“That was... Not very helpful.” Vidarr scowled. He felt equally as terrible as his peers, though he was a bit more accustomed to it. It hadn't been so long ago that he'd been privy to the sensations normally experienced by lesser men. Slumping down and groaning all the same, greeting the discomfort like an old friend, something he missed – to be honest. “Who was that guy? A god?”

“He's an arbiter.” Signe replied with an angry wave of her hand. “A bunch of rat bastards if you ask me, all they do is run around and accuse people of things, rarely of any help.” Six was gone, along with the armored men that had accompanied him. Apparently, they were alerted to a break in the 'order', in this case – the time dilation in the space being beyond what it should be. And then, upon a brief explanation, he'd simply left. Declaring their world 'doomed' and that neither he nor his colleagues were able to help. This was the fault of thinking beings native to their own world, and therefore a lawful action by cosmic statute.

Evidently, the fogmen weren't much different than elementals, and they served some faceless god that slumbered nearby. 'Nearby' was sort of a weird way to position it, truthfully, there was no measurable space or distance in the astral. Beyond the edges, it was the opposite of any plane of measurement. There were celestials here, essentially just floating around, and the presence of living things in the astral caused them discomfort. Darkbeasts, at least according to Six, shouldn't be here at all – there were like cosmic flotsam washing up on the beach. Or rather, they'd come after Orpheus like moths to a flame, presumably to commit violence on her...? Tyr still didn't understand what was going on, from his perspective, bad guys appeared and the one subject he'd ever succeeded at was hitting them until they died.

It wasn't that complicated, but they wouldn't get any help.

This was something they would have to fix by themselves, accepting aid from the equivalent of inter-dimensional space mercenaries was already pushing it. Their 'great responsibility' of defending their world was their own. One of the other Tyr's expanded on the situation. “In this case, they sensed the presence of your higher nephilim and ensured that no exchange of inappropriate knowledge or restricted materials was made. Don't want primitive, linearly developed worlds sending nukes or other weapons into the wrong astral space, I guess. Or developing the means by which to invade worlds that have yet to be quarantined, I guess. Inter-dimensional law is pretty clear on this fact, fortunately I doubt you'll experience this sort of phenomena again any time soon. Whether your world survives or not.”

“Nukes?” Abe asked, eager to hear more – but that was part of some other esoteric 'rule' of theirs. Individuals without very particular permits were not authorized to uplift quarantined worlds. They were quarantined for a reason... A reason that Signe would not elaborate on despite multiple attempts to prod the information out of her.

“And that.” Signe pointed toward the rift. “Is ultimately why they came, and also why they've left. Like the mechanism of a machine turning, the astral has shifted and now yours is bound to another plane. A stabilizing factor that makes it difficult if not impossible for otherland creatures to manifest on this plane, like a bridge of sorts.”

“A gate to another world.” It wasn't a question, merely an observation and point of fact from Octavian – staring through the hole in space in great interest. Ragnar had been theorizing about this kind of thing, and some had considered the old primus mad, but apparently not. There really was a greater, interconnected web of worlds present throughout the cosmos after all. They could all feel the wave of arid heat blasting forth from the tear in space as thermal mechanics did their thing. Or whatever 'scientific' law predicated the exchange of hot and cold in a space like this. Melting the snow and acting like the worlds best hair drying device. Those who hadn't fallen, merely injured, were tending to themselves while the bodies of the few Tyr's that had perished were collected and dragged away by the others. In most cases, incinerated beyond recognition, no hesitation in it or honors one might consider a warrior due upon death, simply erased.

“Do we go inside?” Vidarr asked.

“Absolutely not.” Signe raised a hand in warning, allowing threads of white radiance to burst from her hand and surround the gate. “Enter that thing, 'primus' or not, and you'll be killed. Cease to exist, maybe, nobody really knows. Arbiter's would've seen to the other side as well. Thankfully, that is another quarantined world or else you might've all been annihilated.”

“Is he really that strong?” Tyr frowned. Six was amicable enough, and seemed to consider them as friends of some sort, but he didn't seem all that powerful. In fact, Tyr didn't feel anything from him at all, like he was only a shell and there was nothing inside.

“Six in particular could be called a god on worlds that use that kind of language. A class-25 or higher existence, an actual celestial rather than a spirit. Your worlds operate differently, but every five classes is generally an apotheosis point. It varies from being to being. He has no aspect though, no arbiter does so I'm not totally sure. No defining trait that the celestials you worship have, a mien or domain, different ways to say it. Regardless, he could handle us all before we even knew what was going on – and this space along with us, he is a being capable of shattering reality.” Signe shrugged. “I'm not an expert on these things. But as I said, most of the divine presences on your world would be a mouse in front of an arbiter, their kind routinely hunts and kills gods.”

Jartor was on the ground, coughing wads of bloody phlegm into a gauntleted hand with an almost amused expression. As unused to the discomfort, it was like an old friend he hadn't seen in decades but still had fond memories of. Well, that's literally how he saw it, to feel human again. Their powers were waning after the first use of them and he could feel his bones ache. To someone who hadn't felt pain in decades, it was almost soothing, a reminder that he was real – perhaps testament to how detached he'd become from mortal concerns. “What is your recommendation moving forward?”

“That is a reasonable question.” Signe has a grim look about her. “The good news is that the hostile entities on the other side are going to come from a pretty small aperture, and they'll have no interest in the tower anymore. As long as their gate exists, this place can no longer move. These bridges are what hold them in place, they build to a specific energy mass and then recede again, and the world slips on to a new place. The bad news is... Well... Everything else. Things forcibly spawned from mana phenomena are dumb, barely a mind of their own. But beings from a terrestrial world regardless of their nature – whether that be biological, or something else – are going to know how to think and to plan. And believe me when I say that your primus' even at the peak of their power are not as unique as you'd like to think, it's a big universe out there.”

Jartor stared at her, still a bit in shock at the revelation that she'd been alive all of these years – and that she and their son were... Whatever they were, the same person? He was content just to know that she was alive, ultimately, though he'd had some suspicions for some time. Signe was not human, not in the traditional sense and not in the 'nephilim' sense, but Jartor had little interest in interrogating her on this fact.

Abe was tending to his bruised arms with a spell, handing the primus a potion of healing and smile to go along with it. That was another suspicious one, Octavian had said something about him, how the telurian didn't feel 'right'. That could just be the trademark intolerance Varian's were known for, but Jartor, upon closer inspection, felt like his oldest friend might be onto something. The telurian Abrath was not who he seemed, but that didn't mean he was evil, people had their secrets and this wasn't the time to do inappropriate things.

Jartor stared at the potion like a child with a mysterious new toy before gulping it down. Perspective was a thing he'd been lacking for a great many years. Of so many things, and it wasn't the pains that bothered him most, it was the fact that he did not know what was happening, something completely out of his control. Signe had always been the sharper of the two, but he was over two centuries old. He wasn't ignorant, or at least he hadn't thought he was. Better educated in comparison to near every other man on the planet save his kindred. Wishing for the first time that he'd listened to his fathers best friend, Ragnar, when he rattled on about those theories of his.

Theories that appeared dangerously close to a forbidden truth. Jartor snorted in grim amusement at the idea that the next black book might be penned at the hands of his elder and mentor. The collection of works that began as scientific exploration, eliciting the notice of the watchers, those who marked the knowledge as forbidden. He'd never known why.

“Could we not leave this place and bring my legions to Aurora? That tunnel is an impressive point of defense, no force could penetrate that with any haste.” Jartor asked, addressing Abe in particular.

“This place is connected to your world, she said. Not Aurora alone. Your anchors ensure the entrances and exits are not randomized, but given enough time they could appear at any other rift. More than one if they are a society capable of utilizing dimensional magic.” Abe shook his head. “That's how dungeons are created, albeit in a more natural and slow rolling process. Once an intelligent species gets a hold on the conduit... I'm afraid all my knowledge doesn't have the answer.”

“How much time do we have to prepare?” Vidarr asked, he didn't much care for the scientific minutia behind these things. He'd learned and read and studied for over three decades in total, doing very little else as part of his duty. All he wanted to do now was eke out a few good years of adventure and battle before so many things in the world became inferior to him. Before he grew cold and dispassionate like the others, a living machine that would sit and stare at a wall for days at a time like his father did. Always working on his 'great solution'.

“None.” Forty-two pointed toward the rippling edges of the gate. It expanded until it occupied a circumference of twenty meters with a third of it hidden beneath the ground. “They are already here.”

Tyr positioned himself just ahead of the others, but behind the primus' who'd dared to approach the gate so closely. The other versions of himself fanned out in a crescent formation at their rear, facing the portal with weapons drawn. All those who yet remained were adventurers, veteran enough to know better than to gape about in wonder. Matching the assembled Tyr's in behavior and dropping down behind what cover was available. Most of them pulling what ranged artifacts they held in their rings, steadying themselves for yet another conflict.

What came from the portal took all of their breaths away. Something so far outside of their expectations that it beggared belief. Thinking theirs was a mad world, only to find one far madder across the cosmos, introduced by this gate. Emerging first at the chest, with a twisted and blackened breastplate of beaten steel, a single eye embossed on it's surface, came a...

“...A human?” He, or it – whatever the case may be, was tall and well built – but most assuredly human based on first impressions. Everything but the head of the man was encased in a heavy suit of crudely wrought armor. Not a human, after all, its long black hair trailed behind a ethereal and androgynous face, tucked neatly behind the tapered ears that would separate its own race from Hjemland's majority. It's skin was inhumanly pale as well, with sharp features and bright eyes that shone like polished gold. He wore a long cloak glistening with starlight, a mace significantly finer in make than his war gear looped to his waist, and an arrow shaped buckler strapped to his right hand.

Nothing about the mana signature of his obviously enchanted gear was familiar, this was something, or someone, who came from a place where the laws were different. Where the finer aspects of reality would be alien to them, though familiar enough.

He, Tyr would guess it was a male of that species, stared at them all impassively before bowing. A graceful, albeit overly dramatic display, clearly intended to mock them. “Greetings, inferior lifeforms. My name is Al'Tukahd, an emissary sent by the enlightened Hyrcine Confederacy to greet you. It is your lucky day! We, in all our glory, have come to cleanse and liberate your ignorant--”

A sick, wet crunching met their ears, the 'man' flattened into the thawing ground by a swing of Jartor's maul. A blur, and it was over, happening so fast that whoever this race may be, they seemed incapable of processing information so quickly. Bloody chunks of what remained sprayed in all directions, blanketing the ground in a red stain alongside the twisted remnants of black metallic scrap.

“...Disappointing.” Jartor frowned down at the mulched body at his feet with a face that matched his word of choice, but this was only the beginning. Perhaps their greatest champions could make him feel alive for but a moment longer.