Her children are weeping, screaming, wishing to die. They flinched from her touch, writhed in agony within the binds of her helper. They didn’t want to be saved, they only wanted escape, release, she couldn’t provide either.

So they screamed, pleaded, and curst her name.

Lisoe muted the sounds from her mind, gazed into the infected, seeking the source of their anguish. But there were no wounds to be found, save those brought about by their own hands. There was no poison wreaking havoc to their innards, no substance dissolving flesh or inducing infections. Everything was in order, the only stresses causing bodies to give out was that of their own making.

The sights almost tempted her into thinking a curse was at work. But those left obvious signs to see, miracle residues and a claim placed upon the follower. None of that was found within growing number of infected. This is a poison, a kind she hadn’t seen before, and one made to test her skills.

The only reason she knew a poison was at work, was because of the uninform conditions the infected were facing. The heightened angered followed with mind rending fear, it was spreading to, yet her beasts couldn’t pick up a scent, nor did they suffer any harm. But they to were becoming infected. She could feel it through her creations, though their loyalty and obedience to her is absolute. She felt their growing annoyance, their desire to lash out at the mortals. Something is in the air, and its spreading like any other taint.

Pulling more of her awareness and power from the war outside. Lisoe raised barriers around the areas taken by madness. The shielding wouldn’t let anything through, not even air, none was permitted to pass. This madness would be contained and purged, no matter the cost.

The spread of the infected, and the attacks happening in multiple holds meant it was the work of Malans brood. Specifically his cult of poisoners, she’d known they were still within the population, waiting for a chance to strike. She’d thought herself prepared, but the chaos bringer proved her wrong, yet again.

Death is taking place; followers are being lost and her resurrections of them wasn’t curing the problem. They screamed anew, then died from failing hearts.

She stopped reviving mortals, not only to prevent further torment, but she couldn’t afford to waste Devotion on such an act anymore. The Deformed outside needed her full attention, but at the same time she couldn’t ignore this internal disaster.

‘Is this a wonder Malan?’ She thought, wishing she had the means to question him. ‘Is this something you would be proud of, a realm you wish to govern?’ Again, the misguided healer revealed his true nature. Chaos is all he is, thinly disguised within an innocent frame and alluring smile.

She’d once thought them attuned, that he would make a perfect fit as a god underneath her. But her husband had been right, the war to break his reigned showed the true malignant nature hidden underneath the skin. He is a being that sowed only calamity, and used healing as yet another tool to achieve his aims. He didn’t care of the horror he brought, the madness he birthed. As long as he got his way everything was allowed.

And now, once again Lisoe is forced to undo another of his lackies machinations.

Multiple versions of herself studied the wailing children, made sure nothing was missed before she finally accepted the source. The skull, holder of the highest brain. The heart while failing didn’t have any unnatural substance within, nor did the stomach. Only the highest hadn’t been checked, apart she loathed to deal with.

‘But its fits, for all his depravity, he is a healer to, he would know the difficulties of this organ.’

And he would share this fact to his acolytes of death, she knew not the name nor face of her foe. But Lisoe did know there to be a guiding hand among the poisoners. One that had caused her children endless grief over the ages. And showed even as the realm seemed to be coming to an end, that they wouldn’t stop their torment.

‘I will find you, bring of miasmas.’ She thought to herself. ‘One of these days you will make a mistake.’ Till then she would do what was possible, heal and tend to those under her care.

Focusing she studied the brains of the infected, looking for any anomalies. She found none, her foe was using something that didn’t cause any form of harm. And without it, Lisoe task became all the more difficult. She was left helpless, forced to watch her children die after writhing in a nightmare.

It was her one clue.

Since the illusions were not caused by a curse, then there was only one other source. She gazed at the centers designed to cause fear, saw them overly active, same with those that allowed for mental picturing.

Peering into mortals outside the infected zones, looking at their brains to compare. She began trying to single out a substance causing the overactivity.

It took hours, but she found it.

It was such a small amount, and affecting more than she first thought. It increased their intolerance of noise, abrupt changes, and an inability of higher thinking. This substance made it so that her children couldn’t see reason, or calm themselves, they had been lowered to the level of beasts.

Substance in sight, she broadened her awareness, searching for a match in the air. She clenched her jaw when she found the air saturated in it, and that the substance liked to cling to fabric.

‘Curse you Malan,’ she thought and began her work. Spending the needed Devotion, she targeted the agent and began purged it from the realm, in areas cleansed she returned her attention to the children.

Carefully she removed it from the dead and dying. But there wasn’t an instant reprieve, the centers of the minds, though freed, still caused hallucinations. Further interference was required from her as she forced areas of the brain to return to a normal state. Finally screams stopped and children came back to themselves.

They looked around confused and tired, as the drug had prevented them from forming memories properly. To them all that had transpired was a hazy recollection similar to a fading dream.

Slowly Cycure relaxed the grip of her vines, allowing the children to be freed from their bonds. Yet moments later Lisoe guardian of nature flinched.

Without prompting Lisoe received visions from the Underrealm.

“Join us.” Came the voice from a growing tide of followers as they swarmed over Cycures warrior stock. Accompanying with them were the Deformed. She knew then the mob of Verm and Kolune to be heretics taken by one of Malans ascended champions.

A new plague, one of belief, spread from multiple places within locations loyalists had gathered and been ferrying goods upward.

All of this occurred behind layers of defenses meant to keep the Deformed and heretics out. Because of this no traps were ready to stop the tide. There was only runed doors, and quickly growing plants to counter the surge of madness.

But the voice was ever reaching. The horde carried it and rushed as fast as they could. The voice spread like poison through a vein. The heretics had access to main tunnel ways, were catching followers off guard. The Verm most all, they turned so quickly, allured to the voice. There was power behind it, but none of it held any sway over her beasts she sent to aid Cycure.

‘I’ll handle the situation up here.’ She sent to her guardian. ‘Focus your efforts downward, help Titar regain control of his realm.’

She received a mental commune of understanding, before Cycure awareness focused on the mess below them. There was still miasma to remove and followers to revive. But her power and attention were being pulled taut. The surge below had the Deformed above more active.

Flesh Goliaths grew, the titans becoming more common, her husband answered the new threat with more avatars. Trying desperately to keep the realm of Deformed from taking more land. She needed her full awareness back outside, with him, not here where their following was supposed to be safe and protected by loyal subjects.

‘Curse you Malan,’ she thought hurrying her work. ‘And all the supposed wonders you bring.’

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

‘Times almost up on my end.’ Foy sent to Malan, followed with a sending of visions.

Lisoe was on a rampage purging the realm. It was a rare occurrence to see the god of life openly angry. But Foy had a knack at upsetting enemies with her creative works. And this rage air was certainly one of those. There weren’t many ways to slow Lisoe down when it came to restoring mortals, and ending plagues. But Foy had kept Lisoe distracted for almost a day. Quite the feat, and Lisoe showed how she felt about that fact with unstrained use of Devotion.

‘She’s not so smug anymore now, huh?” Foy sent in her sickeningly sweet child voice. Even with her poison found and actively removed, the success had the Heon ecstatic. ‘I almost want to use my last little spies to cause more mischief, but I won’t.’ She laughed through the link. ‘I can’t get enough of her face, look how mad she is.’

‘She’s furious,’ Malan corrected, also amused. Lisoe had been annoying smug over the centuries, it was warranted of course. But no one liked smug people, let alone one that was their enemy.

But seeing someone’s righteous belief in their skill be put to the test and found lacking, was, enduing. Slightly made up for all the times she’d lectured him, and worse, tried getting him to bend his knee and become one of her pet godlings.

‘Ugh,’ came the sound of a grunt. ‘If only I could prolong this,’ Foy complained. ‘But I got nothing left worth the risk.’

‘Aid Ryan,’ he suggested. ‘We all are,’ the Verm god was reaching out, he taken a gamble and it paid off. Tens of thousands were being converted, Ryan out playing Wargain by the deception of weakness. Now morals, no matter their breed, were falling to his voice. They turned against the Orders and spreading outward, taking others and destroying as many supplies as possible.

‘Oh my,’ Joy said with a laugh. ‘Where did this spine come from?’

‘Desperation births bravery.’ Malan answered, he knew it to be true from firsthand experience. And now so did Ryan, who had decided against the slow decline of his power, instead spending it all at the chance of gaining more.

‘He can have as much of my Devotion as he wants.’ Joy replied cheerfully. ‘This is going to be fun.’

Malan smiled. ‘To us, poor Ryan though isn’t having that great of a time.’ While he was spreading and claiming mortals in the thousands, he wasn’t ready for it. Ryan couldn’t keep up with the demands of his attention. These Thralled were a huge tax on his mental process, requiring portions of himself so their worked.

It wasn’t a major problem yet, but Ryan kept preaching, and he’d already warned what that participle outcome brought. All those converted who kept listening were slowly losing themselves to the voice. They would be new Thralls soon enough.

Foy chuckled unconcerned. ‘Its good practice,’ she added. ‘Not like this weakness of his is going to disappear, so best he gets accustomed to it.’

‘Agreed,’ Malan sent, but he also gave Ryan pointers where he could. Trying to teach the Verm to focus on broad commands even if it led to Thralled getting themselves killed in foolish ways. Ryan could take the losses now, and the more his horde grew the worse the strain would get.

Ryan sent nothing back to him, no mental words anyway, only a weak and tired sense of thanks. Malan returned the gratitude with more Devotion, emptying his small stores so Ryan could continue his escapade throughout the Underrealm

Bronduff was doing the same, as well as sending souls to help fight. But he and Malan were having limited success. The sigils remained a constant hindrance, and while Ryan had followers destroying them as much as possible. The Shadows and Huntsmen had to remain in the back, proving arcane and miracle aid where they could.

Through his Shadows Malan healed Converted and Thralled.

Causing a sight of dead following the tide of living as they ruined the halls. Dreamers were mingled in, their laughter echoing loudly everywhere. Most of it obscured the screams and roars of hate from Ascendants as mortals once loyal turned on their bronze lord.

A lord that had yet to act, and might not. But the destruction taking place didn’t go unanswered. Cycure, natures wrath, arrived and was doing her best to slow the tide. Vines and roots grew thick blocking paths, tangling mortals, beasts, and crushing them.

But Malan skillfully countered her, without Lisoe around to provide support and protection. He began withering life, or causing harmful mutations.

Cycure felt his touch; leaves ruffed with displeasure, and roaring bark warriors turned to glare at Shadows he worked through.

“Forever a ruin bringer,” Cycure spoke though her creations. “Forever a coward that hides behinds others. Your father would be ashamed of what you’ve become.” Cycure laughed coldly. “That is, if I hadn’t had my way with him.”

Malan ignored the slight. “You will be with your husband soon,” he said instead. “You can talk about how you allowed yourself to be tamed, I’m sure he will be quite amused.”

He received a volley of hisses from her plant beasts. Some even tried to reach Shadows, they of course were shattered by Dreamers long before they got close.

A humbling sight in many ways, Cycure creations weren’t weak things. If not handled carefully they could easily slaughter many before being destroyed, yet to the ever-growing Dreamers, they were only foliage to be stepped on.

It said much about the two of them. Malan and Cycure, they’d once been the forces on top. Rulers of large swaths of land now dead.

How they had fallen, but he would survive and rise again, but Cycure? She would finally be buried and forgotten. The last of a pantheon that had ruined his father dream.

How different the continent could have been, a place of wonderous understanding, the realm their tool to shape into whatever they saw fit. He was sure the Dreamers would have been contained, the Warper of flesh bested or at the very least held back. Not this embarrassment of an end.

But that is the price of ignorance, an inability to adapt to changing times.

‘You all deserve this,’ he thought. Guiding his Shadows deeper into the crumbling domain of Wargain subterrain realm. ‘We could have been so much more, something venerated. Not this meek empire that fell apart the moment Sun left.’

The visions the Warper had shown him, in a past session where it was allowed to manifest, were still fresh. He committed the sights to memory. It would serve as mark of accomplishment, a goal to aim for when his time came again.

His rule wouldn’t be a half-forgotten note in the tomes of history. Not the second time, it would be remembered, revered, even if he had to carve the entire realm up with depictions of the time before. He would have sights everywhere so the mortals in the future would know the greatness that had been, and would come again.

But not now, not in the way he truly wanted. The shrine archives would serve their purposes, but he wanted archives the size of cities to remain, to lure in mortals, and have them gasp in disbelief. To speculate what beings had made such wonders.

That wouldn’t happen this time through, they were a little over a week into the Dreamers arise and Malan could see the end.

He had thought the end was to come from attrition, The Orders grinding down by an endless onslaught. And while some of that was true, it was not completely. The Warper wasn’t just grinding them down, it was overpowering Wargain outright, even with Lisoe helping him. The duo that had subjugated a continent were being beaten badly.

And that’s with the Warper holding back, not that any of the Orders were aware.

Malan hadn’t been either, not to the extent it had been. But Shadows that had been wandering about on their own, surveying the death of a realm, were showing him visions.

Far out, away from any remaining life, his shadow stumbled across cracked mounds. The push of rock from below had disturbed the endless sea of snow and ice. It caused an eye sore that lured in the dead. And what they showed him…

Malan mind went still. the Warper was amassing a force of Giants. Had been for days, and kept them growing underground out of sight, and far off to the north near the shores of the inner sea.

They weren’t moving, not yet, but soon they would be. The Warper was clear on its intentions, all mortals were to be dead before the Zones began to appear. And in doing so win in its own way.

With how things were going, there was a strong chance of that happening.

‘I thought you strong Wargain, a force that couldn’t easily be contested.’

He had been wrong, and Madness had been right. All was going to be a slaughter, and he, with his pantheon of Wonder were only speeding up the process.

‘How long will they last?’ He wondered and watched Ryan army of converted spread. Their march ushering in the finally moments of the Underrealm.

Malan had originally thought most of Wargains holdings would last to the next phase. Where the bronze lord would find himself trapped and forced to spend his wanning power to escape and reach a Zone. But now that seemed idyllic, Malan could see the forces being readied, the Warper preparing to devour all.

Wargain was already pressed, the Orders struggling to keep the Dreamers away.

‘You were supposed to be stronger than this Wargain,’ He inwardly hissed. All of them were, but the truth was, compared to other sessions, the gods of now were insects to those before.

Maybe the sessions of the past had been more stable, with less competing gods, and more cooperative. Allowing for growth and prosperous kingdoms. Plus the fact they had a longer wait before the end.

Still Malan couldn’t shake the sense they were failures, jokes to the swept aside so better stock could grow.

‘We will do better next time.’ Would learn from all their mistakes, and plan accordingly.

But for now he focused on the present, if Wargain succumbed to early, his religion wiped out, then it would be Malan’s turn. And if that happened his flock would be killed off in a day.

Mentally Malan sighed, he’d overestimation Wargain, and underestimated the Warper. Hindsight showed him he shouldn’t have acted at all, his pantheon should have been gathering its strength, amassing its own forces to survive when the Orders crumpled. Not wasting it to speed up the process.

‘I thought him strong.’ Malan repeated to himself. ‘A force to be reckoned with, not a push over.’ And while he’d made a mistake, shown the folly of his choices.

His main goal was going to be achieved, more than he’d ever dreamed of. Wargain was finished, once the army of Giants attacked his empire would fold.

The truth of it made Malan happy of course, Wargain being crushed and humiliated would always put a smile on his face. But he’d also wanted his religion of Wonder to survive long enough to see the sub realm Bastion. To witness the trials that awaited the mortals.

They couldn’t do that if everyone got killed, in fact the next phase wouldn’t even start. Madness had informed him of that truth, given it had seen that happen twice.

It would soon be a third if nothing changed.

An assumption on his part, but one he had to plan around. Malan had no idea of the state of the other pantheons spread across the realm.

He had to go on the fact that if Wargain was going to fail, so was everyone else.

Which meant he had to devise a plan.

Moving portions of his awareness back to his Afterlife, ‘Wonders Meadow’. Malan manifested his form within the confines of room, one made into a meditation chamber. The room was round, covered in carved art and colored glass, the floored was stained marble matching the glass. It was also filled with lounging furniture, but a thought from him had most disappear from existence.

He needed the space to think, since unlike many of his kind who sat in quiet contemplation. Malan had to stay moving, so he walked in a circle, following the patterned lines on the floor. The motion soothed him as he focused, while large sections of his awareness stayed with Ryan. The battle raged on; The Orders caught off guard by the swiftness of conversion.

The last of the Underrealm was being lost, Cycure, with avatars of Titar tried to stop the tide. But it was too late, the Dreamers pushed through, all the defenses made to slow them down were never given a chance to be used. Ryan had his growing horde disrupting works, getting in the way of ascended so they didn’t have time to properly prepare for the Dreamers onslaught.

Forces began to retreat, or rout. There was no salvaging the defeat, Ryan had grown to large in number behind defense lines, it didn’t help that portions of Malan began hammering at runic weak points, undoing sigils meant to keep the dead out. The moment large enough gaps appeared, Shadows and Huntsmen materialized and contended with the plants of Cycure.

He expected Lisoe to appear, to maybe slow the cascading losses. But she remained away, stuck dealing with Foy poison and the Dreamers on the surface.

The sights made him frown, and walk faster. The Warper hadn’t even made its real push yet, but the Orders were already coming undone.

Time was no longer his ally, it was the Warpers, and Malan found himself grinding his teeth in aggravation at the change.

Sighing, and lightly pulling on his ears, Malan centered himself. A plan, they needed a new plan.

The first step should be to curtail their attacks on the Orders, and leave the Dreamers to finish their work. But the Warper would notice this change, understand instantly they were trying to strength themselves before the deal was done.

Malan couldn’t give away such a hint, which meant they had to continue their attacks.

He walked faster, going around and around in a spiral as his mind churned with thoughts and visions.

Ryan was spending everything sent to him, an ever-hungry maw calling out for more. His voice echoed in the depths, pulling on the minds of mortals who heard it. Verm converted instantly, Kolune almost as quick with the amount being spent. Ryan had showed his hand, letting all see what he could do if pushed.

In times of mortal armies, where ascended threats weren’t the normal. Ryan would have been a monster to contented with, almost untouchable, since armies would have bowed to him from a simple utterance.

But now wasn’t the time of mortals, beasts ruled the realm and Ryan for all the destruction he was bringing, would soon find himself the one destroyed.

The moment the Orders were gone, the Dreamers would turn on them, and all those converted would be slaughtered with ease. After that they would tunnel their way into the roots of Wonder, find and slaughter all his followers.

The living couldn’t hide, the Warper knew where all huddled, praying for salvation.

“But what about the dead?” He thought a loud, his stride slowing and plan forming.

“And what is dead can live again.” He is a life weaver, a resurrector of those lost. As long as he had something to work with, flesh to mend, the whole of it could be made anew.

He smiled, even as his nature pressed on him, demand he save the lives of his following, not let them die. “It’s only temporary.” Maybe, he had some answers to seek first, but if it went well. Maybe, just maybe, that could last to the next phase.

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

The axe went down, the axe went up. Ichor of black, trying to make his weapon stick in place, sprayed out in rivers. But the wound mended, his attack undone in the span of a breath. The Goliath of flesh mocked him with its shrieking laughter, it answered his attack with its own.

A black light shot forth from its eye, the power radiating from it demanding that he end.

A mistake, they were to close, he ducked and bashed the beast with his shield, upcutting its chin so the beam went skyward.

The monster didn’t care, but at least the beam went out. He brought his axe down again, trying to carve away flesh, or a limb.

The blade sunk deep into the rock hide, lodged into bone, but won’t go through. Worse it got stuck and he was forced to abandon his weapon. The monster tried to counter, but he pulled away, not too far though, the beasts around him, engaged in hundreds of personal dues. Never wasted a chance to bring forth their abyss beams. He had to stay close, he had to keep them from gaining the initiative. Multiple times they tried to aim their sights on the fortress of stone.

Titar was reinforcing them, draining himself by Wargains command. If fortresses began to be lost then it would herald their demise. The tides of Devotion flowing to him were already thin pools compared to the past, droplets of power that couldn’t maintain his flame.

He was losing, truly losing, not a planned retreat. But a permanent loss, he wasn’t going to recover from this if nothing changed. He, for the first in his existence, was slowly being tired out. Left weak and gasping on the floor as the victor came to finish him off.

The warrior snared at the thought, formed another axe and charged the monster. In him his oldest self screamed, howling battle cries, fighting abominations meant to end those maintaining him. With sundering strength he cleaved into the Goliath. The blade sunk into an arm it used to defend itself.

A mistake on his part, a blindness from the rage consuming him. The beast, unconcerned of the wound his axe had dealt, used its arm to yack the weapon away. Wargain formed another, even as the beast hammered blows at him, it was getting stronger.

They all were, its strikes made the whole of his avatar shudder from the impact. The shield of bronze dented in, unable to weather the blows as it had days before. He would have to empower it with more Devotion, same with his avatar. More and more he had to spend himself to stay in the fight. His reserves dropping ever further.

There was no saving strength, he burnt through everything his following sent to him and more. He could keep this up for some time still, a few weeks, but after that he wouldn’t have a choice. Wargain would have to suffer lose, fortresses would have to be sacrificed, his holding consolidated even more.

Already he sent his commands, got his Ascendants to begin moving populations out of the outer strongholds.

The warrior raged, fury taking it, he was losing, giving ground.

He was losing. The conqueror, the tamer of chaos, the vanquisher of all its ills.

Goliaths laughed at him, their wounds ever mending, even his hottest flames wouldn’t put them down, fire had little effect now, his very nature something they ignored without thinking. His flames could still consume the smaller ones, the Deformed, but that made no difference, their numbers were ending.

He instead stomped the ground, using physical force to kill and slow their progress.

The realm around his bulwarks of stone was a ruin, the ground turned into jagged peaks as stone buckle under their weights. It melted to, the plane molten, most of all near his avatars. It helped slow the monsters, molten rock had an affect on them. But he couldn’t waste the power to keep everything burning so hot. The Goliaths requested his attention, and liquid stone didn’t affect them. They healed to quickly, and their hides were too thick for the heat to bother them.

It didn’t help their abyssal beams altered reality. Turned his pools of lava into black crystals, and lands where they touched. The portions that remained anyways.

For all his authority over the realm, he was lowered to using only physical blows to keep his opponents in check. Descended back down to what he was in the beginning.

The beast slayer tribesman’s spoke of and envisioned. A man that put down the horrors lurking in the realm. A figure that brought a halt to the chaos and madness strangling the lands.

It had looped around, but the pattern was breaking, the monsters weren’t ending.

The laughed, they laughed, Celestials why wouldn’t they scream? Why wouldn’t they die?

The warrior took him, his awareness dimming as it filled with rage. He roared, the realm shaking and charged. He fought savagely, not even bothering to block attacks, there was only onslaught, the cutting of his foe, the vanquishing. It bled, so it could die, he just had to kept hacking at it. It would die, it had to die, he couldn’t loss, not with what was a stake.

So he hatched at his foes, summon axe after axe. It helped slow their healing at first, the metal stuck in their hides, but soon they were ejected from the wounds, and allowed to close. He unsummoned those, consuming the Devotion within to press his advance.

His form blazed with fury filled flames, his white light making the realm hiss with displeasure. Yet they laughed mockingly at him, the monsters weren’t afraid of the beast slayer.

He howled louder, struck harder, spent more of his Devotion so attacks bit deeper into flesh, cracked and shattered bone.

But they laughed, and hit him harder in turn. One of his avatars went stumbling back from a direct punch to the snout. His face crumpled inward, metal bending from the hit. Lava pooled out of his broken figure as the Goliath in that duel pressed its advantage.

The harmed avatar repulsed most of the attacks with a shield, and Wargain sent Devotion to undo the harm. But other versions of himself began to be pressed, the monsters were getting faster, their movements blurring passed his attempts to defend.

He had to follow in their steps, Devotion drained and the stalemate returned as both forces mauled each other.

Not even with his wife aiding him. Keeping the worse of the Deformed armies back, and Goliaths from fully healing; could Wargain take the lead.

The warrior raged, and curst and threatened. He promised death as he had done to so many of its accursed kind.

The Goliaths laughed, and, and..

They began to step away from him, he followed he couldn’t have them gain to much distance. But his movements began to falter, there was a sound in the air, and a vibration in the stone.

A shivering, the realm was shivering, no trembling, something was headed towards his lands.

From above through a portal he opened to view the plane. Wargain felt the warrior go still, felt a cold chill sink into his awareness.

Running across the landscape, sundering the realm as they went. He stared down at an army of Goliaths, all larger than the ones he was currently fighting.

He felt his flame flicker, his heat dim as the forces came into view of his avatars.

The laughter was deafening as they came, and Wargain spent everything he dared forming an army of his own. Avatars filled the landscape, the power in them thin, but what else could he do?

Monsters had come to slay the slayer, to stamp out his flame of Order.

There would be only chaos, he realized as his may selves formed into battles lines. For how long could he last against this? How long could the warrior rage into the night before it claimed him?

“With me!” He screamed to his pantheon. “Heralds of Order, to me.” They appeared, their collective Devotion withering away.

Titans of life and plants formed around him, same as rock covered in sigils. His many sons arrived to, coming through portals from their afterlife.

Wargain had his avatars burn bright, bringing courage and chasing away the dark. “For Order.” He screamed, knowing full well this was the end. “For stability,” the realm shook with his words.

“For a realm free of this madness.” He shouted.

One way or another this would end, and in his heart, as more came, the laughter ever growing. He knew which it would be.