The Colors that Never Come

[GSM]

Thirteen stories now inhabited Storyteller.

Thirteen stories have been stolen away with the coming of Na'Ria's age of Imperfection.

To be bared against the ebon edge of a Kaorblade like its make was to stare at the End of one's story.

The parchment is scrawled with so many stories, now.
But why stop now?

It thirsted for more.
I cannot ever stop.

The Fist of the Cosmos's stellar energies, in the days before he was exposed to the unspeakable name.

The Kargan Shaman's burning lightning, tinged with the black seed of destruction.

The Father of Humanity's Pylaen faith, represented through putrid lightning.

The soul of the Betrayer Demon, tinged with darkness, the words accompanied by the ghost of a visage within the blade.
The only I have ever killed. Do not worry, you will be used well.

The First King of Dawnstone's putrid light, burning with a legacy of hatred.

The Ualdir-Faithful's own putrid light, taken before their proper rise.

The Challenger's metallic thrums, bathed in a legacy that would end at a whim.

The Fae of No Name, audaciously surging ahead, knowing not of its nature.
Aetius chimes within mine mind, still. How I wish to go higher.

The Enclave's Ward, a presence of many that converged into fluid time, humbled with an overwhelming force.

The Daughter of Gluttony's unmana, an invisible script dancing across the parchment.

The Firebrand's very flames of adversity, burning and singing the pages.

The Protector of Man's holy starfire, glittering with a silent, nascent madness.

The Baron of the Blood Rose's lively ichor, ivory and crimson forever staining the page.

Thirteen who have felt Storyteller's kiss.

With each burn and thrum of stolen mana and stolen stories, Na'Ria would start to grow stronger.

For knowledge was power, and power was knowledge.

One and the same.

Except, now, it had the power to take that power and make it its own.

I must know everything.

The Demon King must ascend.

To mirror and overcome Lyseroth's ascension, it needed everything it could grasp onto.

The wings could only carry it so far.

But why stop at the power of a Primordial?

Instead, I will aim even higher, beyond the scope of a mere God.

Demons knew no limits, and it certainly didn't.

Its mastery of ether, its constant encountering of the putrid light…

So, it would bring the skies themselves to ruin.

Meranthe needed an Angel to herald the End.

Everything was falling into place with the heralding of that unlucky number.
Watch me, Father.