[u]Shadow of Intent[/u]

The woman's feet tap against the harshness of frost-laden stone in jolting hops, careening about the pale oblivion. Her joints crackle, muscle fibers crawling beneath the smooth veneer of her bronzed skin like so many ants. They snapped back into order— the sweet agony of her false flesh mirrored in the excited crooning of her doppelgangers. They, like her, were all of the Deceit; the first Lie spoken by their then pure Father, Pride. Multiversal copy-pasting or not. It was in the darkest aspirations of the creature's nature to mislead and cajole the unaware, and it was in that unempathetic string of 1s and 0s that her song reached the ears of the Dracomachines. The information they recieved changed subtly, their equations skewed. After all, in studying the demon, they opened themselvds up to its Daemon, for it was the information itself, in the same way it was the mind-ghost that Zucroas' psyche projected in an attempt to understand and defend against mindfire. 

The DMs in that same way did their jobs a little.. too well. Whether or not the mist remained as blood was irrelevant, for the red mist was always meant to be destroyed in the end. The accelerated process fed the force of their harmonics into the haze, before the inevitable change dried up the wells of potentiality. The sheer amounts of energy offloaded onto the mass of the mist was enough to obliterate its fermions— its elementary particles. From that reaction spewed a shower of color, bleaching all it came into contact with a state of becoming inert. No possibility to move, no possibility to function. No possibility to exist. Zucroas' Dracomachines fell prey to this first, being in the immediate blast radius and acting as a buffer for the worst of it, before inevitably succumbing to the glorious radiance of his falsified antithesis. A kind of Order, if it were that, which should not be. The blasphemous touch of an endless falsehood bleached the Dragon in the loss of several variables, chief among which: the capability of Zucroas' vessel to utilize ESP (ExtraSensory Perception). That same light rode the currents of the Kintars' voices, using the sonic frequencies as a means to proliferate and infest the space in arcing bands of light. Where their rays touched, brief instances of the environ overlapped with this one; leaving brief impressions of a case where the stage was bathed in lava, or one where men were imprisoned beneath frozen cradles. The end result was a blighted gateway upon the mirror-worlds that the other Kintars fell in from, growing drastically more numerous by the moment with each shattered mirror. After all, what did breaking glass do except make more mirrors? Her doppelgangers fell in corpse-maiden rain, bridging their inherent qualities with the Primus. So many different, other Hells to intermingle with her own in a fibrous mesh of darkness, compressing and expanding like the breath of a living thing. Their bodies smashed into icy rock and impaled themselves upon trees, but all brandished the same golden blades before each sword promptly vanished, even the ones Zucroas would of originally ricocheted off into other realities. There was brief silence, save for perhaps the odious snarls Zucroas took, before the screaming warp of super dense matter blades reentered the space a moment later. They crumpled spacetime like so much paper machè, owed in part to Zucroas amplifying their gravitic fields, and the rest in their rapid asexual procreation. A thorny, adamantine wall rested squarely a foot away from the dragon, and rushed to meet him at the natural speed of lightning; scraping the floor, walls and ceilings as the environ distorted into an indistinct haze, leaning far too close toward the swords. In that same way, the barrier Zucroas erected to constrain Oblivion was yanked away, for even non-physically aspected forces were leashed into the threat. Perhaps Kintar's saving grace here was the capability to evade the threat by standing at the boundary between living and dead. 



The mental realm is a place of metaphor. Often times things that appear plainly obvious aren't always so, and precious little was ever made simple. It was a place of loaded sentimentality, especially within a world of one's own making. After all, who would dare ascribe wrath to a man on a mission to save his brothers?! Every father trying to save his daughters from bad men making big mistakes inside of them. Every jilted lover seeing their beloved in the arms of another. Every [u]cornered animal[/u]. Why was Zucroas [b]lying[/b] to himself? In what comfort did he seek in this falsehood of absolution from his own anger? His own [b]hatred[/b]? The truth was, there could be no salvation. No forgiveness. Not in front of this Dajjal.  Zucroas dragged down the sky, submerged light within darkness, and reconciled the illogic of heaven being folded over the sea with the might of his mind palace. But it was all for naught. The creature had already escaped into his nervous system, for this act of seld-deception had already cost him. He felt his body refuse to respond to his commands for that brief instant, before impact was assured.

Now the question was: would it cost him everything?