An Overdue Return [Fel vs Ten's Citadel]

[Heimdalic_Dreams]

Word would come.


Word etched on burning whispers, held together by whisps of smoking ash - A desolation declaration, a decree from the Titanlands of Mor D'hora. 


Words directed towards a certain yellow-iced Nethrademon, whom had come to him oh so recently. Enough time had passed for his thoughts to mull over.


And now - Polyphemus voice rang as a certain flame-headed Scribe etched down his words. Yet surely the realm would hear him. 


Such was the Titan of Babels' way. 

"Vana'Rath," came the rumble from shattered woods, in a voice which pitched the ground around. "My answer comes to you."

"Indeed, mortals - Humanity, these lowly ephemerals you spurn, represent the very essence of your being, the things which collected you, and made you whole - Even as it sunders them. Yet, their existence is a double-edged blade. A paradox of pure hatred and self-awareness. While they sully their existences under their false gods and staged virtues, knowing them only insofar as to echo them off each other, they yet harbor the powers and pain to challenge even the Heavens."

"To challenge even themselves."

He gazed upwards, the emerald manaburn of his eye revolving upwards, before vanishing into the void, gesturing towards the dancing stellar lines of the all-encompassing universe. His tone held a philosophical tinge, confident and deeply rooted in wisdom well learned, and even more well ledged within the very foundation of the budding primordials mind.

"Unlike you, who skim the scum of their dark desires for sustenance, I admire them - I foster them in the name of ego. They are feeble, yes, but they create, they fight - birth, life, and death - all in the name of self-indulgence and self-realization. Their cultural progress and scientific discoveries bypass their gods' inherent duality, towards a time of self-righteous certainty."

"This, I look forward to most astutely."

"Mortals, in their essence, are grey in their dark and light. Their many flaws, while they may feed your twisted inheritance, have a potential to forge the brightest of lights, if only they learned to remove themselves from the weight of their gods' selfish endeavors - Their pathetic war, foremost in mind. It is the existence of their flaws which allows them to search, seek, and strive towards redemption, improvement, self-exaltation. To my mind, they’re a fragmented microcosm of the divine order, whose flawed nature fosters their humanistic growth, which in turn influences understanding the greater world beyond that which even their deities could reach, trapped within themselves as they are."

A pause, a beat, a flip of the page, as his daughter continues to write. He kindly waits for her to catch up, bless her, before continuing. 

"Do not despise them in their entirety Vana'Rath, for they are the seed of finality, the potential embodiment of infinity that we can influence. You may revel in their hate, but I will take their alms, or die in their light."

His hand would rise once more, cupping Howtia into his fingers even as she continued. He saw them - humanity and those whom propitiate them - as deluded puppets in their metaphorical circus, dancing to the tunes of their mindless and imprudent gods, constantly seeking validation for their lives and every savage act.

"Though. What you have said also holds merit; their beliefs have twisted their moralities - Shifted their individuality. And sundered the very cores of their beings."

"Without these things, they Will. Not. Grow."

"They have entrenched themselves in religious wars on and off for decades now, with lost generations, torn families, and nightmares of a world where peace can never exist. And even now, they still have more allies and friends to call upon, in order to smother you in completion. They still root out more people to stomp upon you, despite holding more than enough to defend against."

"The gleam in their eyes as they murder their kin for the supposed 'greater good,' as they saw it, sickens me - This, in the same vein, is unsurprising. Such is the lengths they have been taught to go to. The gods which they proclaimed their love for seem just as blind as I once was - incapable of seeing the destitution their 'blessed' beings have wrought upon themselves at a mere word from their unrighteous lips."

"The battles are their honeypot of battlelust, the sickly, sticky mess that ensnares them, turning their kin against each other. A golden chance for those not bound by their feckless persuasion..."

"A silver lining in the darkened, heavy clouds they have made for themselves."

"As such."

"I Will Assist You, In This. Sending a few of my Hoplites - As well as Myself... If only for my own desires."

The Titan of Babel Lends His Support to a creature whose father , Moros, the constant of Hel, he will soon devour. 

For a price - To be paid in muscle and will, for the budding Primordials ever reaching ambition!