‘Time for your performance.’ Malan sent to her, his voice warm and mirthful, he was in jovial mood. It appeared making a pact with an unknown, all ending entity, ready to kill them when they were all that was left. Was turning out to be beneficial.

‘It certain does make things interesting.’ Foy mused, ‘well more interesting.’ Who knew the end of all things could be do much fun, and so much work, but best she not complain too much. Pure boredom was much worse to bear, if only she’d known the trick Malan had taught them sooner. The grief she could have avoided, but at least it turned her into a skilled number counter, and mental planner.

The latter was more important right now as she prepped her miscreants for their last show. A shame it was going to be seen coming. With the Orders aware that Malan was activity helping the Dreamers, it was a given they would suspect her to act as well. They’d tighten up security in turn, rather than thinning their numbers to help the beleaguered defenders.

‘This is very unkind of you Lisoe.’ Her greatest critic was going out of her way to stop any of the planned fun. Her priestesses were out in force, as well as her many personally made beasts designed to pick up on the dissolving poison. Which Foy found to be insulting.

Sure the Gutrotter was a wonderful tonic for death, one of her favorites in fact, but she wasn’t an amateur, she knew when a poison had served its purpose. Everyone was expecting that trick again, which meant it was time for another. And she had an endless variety. It was as if the realm wanted people to die, given all the plants made for such a thing.

And other more amusing types that she was about to use.

Poison can come in many forms, and many don’t cause death, merely set the stage for that possible outcome. And that is the performance her miscreants are to begin this day.

‘Its time for our grand showing.’ She sent to her followers mingled with countless crowds. Her poisoners sent back their acknowledgements, eager as she to begin. Many were getting close to being found out, those few who were Kolune worst of all. Their hesitation to participate in the death duels was making them stand out. So why not use that?

Kolune loyal to her started volunteering, demanded just as loud as all the others of their kind for a place in the games of ascension. Some got picked, and while they got into places within waiting rooms at the bottom of arenas, others of her flock got ready as well.

Heon, of course, they loved her. Began taking their spots within stands, those absurdly large arenas of stone, and monuments to how much Kolune loved gutting each other and everything else alive.

Naturally Lisoe suspected she would target such gathering, both because of the centralized numbers, but the image it would conjure. The Wonders able to reach and defile the Orders games, able to cause harm within sacred places. As such priestesses of hers, with Cycure and Est, lined the areas, ever vigilant for her miscreants.

With Dreamers hammering at walls; that no moral could hear but all of the important folk were aware of. The priests were tense and waiting for the act they knew was to come, it was just about when, and the longer it went without happening; the more knotted up those in the know became.

She found that fact hilarious, and being able to watch her adversaries stress themselves out made her job easier, not as easy as being unknown. But it had its advantages, and she wasn’t one to turn down any tool to get what she wanted.

With priests on watch for her, it allowed Foy an easier time determining their numbers, where before it would have been guess work, or a last minute surprise when the fun started. But there was also another fact Foy played into. Lisoe, not matter how much the tart hated her, couldn’t afford to keep her priestesses powered while she battled desperately with monsters outside.

Monsters that knew the strength of the opposition, and the layouts of their internal defenses. This caused a sweet little outcome that priests, while numerable, weren’t that miracly blest with defenses or means to counter the performance she was readying.

Oh, it was a certainly there would be a response from Lisoe, but it would be measured, the Dreamers wouldn’t let it be any other way. This Warper of flesh Malan told them about was a quick leaner. Using the same trick against it led to a swift diminish in returns. A diverse skill set was needed to fight the Dreamers, which meant the entities were designed to be put down by pantheons. A singular god, say Wargain, would find themselves made irrelevant over time. Which to all of their amusement was happening to the eager fire burner.

After a week of flames induced attacks, the Dreamers were immune the flames, ordinary stuff anyways. The white-hot bursts Wargain could produce still cause some damage, but for the amount of Devotion spent to achieve it, he might as well have just punched the monsters instead.

Which is one of the things the bronze warrior was doing, plus shield bashing, axes slicing and throwing, spear hurling. Basically, a lot of physical blows the Dreamers could only do so much to became resistant to.

Not that they weren’t, blasted things might as well be made of reinforced stone with how tough they had become.

Yes, Foy is quite lucky to be who she is. A poisoner, such a tool set was hard to resist even for the most hardly of foes. She was certain of her skills; could devise a poison to bring down the hulking beasts and keep them down. Sadly, she is a small god, with little Devotion to her name, she didn’t have the means to produce enough poison to stop the Dreamers, but she was sure she could.

However, it wasn’t her problem. the Dreamers are their murder friends, it was Lisoes problem to deal with, and Foy smiled happily at the thought.

The god of life was due a nice kick in her craw, drop her down a peg, make her see she wasn’t all powerful and that controlling life didn’t make her above defeat.

Foy sighed happy to herself as she guided her miscreants. ‘Sure is pleasant times for an end.’ She’d always known gods had it good, with their ability to ignore the mundane and time wasting parts of existence. But being able to move her awareness about wherever she pleased, and manipulate the realm in ways so easily it should be a crime. Foy knew just how good she had it, it was worth every stress filled moment as she tried to keep pace with hundreds of followers doing different things, and asking endless questions. Or favors, lots of favors, lots of deal, lots of petty people who wanted things for nothing and seemed upset when they got nothing in return.

She now sympathized with others gods she once curst as being stingy. Asking for a miracle was the same as asking for a service, don’t provide some form of payment, then it wasn’t fair to be angry when the servicer, denied to provide said service.

She took up the practice of ignoring those folks, till of course they offered up those sweet Devotion filled prayers, that got her attention. It helped weed out the noncommitted, leaving her mostly with those truly aligned with her.

‘Sad thing they’re about to die.’ Most anyways, some would remain to serve as spies, because otherwise she would be a dunce to remove her eyes on the enemy. But her vision would dim, there was no way around that, it was going to happen no matter what. The Purity games were working, slowly but surely those not devoted to putting themselves in deathly harm weren’t allowed to rise in the ranks. Worse they were eyed with suspicion and priests were becoming increasingly active at motivating spectators to become involved with arena duals.

Time was running out; followers were going to be noticed and killed one way or another. Might as well use them now, she didn’t need that many to keep tabs on Wargains crumbling realm. It wasn’t like she would never get close to the juicy details anyways.

So by her order and guidance, poisons began to ply their trade. Within arena stands and rooms, within markets, prayer gatherings, anywhere with a large enough mob. Her miscreants put their hands in pockets, and careful pulled out vials. From a glance the bottles of glass appeared to contain nothing.

But oooh, such a thought was very wrong, inside was a special concoction she’d been working on. And while followers uncorked them, letting the unsee and odorless gas out, Foy waited with rising glee as it took hold.

One bottle after the other was uncorked, her followers unnoticed as they slide the empty containers back into pockets only to pull out another. For minutes they did this, each time a rising toll pressed on her living followers. Some began to breath heavily as they suffered the weight of miracles their bodies weren’t made to handle.

Her poor miscreants were ordinary Heon and Kolune, since any body changes inside would have been noticed by Lisoe. Yet they kept up their purpose, even as they began to cough and wheeze from the strain. More minutes followed and some began to hack up blood, to the alarm of those around them.

People backed away, and those gathered at prayer sights fell quiet, the service disrupted by the death throes of her people.

Each time their brought into existence a new vial of poison, the realm pressed on them displeased. Priests hurried forth, thin miracles weaving around their forms to protect them.

Foy smiled, the poison went right through, because dimwittedly Lisoe gifted protection aimed at harm. But the poison was doing anything of the sort, that wasn’t its aim.

When priests were close, those near death stopped pulling her works into the realm. They allowed themselves to hoisted up and inspected, mortal eyes, shinning with a greenish gold, gazed into their bodies, their Kolune features wrinkled with confusion. They searched and searched for some sort cause of ailment; but all they found were bodies coming apart from a force they had no understanding of.

All the while, pressed close to the infected, believing themselves safe, priests became saturated in poison.

This process happened in many locations, heretics gathering around and helping Heon in their death throes, none understanding why.

Poisoners began to die, the realm still pressing on them even when they stopped warping reality. Confusion and alarm spread, the priests in areas doing their best to keep calm. None aware of the poison spreading through air and clinging to people.

News swiftly spread, her followers that remain as spies hearing the gossip and talks of Heon dying without reason. Alarm was thick in the air as people waited for more to follow. Priests ready for this outcome rushing about, they burnt the bodies, believing it would stop whatever poison trapped within them. And it appeared to work, hours passed and nothing happened.

Yet their alarm didn’t wane, it worsened as people became anxious and irritable. Tempers began to flare; arguments broke out in crowds of people and priests. Accusations began to be flung about.

Everyone began to eye each other skeptically, looking out for the smallest of oddities. Those in charge tried to maintain the status quo, to get trade and the arenas going again. And for half an hour things went back to some semblance of normal, even though everyone was extremely tense.

But her poison, her sweet poison, it began taking its toll. The concoction that could not be seen, nor smelled worked its way into the brains of mortals. Malan had often told her that organ above all others was the most difficult to deal with. It’s a complicated and at the same time delicate piece of work, and apparently mostly made of fat, not the easiest material to heal. It was also in charge of everything else, so if something was wrong with it, then the rest of the body would follow.

And they were following, people were impatient, grumpy, looking for any excuse to yell or hit those near them. It only got worse the more than breathed in the poison.

Order broken down at the arenas first, since people were already in heightened states of aggression. Didn’t help most people in the stands were placing bets, and no one liked losing those. Fights started and they got vicious fast, since the poison blocked peoples ability to control themselves, to think, and be calm.

Instead sharp claws came out; Kolune began slice and biting into each other. The violence spread like flame, people finally given an excuse as the loud noise and pushing broke the masses thin layer of restraint.

Arenas turned into large chaotic mobs, the people involved going wild as they attacked without remorse, dead began to pile up and her poison wasn’t even in full affect yet.

Priests and mortal guards came rushing to answer the clamor, but they were helplessly out number to deal with the mess, nor did they have the time to even try. Her poison caused violence to break out everywhere, trade districts fell part as followers of order accused each other of swindling, and answered such slights with claws.

Priests themselves began to be affected, their minds clouded with a growing anger. When they unleash miracles given to them by their deity, they only worsened the situation.

People began to fall over, their bodies oddly bloated from a healing that caused death. That didn’t bring a pause in the assaults, it instead had followers turn their frustration on the priests. Mobs charged and swarm over them. Or at least try to, even poisoned priests had enough wits to defensed themselves.

Claws failed to reach them as holy women remained safe behind transparent protections. It didn’t stop the mortals though, they clawed at it with enough force it broke fingers, yet they persisted, their anger blinding them to the chill of harm.

Priests and mortal warriors struck back just as harshly, their miracles and weapons sent with the intention of killing rather than harming. Those in charge of maintaining order became just another part of its destruction. In their maddened states to bring about peace they killed all causing trouble; which was almost everyone.

The first deity to arrive was Cycure, the clue was plant life woven around stones, and gardens take on animal forms or bark made soldiers. “Cease your hostilities.” the plants echoed to crowds throughout Wargains enclosed domains.

The mortals didn’t listen to her, in fact that weren’t even aware of the new creatures around them. There awareness was dim, and what little remained was centered on killing people in front of them. Cycure hissed, causing plant leaves to rustle as she sent thick vines to ensnare followers.

The act didn’t go unnoticed or unanswered. Mortals shrieked, the finally phase of the poison taking hold. They began to hallucinate as spine tingling fear coursed through their bodies. They howled and struggled, the fighting worsening as people thought in their minds they were under assault by their worst nightmares. Which could have been anything, whatever the mortal feared most.

Regardless, the poison had people go mad, they tore at themselves and others, all the while Cycure desperately tried to contain them. Her vines grew everywhere, tying up mortals in an attempt to stop them from harming themselves.

A smart move, but at the same time a deadly one. People were too afraid and with the addition of being tangled, unable to move, that was a push to far. They struggled, eyes wide in terror their hearts racing, till finally, they stopped.

Bodies went limp, faces frozen in their final moments of abject terror. The new ordainments didn’t help people calm, they ran about screaming, attacking, it was mayhem.

Those chosen to be her spies hid the best they could while giving her sights of the mess she’d unleash. Thanks to being treated with an agent that kept them safe from the rage air, they were the few sane in the growing mass of carnage.

The number of deaths, thousands and quickly rising, caused aspects of Lisoe to arrive. She stared at it all wide-eyed, before her face scrunched up into one of pure frustration.

Foy giggled, deeply pleased as her rival went to work. Unsurprising she revived those hanging limply in vines. But to her and Cycure shook the mortals didn’t sing them praise of being brought back. They screamed hysterically, forced to live once more in a nightmare they tried desperately to escape from.

The reactions caused aspects of Lisoe to step back from the revived, openly concerned as she stared at them; the same way Malan did when he peered into the workings of mortals.

Foy laughed gleefully as a baby bun. ‘You can’t see what’s wrong can you?’ Foy thought to herself enjoying every moment of Lisoes bafflement.

Poor minded Lisoe was looking for something that was causing harm, but her poison wasn’t that type, was a hallucinogen, and as long as it remained in the mind, it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

So on the screams went, followed with heart attacks as the life weaver desperately studied the dying mortals. All the while the madness spread, the unseen pollutants in the air affecting more mortals as it clung to fur and clothes.

All the mayhem taking place had people erratic at this point, wide eyed, fear crazed, they attacked or ran from each other. Desperate to escape the horror within and without. Bodies gave out, corpses began to mount, and the life god with her lacky of a nature were helpless to stop the cascading effect.

‘I’ve done good.’ Foy thought, and patted herself on the back, she’d served up a fitting distraction to keep parts of Lisoe entertained. Now it was time to see how long the performance would last.

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

“For his grace,”’ Verm chanted. “For his majority,” Verm sang. “For Ryan the chain breaker!” they yelled and charged down tunnels.

Ryan himself was massaging his incorporeal temples. Because joined with all the shouts of how amazing he is, were also an endless wave of demands. ‘What we do next?’ Converted asked in the form of prayers, the longer they remained under his influence the more their minds simplified.

Their words were blunt, their minds almost empty, all they thought of was him, and not in a helpful way. Such as thinking for themselves and planning out actions that would better his religion.

No. No. No.

NO!

They just stood there if not given a directive, they wouldn’t even take care of themselves unless he ordered them to.

‘Celestials this infuriating.’ Every sermon they heard from him, the worse the converted became. Due to this he tried making it so those turned never heard him preach more than six times.

Ryan moved his awareness to those that had, to the empty husks given the name Thralled. They stood in perfectly ordered roles, armed and armored for the roles they were soon to play.

Though they were alive, they had no will of their own, no mind, and in a sense no soul. They were an extension of himself now, flesh instruments to use as he saw fit. And it was a horrid chore, he had to split smaller and smaller portions of himself to control the meat puppets. And since the souls within had become so torment they didn’t produce a speck of Devotion either.

‘Attack,’ he ordered the Thralls.

In an instant they took off running down the tunnels, heading for a sector being contested. All of the meat puppets were going to die, he would make certain of it, they were a drain on his mental state and the faster they were gone the better.

As such when Thralled arrived at a skirmishes he had them charge threw hails of javelins, arrows and flame. The mindless swarmed over the opposition, all the while he spoke through a chosen few, preaching the wonders of his religion.

“Be free of their lies.” He said with words that seeped into the minds of mortals. To Verm it sunk in deep, the Kolune were resistant to a point, but even they began to listen after long enough exposure. “We are the future, the path all of you know you desire.” His will pulled on them, causing their attacks to slow as they felt doubt worm into their limbs. His Thralled had no such hesitation, they continued on no matter their wounds and fell upon the attackers.

“Join me.” He called out as Thralled attacked, “Join the future that has come, you don’t have to die.” He had Thralled target those most resistant to his touch, they died, punctured by many swords. “You can be part of this.” He shouted, pouring his power into the words. It worked on many, the Verm anyway, the Kolune still tried to resist but it didn’t matter. Once allies began to attack, and with them surrounded even those hulking warriors were felled.

Verm hatched at them enthusiastically, even with them long dead. ‘Carry on,’ he sent out to the newly converted. “Spread my word, spread Wonder.”

“For the truth bringer.” They shouted back, and headed towards the sounds of battle. To which echoed everywhere. The Underrealm was no longer a refuge for mortals to hide in.

It is now a place of slaughter and mayhem, a region of waiting horrors lurking to catch bands of Kolune or Verm who dared wander into places taken by the Dreamers. Which is a growing majority of the Underrealm.

The miracle warped stone hadn’t done well to keep those monsters out, there was too much power behind them, and the unruly things were relentless. It had only taken them hours to break into the Underrealm, and once that happened the war of halls never ceased.

If it hadn’t been for the bargain Malan had struck with this Warper of flesh. Ryans following would have been gone by now, taken by the tide of monsters that had a extremely easy time winning within tunnels. Their ability to heal wounds and rise from the dead made fighting them in confined spaces suicidal, which tens of thousands had learned the hard way.

The armies of Wargain had been strong willed at first, facing the foe with unwavering zeal, even when the loses were horrific. But that was not so anymore, they were retreating and those who failed to obey orders, or didn’t receive them in time, were left to die.

The Dreamers showed no mercy, and were very thorough with their killing, corpses were dismembered, and often eaten. Lisoe wasn’t going to get any chances to bring back the slain, not that she showed any signs of doing such a thing. She’d been absent, only Cycure showed herself and that wrathful creature was making a strong stand against the Dreamers.

Over the months the Underrealm had slowly turned into an agricultural center, mushrooms and root plants covered most tunnels. It had served to keep the Verm and those above fed, joined with the many of acres topside. But when the Dreamers had arrived, and tunnels were lost and destroyed. Cycure had transformed those food supplies into vengeful warriors.

Dreamers fought with mushrooms grown to the size of mortals, lined with razored teeth, and clawed stumps for hands. Other were vines knotted so densely they formed bipedal figures covered in thick bark.

They kept the Dreamers busy, just as unafraid to die as the monsters themselves. And quick to regrow their numbers or heal wounds with the use of a fungus that caused the air to cloud with spores that made breathing difficult. The worse though are the roots growing everywhere, they moved at a blurring speed, tying Dreamers and mortals alike before they crushed them and used their bodies as fertilizer to produce more plant soldiers.

The wrath of nature had done well by herself, for a time that is. But the Dreamers were showing to be as dangerous as Malan had warned. The end bringers adapted to Cycures methods. Their blood, already a tar paste, had become acidic as well, plants refused to grow from them, and the roots themselves began to decompose after being wrapped around Dreamers for too long.

It got worse when the Warper of flesh had decided to bestow its creations with the ability to vomit acid. The sights still had his fur shiver and tail twitch, but it was affective, Ryan would give that demented deity that.

Cycure was in retreat, her plants unable to contend with the changes of the Dreamers. The plant godling had, of course, come after Ryans flock afterward, possibly hoping his converted would serve as useful nutrients to grow more plants.

But, well, while his converted were empty minded, they still had the means to cast miracles. And bolts of flames did wonders to dissuade Cycure from trying her luck with him.

Not to say he didn’t lose followers to her, she still had Wargain support though his armies, and from the different types of plant soldiers he was seeing. Cycure was pulling plants from above to fight down in the depths.

It was slowing their advance, but not my much, there’s just too many Dreamers, nor did it matter they could be killed. The situation had reached a point of no return, the number of eggs being laid had to be in the millions now. Each cycle large than the last; Ryan wasn’t sure if Wargain could win even if he was allowed to burn the continent. The beasts were laying eggs underground, safe from his portals in the sky.

As an embodiment of a hallowed Verm, he should be troubled with twitching whiskers. The prospect of a threat such as the Warper should have caused him to search for a place for him and his following to flee to. But he hadn’t, there was nowhere to run, save for the sub realm called Bastion, and the way to that place hadn’t open yet. Besides it didn’t matter what happen here.

‘Forever and ever,’ he thought to himself. He is above death, the destruction, he is a god that will continue on passed the desolation. The fact of it allowed him to enjoy the happenings to a point, the constant pull for his attention was a drag, but at least it was accompanied with the sights of those he hated being butchered. Watching Kolune torn apart by monsters better built for war was deeply satisfying. And the fact the Orders were getting battered about as they had done to him.

Yet he wanted it to be done. Ryan found himself ready to move on, to start fresh. They, well, he had done all he could with his skills. The Dreamers couldn’t be converted, nor the Ascended, and while Wargain sending down mortal armies to help with the defenses of the Underrealm and certainly allowed Ryan to stay relevant. That was changing fast, the mortals, at least for the Orders, didn’t have the means to fight monsters of Dreamer capability. These are battles between ascended, be it of the body or mind.

The mortals, only armed with a simple weapons and plates of steel, weren’t going to achieve anything, save possibly distracting the Dreamers. Which might be exactly what Wargain was using them for. The beasts did favor killing mortals over anything else, even the plant soldiers were second to plain mortals.

The Warper of flesh wanted those who provide Devotion gone first. Which meant Ryan was running out of tools.

The longer he settled into his godliness, the more he found certain things become difficult while others trivial. Matters pertaining to people, their moods, what to say, reading their emotions and intentions. That all was becoming second nature to him, same with being able to turn the crowd.

But spells, arcane crafting, even its study was becoming befuddling. He found it difficult to hold onto the concepts, and the more it went outside his nature, the worse it got.

He’s a converter first and foremost, and the realm seemed to be forcing that, making it truer every day at the detriment of other skills. He wasn’t the only one suffering this, all of his band of Wonder brings were being restrained.

They’d brought the matter to Malan, who’d been unsurprised of the concept, but had been about the degree. A talk with Madness had revealed Malan was special, in that his nature was broad, a peddler of many things. One of which was skills and lost arts, which allowed him to retain many skills. While Ryan could not, he is a convert, a preacher, a mover of the masses. These are his tools, even though as a mortal he was quite the sorcerer, nothing to Derrin degree, but he was no push over. Now most of it was slipping through his paws, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His religion was to centered about him moving the crowd, freeing people and leading them into revolt against their oppressors. It didn’t really invoke him performing miracle works like calling storms or summon gales of fire. Not that he couldn’t, not yet, it just took a great deal of focus and an increasing amount of Devotion.

‘Balance.’

He was beginning to hate that word. He didn’t want to be balanced, he wanted to be able to raise his people up, have an endless spectrum of possibilities at his fingertips. But the realm was saying no, and though he is a god, Ryan was learning that didn’t mean there weren’t things beyond him. The realm had given its answer, maybe the even Celestials. Thus he is forced to live with his limitations and ponder what he can best do to use them.

At the moment he is a converter running out of those to convert. Without the Core powering him that might have been a death sentence is many ways. The Thralled offered no Devolution, and those who heard his voice to many times always become them, no matter how strong willed.

‘Rise with the masses, and die with the masses.’ That seemed to be the summary of his godliness, he needed a constant influx of listeners, but he was almost out. And while the actions of the Dreamers had originally allowed him to amass a massive influx of converted, that wasn’t so anymore. He needed to change this, and while the Underrealm was thinning of those sweet converts, that didn’t mean there wasn’t more. He just needed to get to them. Up above in those fortresses of stone, millions of fresh ears awaited his words.

‘Rise with the masses,’ echoed the thought. He did have a tide, had thousands under his banner, a growing majority turning into Thralled.

The Core forced him to work through followers, so whenever he spoke more minds fell to the ever soothingness of his voice. It was only a matter of time before his religion would be only a horde of meat puppets in constant need of his control.

He needed a fresh tide, and what better way to get it than to used up the old. ‘All or nothing.’

Waiting wasn’t an option, nor the use of the dead.

Those removed from their bodies once defeated were mindless themselves. Most seemed to be in a daze and those that did come out of the stupor ignored him; mortals converted in life didn’t stay so in death. In fact, they were quite furious when the effect of his voice waned. Only those that had been with him from the beginning, before his ascension, remined loyal, but they weren’t any help.

The sigils Titar and Wargain quick formed together, and lined through the Underrealm, kept the dead from manifesting in the tunnels. Only those wretched allowed the soul to appear and by then it wasn’t any help, since the living were dead by that point.

It was the same above, the fortresses were covered in miracle works. His only tools were the Thralled, his waning skill with the arcane, and the removal of his restraint.

He’d been holding back, saving his strength to remain a threat. But time was running out for him, and more importantly Foy had finally taken the stage.

Smugly she was sending visions to them, laughing in the way only Heon could as her miasma spread waking madness. Cycure was distracted, and if the chaos remained, more of the pantheon would be as well.

‘Reach for the masses.’ He concluded and stretching his awareness. He plucked the strings of his Thralled, made the lines of still silhouettes come to life as they moved as one. None chanted his name as they swarmed through halls half repaired.

Straining himself he sent to his thinking followers a single command. ‘Attack.’ All of his religion moved as one, racing toward defenses they’d being avoiding.

The halls in those areas filled with the echoing patters of paws, then raving preaching’s as followers chanted his name. The sounds lured the Dreamers, who never stopped attacking, but the movement of his forces had them following as well. The Warper was seeing an opportunity.

He made a link with it, his awareness struggling to maintain all the moving parts. It forced his sending to be simple.

He sent visions of Foys misconduct, and his need to reach mortals. ‘Help me’ he sent. ‘And we both can take more from the Orders.’

It never spoke with him, the Warper was beyond the understanding of words, but it did give impressions, Dreamers began to laugh louder, move faster, join with his horde.

The Underream shuddered under the marching of thousands and beyond. The areas around his hordes came alive, fake calm and waiting was thrown aside as forces moved to engage entrenched defenders. No longer would he waste time with skirmishes and the chipping away of Wargains forces.

Now he would begin the final push, the Underrealm will fall, and he will have Titars barricaded followers. They will be his, for he is the masses, the mind of the crowd; and he will have his due.

“My voice shall be heard.” Ryan screamed through the Thralled. His forces falling upon defenses most foul. Runed walls and entrenches, manned by Ascendants and plant beasts. There were mortals to, Kolune, dressed in plate armor colored to shine like bronze. Miracles rippled from the steel, blessings from Titar. They would not break easily, nor their weapons.

Waves of arrow javelins soared forth, fired from ballista as the horde came into range. It should have been a blood bath, but the Thralled weren’t alone, Dreamers took the lead, allowed themselves to become ever renewing shields of flesh. Ryan moved the thralled, had them cling to the fur hides of the beasts.

His voice filled the air of every battle taking place. “Join me,” he started, pouring his power into the work. “Be freed from the fear of ending.” Ascendants shouted orders, sent flames, Dreamers bunched up, their bodies completely resistant to the heat. His Thralled were not, but for now they were kept safe.

“Do you not see?” He asked to the Kolune, for only they were suspectable. “We don’t have to be your end, your enemy, join and become part of the winning side.” His words sunk into minds, it was so easy, so simple. Mortals began to falter, as they always did when he spent enough. Wargain must not have known this, given Ryan had been playing weak, unwilling to spend the power needed to convert quickly. But now? What did it matter?

‘Rise with the masses,’ echoed the words.

“Be with me.” He screamed again, his voice reason, his voice clarity. “And be free.”

It came as a shock to the Ascendants and plants, when Kolune turned on them. Blades of miracle work sliced through foliage cleanly, it even pierced the half molten frames of the Ascendants.

The surprise holding them was short lived though. And with metallic snarls, Ascendants answered with weapons of their own. And flames, lots of flames.

“Be cleansed traitors!” Ascendants screamed as Kolune burned, yet that kept attacking, kept listening to his voice. “Fight them,” he commanded. “Be free of them.” The words echoed; his will spread. Every mortal that heard it became dazed. They questioned everything, all but his voice.

Lines buckled when the hordes of Thralled and Dreamers finally slammed into them. Defenders were swarmed as their lines fell into disorder. But they didn’t instantly crumble. These are Wargains finest, souls tempered in war, they fought as ruthlessly as the Dreamers, and the mindless husks of his enthralled.

“You can’t win.” He said, mocking them as suits of armor were crushed and shattered by the strength of warped flesh. “Nor can you stop me.” He hissed out as the tide pushed through crumbing trenches. The first layers of defenses were taken, only for them to run into more. Javelins sunk into Dreamers as molten metal poured into halls.

That had an effect.

Dreamers howled in protest as the liquid covered them, burning into hides and preventing healing.

“You think this will stop us?” He laughed and performed miracles of his own. He summoned forth water, the act so difficult, and costly. It been so simple in the past, childish, now he struggled to maintain it.

But it was enough, water manifested and poured into halls filling with molten metal. Wrathful hisses echoed underneath the laughter of his voice. The sounds joined with the Dreamers who shared in his mirth.

They swarmed over the hot metal, his Thralled carried forth to serve as his bearers of clarity. Together the Warper and he pushed deeper into Titars protected halls. And with every step Dreamers and Thralled fell into traps.

Some were simple, long pits aimed at causing deaths from the fall, others were lined with spikes. Then came traps that caused fake ceilings to collapse; the tons of stone crushing the living. It was followed with contraptions that fired arrows from walls, then molten metal that surged from ceilings.

All of it served as a means to slow down the Dreamers, while the defenders, continually in revolt because of his voice, tried to form a solid defense line against the hordes slamming into them.

Taking offered Devotion from Bronduff, Ryan had his voice carry, his power reaching out for minds able to listen. Lines of defenders mutinied, turned and butchered those that refused to see reason.

The living were a hindrance, a threat, and Wargain. Some aspect of him that must have been watching the fall of the Underrealm, gave out an order. All mortals, and his army of Kolune were to retreat, only the Ascendants and plants were to remain to contend with the Dreamers.

‘This won’t stop me.’ He thought guiding his forces. ‘I won’t be cowed Wargain, I can’t.’

The path of passiveness would only deliver failure, he needed to press forward, take risks, no matter the losses it would incur.

Thralled marched forth, just as unafraid and undeterred as the Dreamers. Even as the realm filled with traps and defenders finally able to form stable ranks, now that the mortals were being forced to evacuate. Still, even committed, he let the Dreamers take the brunt of the attacks, they could recover, his puppets could not.

Beasts hammered into Ascendants, with him as support. Hours passed, the realm crumbled, and Ryan could feel himself getting closer to his prize. Unturned minds were closing, the Dreamers were beating back the defenders too quickly.

He compelled his Thralled forward, to dash through the slaughter.

Puppets slipped by, the Ascendants and plants to distracted by hulking monstrosities to notice the passing of small pathic Verm. And once some got to far enough in and discarded weapons, plus armor. Wore only simple working cloths, they got mistaken for mortals lagging behind.

“Help.” He had some call out to Ascendants as they ran from the raging battled behind them. “Where do we go? Everything is falling apart.” He had them say panicked, Ascendants hurried passed, only one sparing a moment to gestured to them. With a waving hand it pointed to a tunnel barely seen. Thralled hurried down it as plants formed into more soldiers

They were allowed to pass without incident. The plants, turned into bark warriors, ignored the puppets and hurried to join the Ascendants.

As his puppets gained further distance more of his attention was pulled to them; and with it the more they acted like true mortals. He played an actor, giving each a distinct personality, even had them talk with one another to better hide their true nature.

Not long, nearing an hour, Ryan made contact with other Verm, a small bunch, left behind the same as his own. They jerky turned his way, eyes wide with fear, then relief when fellow Verm took in his own, unarmed puppets.

“Orders be praised.” One said, then the group as a whole flinch from the howls of Dreamers far off.

“Keep praising them,” Ryan said through a puppet, hurrying his group forward, and making some look just as scared as the mortals. “Maybe our luck will continue.”

“Luck?” A mortal said, older stock, a male at least four of age. “We’re behind the main group, how is that luck?”

Nearing the one who spoke, he used his puppet to urge the man on. Gesturing with a thumb, he said: “We could be back there in the thick of it. Now come on greyer, those things out there have gotten enough of a meal today, no need for us to be joining it.”

The mortals followed him, Verm falling into step without question, his people were always eager to follow someone showing initiative and spine.

Ryan headed towards the main source of unturned, and half glimpsed at cuts in walls telling which way to go. They were quick, running most of the time, even as the roars of battle fell further away. None wanted to be left behind again.

So they followed him blindingly, and engaged in trade talk when they could. He replicated the gesture, his puppets coming off as real people.

Not much of anything useful come of it though. He knew more of what was going on than any of the mortals, the benefit of multiple perspectives. To his amusement none knew the true state of the Underrealm. How it was a ruined maze with only those near fortresses and strongholds still holding. The mortals with him really had been lucky to have lived and worked within forges so close to the heart of Wargains control.

Those further out never had a chance to understand the situation before they were overrun by Dreamers.

But their luck had run out, they were with him now, danger right in front of them and they didn’t have a whiskers worth of notice. They talked happily, giddy even as the roars of battle decayed. They even offered praises, to which Ryan mimicked when they finally came into contact with the host he’d been feeling for some time.

Guarded by Kolune and many more Ascendants, Ryan’s puppets and mortals were swiftly ferried into a chamber filled with working heretics. The place was being stripped of everything useful, metal, grains, forging tools, it was all being hurried down tunnels. The markings on exits detailing fortresses they led to.

It took all his self-control not to speak right then, to free the heretics of their delusions. he didn’t know what traps were laid, or forces nearby ready to act. It didn’t help that none of the Verm were armed. They were being used as the work force. Those movers of empires that did the mundane and thankless tasks that kept everything running smoothy.

His puppets fanned out, merging with the crowds of rushing Verm. He offered his services to a dozen faces. Began helping in a myriad of ways, be it tying knots, organizing tools, hard labor. His puppets acted like loyal followers, happy to please and aid Verm who were tired, and very fearful.

“Embark.” Yelled out Kolune as Ascendants began to leave, heading for the battle that was getting close. “Leave everything that isn’t ready, time is up, go now.” Shouted the guards.

Verm flinched and complied, eager to be off, and keep their betters from getting forceful with their commands. Mortals began to head down multiple tunnels, and after hours of mingling with the crowd, none notice as his puppets split up. One for each tunnel as they hurried to follow the horde of heretics.

‘Rise with the masses,’ song the thought, and Ryan smiled.