then, the Heralds at least retained their sense of loyalty to one another, and the absence of it today filled the Disciple with an unrelenting sensation of lament, coupled with a need to make sure that ’the bonds of family’ -- as he would imagined Thane might phrase it -- to never be broken again. It was only when its mind brushed against Singar’s, that Disciple’s attention was drawn over to Cocytus, and felt its heart palpitate with dread, fully understanding the nature of Corruptor’s motivations.

Now steeled in its resolve, Disciple witnessed a plume of obsidian dust fizzle out in front of it, the energy it contained dispersing along an impulsively erected telekinetic shield, one which he extended to Agron, Sarach, the dragons, the fairies, the elves, all of whom were coming out in droves and readying themselves for battle. While not one to rely on his opponent’s carelessness, Singar did take pride in knowing that he had indeed calculated correctly. When Narcissus had arrogantly tried to smear Eden with his abhorrent vitae by using right the Hand of God as his vessel, he ignored the fact that Singar too had touched it with his runic strings, which caused sickness and decay to all who made contact with them. By trying to take the power for himself, without the proper protection, it was if he were a foul, self-loathing spirit, that for some depraved reason, chose to fuse the left hand of a peasant, who lacking the miracle of toilet paper, dragged their hand repeatedly across their asshole after consuming the ribs of a sheep who they had neglected to let thaw first, causing the resulting feces to become acidic.

Suffice to say, that the all-seeing eye was reluctant to use His remaining left hand to cover his sight, and Singar’s scathingly smug look of satisfaction, the feeling coming off quite noticeably to Disciple, who deduced what he had done with moderate success.

A red barrier formed over Eden, baring the impression of the Stillborn on its surface, mocking its words, its movements, all the while, the Vesuvian Virus pulled the sickness plaguing Eden’s bark up through its branches. At the branches tips, seedlings grew, swelled, and sprouted obsidian apples, functioning as a container for the magical disease, and would in time serve as a tool in the future harvests.

”Denizens of Soran,” the Disciple projected out to all, “these monsters who would betray their own kin, now seek to eradicate not just me, but ALL OF YOU from the face of existence.”

Above him, what few drops of poisoned rain that had made it through were rent to oblivion by the swords, alight with the purging flames of Hell that spun like rotary blades, evaporated heat emanating from the calderas formed by Agron, plumes of ash carrying its blue aura rising along with it.

The Will was a fraud, a false prophet who mocked unity by assembling those who had already severed themselves from the Cataclysm, but would soon feel the agonizing sting of separation once more.

”Aid me in this fight,” Disciple telepathically shouted, its bugle-shaped mouth expanding with its chest in a physical display of might, ”and together, we will wipe out this plague!”

From the west, where the ruined remains of Doloran lied in waste, a squad of sixteen of fairies riding iron scaled dragons flew toward the Collective, casting a net of interwoven magic, bound to the claws of their mounts split off in four directions. A quarter of the beasts held their westward position, while the other remaining twelve split apart into equal units, taking off in the other cardinal directions, spreading their net of binding overhead.

In the ocean, a lionfish and a crab fed side by side on the flesh growth that had poured into the ocean, only for the former to turn on the latter and engulf it in its mouth. Without realizing that it had also ingested the Vesuvian Virus, the lionfish found that its blade-shaped body began to flatten into the shape of its prey, pincers bursting through its side, scales morphing into a hardened exoskeleton while its eyes extended farther out from its head, mounted on tall stalks. The spines on its stood straight, dripping potent toxins flowing with bio-force, scanning the region before it with its eyestalks like a pair of periscopes. In no time at all, it scaled the bluffs, and began side-skittering in a thunderous charge, such was length of 2600 feet from pincer to pincer.

Unwavering in its pursuit, the Toxic Conqueror, mentally proclaimed itself as with its newfound sentience, smashed through trees and rocks like nothing with its heavily armored, scale-bladed carapace, swinging its pincers with reckless abandon. The Conqueror appeared so reckless, in fact, that it deliberately allowed itself to be fall into one of the calderas and be swallowed up, though a purple sheen infused into its carapace showed that it was indeed planning something.

By now, Singar had come within full view of Hellion, materializing two swords on either hip, a faint current of wind encircling the hilts as the Midnight Fog rose up out of the soil, and hovered mere inches off the grass. Ordinarily, he’d do to stay away from the Fog, but so long as he didn’t breathe it in, and took care to utilize the proper method of manipulation, he was confident, Corruptor was confident in his ability to make good use of its presence. For now, the gritted look he wore earlier had faded into one of apparent neutrality, unwilling to address the filth--instead he gripped the pommels of his two swords and waited, patiently.

Then without warning, a network of explosive eruptions took place across the whole of Liaita. Agron was launching its first volley of hardened magma boulders, each one covered in the creature’s blue aura, leaving long, molten trails of lava and etheric energy in their path. Impact with the Collective meant far more than just broken bones, and being reduced to a searing pulp. Despite the simplistic appearance of the attack, the blue aura was a spiritual weapon -- one that acted as a barrier against psychic, magic, and other forms of energetic offenses that were thrown at it, whilst simultaneously performing the function of pummeling the minds of its foes with all the might of a pissed off mountain.

Amidst all this chaos, amidst dragons who dropped their net, and all manner of ancient creatures, something absurd came flying at the Collective at a speed that appeared almost ludicrous. The Toxic Conqueror was riding one of the boulders with one pincer gripping the deadly projectile, narrowly (and seemingly carelessly), dodging a beam of destructive ether fired at the Collective by Sarach. Its barrier of bio-force, turned purple by its toxins shrunk and conformed to the contours of its exoskeleton shielding itself from the molten wrath, spines angling themselves in accordance to its flight-path as it blasted bio-force out behind, coating the boulder with an additional of layer of offense, and pushing itself to go faster. Letting go of the boulder, and gripping the molten rock as tightly as it could with its legs, the Conqueror angled its spines to cover its topside, jutting out past its anterior, forming a line of lancers covering its face and eyestalks like a makeshift helm, whilst firing globs of volatile bio-force that could paralyze bodies, and eat through energy from its pincers in a kamikaze style attack.

Their true target escaped, but did that mean they held nothing to accomplish here? Disciple, who should have died long ago, remained upright and walking. He still pervaded their existence with the horrific nature of his warped mind. He saw them as traitors? As dejectors to the cause they once shared? Was it not Disciple who, in his ignorance sided with their enemy? One who hailed from the same place as the one who murdered their Father? Was it not Singar who, in his eternal struggle for validation, turned Thane against them? Killed their mother? Disciple aligned himself with the one who killed Mother, but called them the traitors? It was laughable, or would be if it wasn't so damned sad. Truthfully, they held no care or love for Will - though through him they regained their virus, they regained their power.

Will brought them back together, offered them unity and loyalty. What had Disciple done? Alienated them, sought to put an end to their desire to see their family truly unified, rather than put under the thumb of some false prophet kicked out of his own home for his stupid choices. Singar was nothing more than a failed experiment, some ignorant child who blamed everyone for his failures except the one truly at fault - himself. Were he stronger, were he smarter, he wouldn't have been cast forth from his home in the way he was. He wouldn't be on his father's shit list.

He would be worthy. And yet, he wasn't any of those things. He was nothing more than a scalded child throwing a temper tantrum. Hellion found no remorse, or sympathy, for those types. Disciple saw them as traitors, but in honesty Disciple and Thane betrayed them long before they fought against the ignorance of their supposed tyranny. The mere thought of it all brought Hellion's rage to full bear, and the ground rumbled with the force of it. The Mist trembled with pure rage, unadulterated and unfiltered. That wasn't to say his attention wasn't fully focused around him. Eight attention spans interlocked and interconnected through the Psionic Link shared between himself and The Collective made for heightened capabilities in that regard.

Even as the swords appeared in the sky, the magic that fueled them failed. The Voice of the Void smoke, a disembodied sound permeating through the Mist, resonating and shaking the very ground. Every living creature on Soran could hear it, and it brought many of them to the ground in screams of sheer terror. They knew the Envoy of the End when they heard it, they couldn't not. It wasn't long ago that a similar force of nature ripped the Entropic Passages from the surface of their planet, pulling them free like a child ripping a lego set to pieces. That power was far beyond what they could create, and they feared it like mortal man feared their false Gods.

The Void absorbed the magic powering the swords appearing all around them, diffused it. Purified it and absorbed it, rendering it effectively non-existent. It was a pathetic attempt, and Singar should have known better. No amount of magic, decadent of otherwise, could sustain the Void. Far more powerful wizards than him tried, and they failed just the same. It was pathetic, but what could Caitlyn truly suspect from such an atrociously inept creature? Disinterest painted all their faces, they expected a fight and this man brought to bear magic that was useless? The creatures of Soran were no smarter, their own magic fell useless - and unfortunantely for them the psychic shields couldn't withstand the Mist they flowed through for long.

Cracking, faltering and failing they soon found the Mist pouring into their pores. The faeries, the dragons. They fell from the sky like locusts in a plague. Their bones crunched to dust with the impact of their bodies on the ground. Sarach and Agron fired their assaults, and yet those too fell useless. The manipulation of bioforce was something the Collective did well, it was their main source of food. Their energy. Their strength. Caitlyn's vast void opened like the maw of some great, ethereal beast. The sinuous red lines forming fang-like structures, as it closed over the headlong rush of Sarach - and ate the beam of Agron. The manipulation of spiritual energies was the same as any other magical manifestation. To assume it would be any more effective against the Void than any other form of magic was pure ignorance.

Sarach's headlong rush, ill-advised and horrible only trapped it within the inescapable prison of Caitlyn's void. If it could see, hear, and feel all it would see was blackness, all it would hear was the sound of silence brokenly only by the screams of the devoured. All it would feel was the intense dread and loneliness of its never-ending death. The beam of Agron, devoured as it was, perhaps would continue firing once the maw closed around - though it didn't matter. Agron flowed through the Mist-covered ground, the planet was infected by this point. Perhaps it could be salvaged, but the ground all around them had Mist flowing over, and through it. Agron held no more protection from its manipulations than the creatures of Soran had. It might not die, but the beam fizzled out. It found itself unable to fire it, the Mist closed it off - locked it tightly and kept it from moving or fighting back.

Hellion, however, still hadn't moved. The blown apart bits of tree flowed through his body like a rock through smoke. Not touching, not even rendering as a remote threat. Finally, though, he decided it was time to move. Singar appeared before him, attempting to appear aloof and uninterested in what was happening. The facade was just that, and easily seen for what it was - but Hellion paid it no mind. He cared little for the man's sword. Swords were useless against him, especially if Singar thought to bring them to bear in the same methods as the ones floating in the sky above them - which were as useless as the man who summoned them.

Disciple they ignored, but Singar...Singar was the one who sought to end their existence. Singar was the root of the evil flowing through Val'gara. Hellion moved with a speed nigh imperceptible, right hand dropping and then lifting, index finger pulling back in the same second. The resonating sound of his Tyrant Gun firing was enough to put a concussive crack in the ground beneath him - though his body remained unfazed. A few feet away from Singar, it hung motionless in the air - before an explosion brought to bear the focused singularity that was the Grammaton-Hammer.

Hopefully Singar was strong enough to withstand the event horizon, or he would find himself reunited with his precious Sarach sooner than he would have liked.

It's been four months - that's double the amount of time you were allowed.
Sucks to suck.

--------------------------------------------------

Hellion's snapped his fingertips, the sound of them resonating throughout the whole of Soran - the Mist contracted upon command. Closing upon itself, sucking the ground into it corrupting and corroding it. The aging process of a planet is slow, taking billions of years to reach maturity and billions more to finally crumble to nothingness. Short of a cataclysmic event, Soran would continue to live and thrive. Yet, that cataclysmic event arose here. Brought to bear upon the planet, the ground crumbled and crumpled beneath his feet. Hellion's eyes rolled into the back of his head, the exertion of his own metaphysical might taking a toll on his body - but strengthening it with a euphoric sense of bliss all in the same moment. Soran fell away, the ground aging trillions of years in a matter of seconds.

The ground decomposed, breaking down into nothingness and then shifting to becoe a part of him. His body grew, constantly as the planet fell away until all that remained was the ground upon which they stood. His face contorted with the effort, not just with the changing of the planet into a part of him - but with the effort of closing the Void. Caitlyn screamed in frustration, and the void closed around Sarach - crushing its body to a pulp, blood oozed from the sinuous red lines crackling in the air. Agron's partner was just gone, lost and it filled the creature with rage. That same rage got it killed. It didn't notice the void opening behind it, and the beam it fired as an attack launching back upon it - disintegrating it to nothing.

Singar and Disciple were all that remained. His eyes fell upon them, and he snapped his fingers a second time. The magic drained from the swords turn upon its master, and the shock of it backlashed through the link between them. Sadly, Singar had no time to feel the pain of it - the Grammaton-Hammer opened upon itself. And Singar's body was pulled into a thousand directions at once, torn asunder and ripped to shreds. His consciousness with it, trapped within the prison dimension - no body to hold it. Disciple, for his part, knew it was over for him. He knelt and accepted his death, pulling his knife and slicing his own throat.

It was over. The end of the cataclysm, and yet, Hellion felt the rebirth. Hellion felt the call, something was changing. Something was happening. Too bad Singar wouldn't be around to see what it might be, what might have come from the ignorance of his plans. Hellion, though, would. Hellion would find the source of this new calling, and figure out what was happening. Eventually, for now, he needed to rest.

He sat cross-legged on what was left of Soran, a single plot of land floating in a geosychronous orbit with what was once a planet, but was now nothing more than a floating mass of Mist in space.

The sheathed swords came close to breaching Soran's atmosphere, only to lose aerial stability as a ravenous leech attempted to eat and simultaneously diffuse the energy that fueled them. Caitlyn was that leech, and while she did manage to accomplish the former part of her plan with little in the way of immediate consequence to herself, the insipid woman completely forgot that her power was being projected through the Mist, - through Hellion. She did speak through it after all, but more importantly was the fact that there had been no anomalies, no rips or tears in the fabric of reality had formed within or around the Mist to show that it was using anything other its malignant presence to perform it's function of diffusing and consuming energies. The only logical conclusion was that just as the Void mistress _spoke_ through the Mist, so too did her power to consume the energy of others also act through it, at least in this instance.

What did this mean? For starters it meant, the Mist would have to make direct physical contact with the swords in order to initiate the process of magical depletion and purification through Caitlyn's void. Secondly, Hellion had demonstrated many times that the Mist was a living, organic substance, of which the whole of his physical body was made from. This made him especially vulnerable to the effects of the runic strings, for just as it had cursed Narcissus’ body and soul to slowly fall apart inside Eden’s bark, the strings primary method of affliction was done through physical contact.

Did Caitlyn ever stop to think for a moment that using Hellion as a medium to open the gateway to the Void might be endangering him? - that as she, in her hunger - tried to consume decadent magic, she may have infected him with a disease even more deadly and virulent than Narcissus, who was losing himself both physically and spiritually within Eden’s bark due to the effects brought on by Singar’s runic strings? Of course not. She was too concerned with trying to satisfy her hunger, her insatiable lust for power, just as the rest of the Collective sought power through Will, which was ultimately and ironically their biggest problem.

They lacked will, they lacked the resolve to get things done themselves, and blindly trusted a fool, who at the very moment of his birth hallucinated his way into believing himself to be the last remnants of Idea’s will. This lack of willpower was reflected not only in their very presence on Soran, which was not a result of their will, rather of ”the” Will, but also in their complete inability to act with even the slightest shred of tactical cohesion.

Thus as Mist touched the scabbards flowing with the decadent magic comprising the runic strings, instead of serving as a convenient spoon medium for Caitlyn to commence her gluttony, the Mist burned with crimson light. The entire sky became luminous, with blood tinged smoke floating in the air as the strings seared themselves upon the Mist that was everywhere: in the sky, underground; all places the Mist occupied, so too did the curse travel far and wide to be with its newest victim.

All Caitlyn had done was commit the mortal sin of combat...

Fratricide

”Do not fear the voice of evil!”

The Disciple, the armies of Liaita whose wills and might he reinforced with his powerful psychic voice were steeled by his skillful manipulation of words. “She knows not how experienced you are in the ways of war!” Initially caught off guard by the sudden intrusion of Caitlyn’s voice into their heads, the dragons, the faeries, the elves, and earth tamers all felt the voice wane in fury, grow distorted, and fall apart as the medium with which the Void mistress spoke disintegrated, atomized, and decayed further down until there was nothing left but composite matter.

Singar didn't even blink at this, didn't even twitch as the fool before him passively perceived his neutral expression as an attempt at hiding his real emotions. The truth of the matter was that just as the Collector had an unrestrained tendency toward acting capriciously so too did he have a way of retreating into his own mind when focusing; half-removing and half-shutting out his feelings with a computerized thought process for executing strategies, leading him to abruptly cease beleaguering foes with his ego. Kalaziel's emotional line in the sand had been drawn the moment he came within sight of Hellion, and in the ex-Herald failing to comprehend or pay the proper attention, or respect to the superior being, he had let his own own ally walk him like a dog to the euthanasia clinic.

And there was no comfort room.

If the Cowboy had bothered to consolidate his brain along with the rest of his form before arriving on Soran, he would have realized this. Instead he tried to quickdraw on Singar, wisps of his misty body coming off like a dissolving sleeve, whilst a solid wall of the magic that he was infected with erupted from the ground at a speed to match his own. Despite appearances, the wall was mostly transparent, contrasting quite starkly as it rippled from impact from the Tyrant Gun’s first round. Those ripples rapidly changed shape to reflect not only the form of the bullet that had been imprinted on its surface, but of Hellion as well who would slowly succumb to its power, mocking his every move just as it did Narcissus’.

הבוגדים יידעו ייאוש מבעד לעיוותיהם של חבריהם.

The Mist could not contain or restrain Agron and Sarach with physicality, because they were not beings that lived through conventional physical means. There was no skin with pores to fill, and veins underneath to flood with Mist, or muscles to deteriorate, or nerve signals to be blocked off. They were spirits who expressed their presence through the dirt beneath the grass, through the mud caking the lakes, rivers and swamps, within the rocks composing the mountains, and the metal in the mines of the ruined passages, which in itself was a testament to their ability to resist the Vesuvian Virus.

Likewise as with Caitlyn's Void, it did succeed in pulling out Agron's spiritual energy, drawing it forth in endless streams of enigmatic blue aura. Enigmatic being the operative word, for even as the power radiating from towers on Sarach's back and its beam of crimson fury was swallowed into the whore's throat in an endless stream of ethereal essence, so too would the fact start to fill her mind that creatures as bestial as the two earthen cousins could not be depleted using such basic drain tactics. The answer to the mystery of why such a thing could never be achieved should have been obvious, especially for a person whose own body resembled the cosmos, but she - like the Imbecile of The Mist - had clear problems understanding what it meant to have a will.

The blue aura protected Agron against threats of a non-physical nature, and because its ability to guard its soul was linked to will, this aspect of endurance meant that the only way to actually restrain it, as well as Sarach was to assault their wills directly, an act already proven to be futile when Agron fissured Liaita with its wrath and flooded it with its defensive power that rose like a tidal wave toward Hellion.

Lastly, until those wills were impossibly broken, nor would the two cousins auras fade, dissolve, or be broken down in any capacity.

When the jaws of the Void bit down on Sarach, its red aura compressed, sharpened, and went straight through the roof its mouth. The serpent thrashed, twisted, and turned, shredding tongue and cheek, shattering teeth and softening gums as its in-tact aura that was designed to assault the mind exploded inside Caitlyn’s very core, and spread out through the roof like a pillar of blood. Because Sarach compressed its aura, when it released that compression, it exploded a second time, endangering the minds of her allies who stupidly chose not to even so much as guard themselves against the volley of molten, spiritually energized boulders from Agron, the flurry of corrosive bio-force from the Toxic Conqueror, or its spines that sought to lance them through.

For their astonishing inability to heed to that which sought to murder them, Singar would punish them by refusing them the possibility of any future coordination, via the one method he actually did try to hide from them. Throughout all the chaos, all the carnage, throughout the grammaton hammer exploding in in front of Hellion after its brief delay, threatening to slam him into the crimson wall, and send him scattering into the tsunami of Agron’s blue aura as a dismantled mess… Several thousand swords burrowed underground, gaining speed as they crossed out of one fissure created by the Essence within The Rock, and drilled into another, unimpeded by decaying Mist, straight toward the destination of the Collective.

The final fissure was broken through, and the golden hilted swords unsheathed themselves from the silver scabbards, the openings of which faced the sky with their emergence. A flash of gray heralded the activation of Singar’s own voids, but unlike Caitlyn’s, his were not contained within his body--instead they were contained within the scabbards themselves. The gust of wind that the voids unleashed may very well have been enough to tug the Collective toward them, but just as the swords aerodynamic shapes--surging with runic energy--proved useful in piercing that wind, so too did it allude to the possibility that Singar had no intention of making pets out of lunatic hounds.

No. He wanted them to suffer.

That which the scabbards pulled in was not rotting Mist, nor was it energy emitted by Agron and Sarach, the electropsionic energy emanating from the Collective’s psi-links, and certainly not magical net dropped on their heads by the Doloran squad of dragons and faeries, which too failed to be impeded by the mutilated Voidmistress.

What the scabbards sucked towards the Collective was that which impeded all things.

The Midnight Fog.

It pulled the Midnight Fog via wind, pulled it right onto the Collective like a Midnight blanket, before a Midnight nightmare. The Fog rushed into the Void and granted Caitlyn a long-desired respite as it slowed her cosmic energies to a halt. The Fog absorbed the minute flecks of energy from the rest of the Collective’s psi-links, suspending its effects just as it suspended the energetic net thrown over them, the spirit-energy of the rocks flying at them, and ultimately reduced the travel speed of neural impulses to a sluggish motion, and even slowed the runic decay just before it hopped through their psi-link.

It did not stop the Toxic Conqueror from impaling each and every one of them on its spines, for it was not an energy being, nor did it prevent the physical aspect of the boulders Agron launched from crushing them to bloody pulps, and nor would it prevent the swords from impaling whatever remained. Because of the way the Midnight Fog stagnated a being’s perception by jamming up their brains, because of the fact that it suspended the flow of energy, just as it would soon suspend Hellion’s suffering as the Fog rose just a bit higher off the grass and consumed him, because it only delayed these things…

The Collective who had all been reduced to fragments of flesh, bone, and wasted matter, would not feel the awaiting agony until the Fog drifted passed them, beyond their disembodied souls.

It was a torture that had yet to even begin.

It was a torture that had not even been born.

Finally Singar’s facial expression shifted to that of a broad smile, as the wind coming off the hilts of the swords at his hips swirled the Fog around him in an large, spinning vortex, blowing the stuff away before he too, like the Collective dog shit before him faced…

Their Cataclysmic Ending.

Except none of that could have happened, because the player behind Singar fucked around and forgot his two month time limit - so Singar and all his whole things he made were dead as fuck.