The Furies are at home in the mirror

[MalfGuy2]

Act I

---

A world bereft of Mana flickers across an ovular, shining surface.
It is quiet. Solid. Lonesome.
Bored by logic and immiseration, not fantastical adventure and abstracted canvases;
But harsh truths. Cold iron.
The will of steel and animal oil burning against water and yet more steel.

"A material world, a dreary world..."
"The force of capital knows no bounds, but what humanity imagines it to be."

Timestream anomaly detected: Evocation text unavailable.
Tarnished platinum scales and feathers stow the coin-like object away. It was an oddity.
And hopefully just an oddity.

"Judge Lendthys. The rear admiral demands your presence in the bunks' meeting."

"A chance to show them the righteous path."
"Don't falter from our crewmen."

The air for a sigh builds up in your lungs, but your resignation to your duties stifles most of the sound.
The cold abovedecks in the Spirit Seas' realms never bothered you anyways.
Your body noticeably grows colder as your talons descend across Rosegold Arcanium-reinforced steps leading to the central hold.
Something's gone horribly wrong with the assembly of faithful Drakanite Magi just a dozen meters from you, as a would-be Nethradin interloper scales the magitech cannon row...

---

Act II

---

Your senses warp and shimmer as whatever temporal anomaly afflicted you begun to dissipate.
You're awake. For the most part. Marble tile and teak-polished woods greet you among the watercolor blurs, and as you lumber your body around, you realize it.
You're back in your shop. In your desert lair.

"It's not much, but it was home for many years."
"The world of money has taught us well. If short..."
"Upon a midnight dreary, I heard a whisper, oh so bleary..."

The collar.
The invisible voice, they're not in here anymore.

"Wait, we lost someone?"
"Serves them right."

Abandoned.
You wander outside, vaguely feeling out the setting sun & the tell-tale golden branches of the voice overhead.
Except there isn't a voice any longer.
And those bronze-gold watercolor blurs are fading into the background,
Like the last pangs of a tortured soul being released into the aether...
"I'm free."
Free.
...Free to do what, exactly?
As the decades pass, so, too, have your excursions and your social willpower.
Lord Shenlian continues to refuse your summons.
For all intents and purposes, we're alone.
Completely.

"I saw in you, what life was missing; You lit a flame that consumed my hate,"
"I'm not one for reminiscing, but i'd trade it all for your embrace..."
"It feels more like we lost everything."
"Somehow. We can't place a finger on it."
"Not for lack of trying."
"I'm sorry. I failed you when you needed that addictive energy the most."
"Where do we go from here?.."

There is a bleary look across the glens.
Timestream anomaly detected; Fast-forwarding...
Multiple other Monsters come and go.
Uppity Werewolves and Rune-bears try to make their mark, but the storms above refuse them.
A bandit boy shudders and turns to pre-emptively run away.
The terror of consistently reckless spellcasting;
The innocence of a toddler playing with superweapons like they are just another rattling toy.

---

---

"A thing of beauty, I know..."
"Will never fade away..."

A great competition of Sirens and Aphrosi abound.
A muted golden age of the Republic; Heraldry happily collides with casual beachgoers.
You end up with a personal typhoon by the end of it all, an honorable mention amidst the Divine Storm,
And a complimentary barrel of bourbon.

"This soothes our directionlessness."
"Live a little."
"We don't have anything important to do anyway."

Another Werewolf falls to you on the way to the northern bay.
They abuse the same perceptions that you do -- But to much lesser effect.
What is the point of close-quarters spells against a Monster that only understands area spells?
A horrible truth.

"...I am a weapon. Not a person."
"The chaff fall. The Schism continues. Peoples' lives are forfeit over the smallest things..."
"And so are all these Monsters."

---

---

Tens of thousands must die for our cause.
They're not really people.
They're not really alive.
Not in the normal senses. Not like ordinary animals. Not like ordinary 'people'.
Millions, billions, it matters little to you.

"Destruction unleashed."
"A temporary mania."
"I.F.F. ping detected; Enemy retreating..."

Your warpath across most of the rest of Monsterkind finally gives way to the soft, chiming blues and vermillions of the northernmost faerie forests.
The colour palette itself seems to slow things down.
We can feel the presence of a ghostly dagger, being slowly set down, slowly put aside...
The Monster rush of the year was over.

"I'll free everyone."

As your clumsiness precedes you, you manage to half-stumble, half-float your way into town.
Delphina Bay and the coastal environs greet you in full. Runeoaks, holy trees, holy statues, as far as the eye can see;
A purpose-built tapestry of humanity and Mother Nature's finest.
A reverence for the natural & immutable laws of existence precedes the first few conversations you overhear.

"I'm already sold."
"We'll set up shop here. We can move out in time."

---

Act III

---

The years continue to slowly scroll by.
Literature you can barely grasp floats over the simple, oaken shelving.
Mass storage, brutal efficiency to a clandestine and esoteric art.
The shop itself remains like it was before:
Just another out-of-the-way discount store.
It's not much.

"But it's home."

The Timestream storms malingering off the horizon bring odd portents.
Plenty of Demonic invasion timelines scatter away from old excursions of Meranthe's.
An odd, slate tower flickers in-and-out of view over Nereides, but ultimately fails to stay long enough for you to investigate.
Even now, even as you meander aimlessly through this life, powerful as you are,
Plenty of other, more important stories unfold of the peoples around you:
The Void attempts to devour one,
Cambion thrown to the side,
A Death Mage reclaimed elsewhere,
All in a long year's work for Delphina.

"Judgement is good. For now."
"And 'just good' is all the mockingjay really needs."

You stare out across the cube containing a rogue river, a shop, a miniature tavern accoutrement,
And let the whispers of another begin to reshape you once more...

---

---

"Eighty-five-million, four-hundred-and-nine-thousand, seven-hundred-and-eighty-two left."

[MalfGuy2]

---

Act I

---

"Ao Lendthys Shun."

Soulsteel chains rattle securely against your wrists and ankles. Golden flowers pervade your sight as the distant sense of the Spirit Realm's oversoul having changed.
Whatever sword swinging into infinite darkness you were doing before,
It no longer comfortably hangs by your side. Let alone crests your talons.

"You stand here today stripped of your title and rank unto Salvation."

Our rank?
What were we before?
Who were we before?
When, even? The Timestream flowed so differently in the Spirit World, did you fail your charges or something?

"For your failure to adequately protect the entourage of the Angels Ezekiel and Aurmiel, you are sentenced to an eon of servitude in their following ritual."
"A thousand years."

"--A ritual?"
You barely sputter it out before your vision fails you once more. The distinctive tastes of heavily metals from the platinum family & teak wood varnish overwhelm you, as does the screeching sound of a distant portal being opened into the Spirit Realm that contains you.
Air Mana, in its most dense, most concentrated form, a shard of emeraldine and prismarine power splits itself off from the local Timestream near you,
And all you are left with is a distinctive view of oceans.

---

A vast, empty ocean,
Of nothing but storms.
Something that should never have been tamed to begin with.

---

Act II

---

Your wings crest across the faerie vale with ease.
Another day, another set of Monsters to hunt and sell, as far as you knew.

"I want an economic powerhouse."
"We need a navy to defend us. Five-thousand pounds of iron. Five-thousand pounds of copper."
"...As much wood as Her holy forests' exteriors may permit."

The command comes through clear enough.
Three clear groups form, with an Ent or a Lumin-King at either end.
For whatever reason, as you are lead into the various mines of Meranthe, it feels...

"Like another home."
"Maybe a little too snug to be home, but..."
"More ammunition lines the walls. Convenient."
"Money, money, money..."

With everyone in attendance in agreement, your large, lumbering form drills holes in the ground that rival your immediate superiors.
A vaguely surprised face or two accompany the sound of talons ripping dirt to shreds.
The look of dull, red, ferrous ores stains your pristine silver coat.
But it feels so good.

"Give me a moment. I will cast another invocation for our purposes."

---

---

The months turn to years.
The piles of ores turn to beams and crossbar supports.
Delphina rules the northerners' waves, even if the northeast crumbles apart.
Over three-quarters of the material effort...

"Love is like fire; A passion previously unknown."
"We were meant to be a worker bee. So why does both feel alright?"

All you can comprehend is that the feeling of the world being shaped around you,
To your will, and your will alone,
It is the most satisfying feeling of them all.
After a short pause in local industry and economiya, you find yourself looking out over the Delphina Bay vista...

"Let us bathe the truth in a different kind of red."

---

Sterling voices some concern and dissent as the ball at the top of her stave leaves its convenient crook.
She had, after all, paid good money for this contraption, judging by the sheer amount of jewels that crust the pommel.
...
But after the split-second had passed, and it was clear you're just holding the ball between your teeth,
The tension relaxes somewhat.

"..Okay. But remember, I need you to remove /all/ the Wind Mana, and imbue the crystalline shape of it like it was a Metaphysical Rune onto it."

The goal is clear.

"I love the spinny disk move. Can I do the spinny disk move now?"

It clearly calls for you to incant something from deep within yourself,
A tap set to tree sap that didn't notionally exist,
An accretion disk of raw Magicka from The Hole In The Universe.
A mirror to something that, in and of itself, shouldn't have been able to affect anything to begin with.

"Just hold it..!"

Sterling's plea goes unheard to you.
The shiny, monochrome ball is clearly at home in the center of your impromptu personal ritual.
And even moreso that, somehow, in a stroke of divine genius,
You're able to cast in such a way that you overwrite any and all traces of the Air magick within.

"It's mine! It belongs to me! I madededed it!"
"Equivalent exchange still holds true, no matter which layer of Eternia we're in."

The emeraldine crystals fade away, only to be replaced by monochromes.
And only monochromes.
Sterling effectively just fed you the raw Mana Circuit of a third of her experimental stave to us.
Brimming over the top, it feels so...

"Freeing."

You find yourself aimlessly wandering in-between Monster hunts or mining expeditions, and even casually hit the million-coin mark somewhere along the way.
Business is booming, even as the peasantry complain about the constant Demon threat.
Another vaguely familiar, gaunt brunette of a man holds up a few fingers (or a whole hand. it's hard to see.) to generally motion for you to approach.
One practically right after the other.

---

"Don't you mind it, I just need a powerful Absorption Mage. Think of it as a project that pays you at the same time!"

Your inner businessman senses tingle.
As does the predator drive.
He's holding up a singular chunk of Austereia, near as you can tell,

"I really do just need you."

Hard to believe, but you might as well humor him.
Christophore's red sash disappears over the horizon as you somehow rapidly land in the vicinity of his home.
The portal was so fast, we didn't even process it happening.

"I know I had them here somewhere..."

You wait on one of the ritual circles.
It was just another moment, a flicker of the light, but Christophore's arcane shicanery had brought you several samples of Austereia.
No idea why he'd be doing this,
But you're not about to pass up such a useful, free meal.

"Hail to the king."
"Maybe we'll be nicer to this one."

Dozens upon dozens of pounds of Austereia enter the same accretion disk spell you'd cast on Sterling's stave.
A slow trickle of Aether, a distant calling, harkening back to your time in the egg:

You need more.
You can mine more.
And there can never be enough of the gods' leftovers to go around.

---

Act III

---

It happens too fast.

---

One second, you were talking to one of Gloomlight's resident slimeball Monsters, the next, another creature entirely had risen from the shadows of the tree line with a random Drakanite bodyguard in attendance.
They were, mysteriously, unarmored and otherwise unwarded & unprotected.
Even more mysterious was when it casually tossed aside the approaching Werewolf you were planning on destroying yourself,
And she - If it could be called a she? - Aims a blast of Gravity-attuned runes directly at your accretion disk.

"[...An interesting mutation, machine and reality...]"
"[Maybe you will pose some actual entertainment. Evolve to the next stage, or perish.]"

You both trade blows across the battlefield.
Massive area-denial spells erupt from the both of you, competing for which neighboring Monster den gets destroyed first.
Sediment mud clings to the edges of your wings, but it fails to make a definitive crippling to you.
The next wave of illusory & psychedelic magicka bounces off of one combatant and to the other, ad infinitum.
Perhaps one of the flashier and more skillful displays the lot could manage.

"Sinnerman, sinnerman, sinnerman, spin me around that can..."

Unfortunately, even with the overwhelmingly vast majority of your attention on the battle,
Your personal willpower waned at the wrong moment.

---

---

Arcs of vines burn across the periphery. You'd sundered their defenses,
Only to leave your own open in the very last few seconds.
The strangely humanoid-looking Monster brings you to heel,
Slamming their staff into the ground and you along with it.
Various layers of the top nine meters of dirt crash against you as your predator left a single, trailing beam of Mana,
Ripping into your inner structure.

---

New Magicka Acquired: ?
New Magicka Acquired: NaN
New Magicka Acquired: Critical exception at core memory handler.
New Magicka Acquired: Ping to tertiary target tracking failed.
New Magicka Acquired: Ping to Soul Engine tether failed.

---

---

You manage to drag yourself back up out of the ground, just barely making lift-off.

"Run the damage report from the others."

Only you and Judgement are responding at all.
Both runic shields breached. Core status unknown.
We're melting apart around the edges even more than usual.
You angle your body back towards Gloomlight, to The Hole In The Universe, but there's no guarantee of anything or anyone there to help.

---

"Kyno's not dying on me just yet."
"Come on, stop melting..."

[MalfGuy2]

---

Act I

---

So I turned away from the holy Father, my mission renewed

But my brother, Gabriel, still covered in his finest golden raiments, slowly shook his head.

He wished to voice his displeasure, his impassioned love for the mortal world below,

But I could not refuse Father.


So I donned the shaggy, woolen rags & terrible visage of an old leper of a man,

And stepped off the cloudy platform.

A tumble to the world below.



There, I dusted off what little of myself I could, and made way for the nearest human city.

Along my path, there laid an oasis on the sandy, loamy hillsides, notionally providing travelers a respite;

But it was not meant to be.

For a local merchant had fenced off the fresh water, and hired mercenaries aplenty to prevent nary a sip for free.

The contrast between the tired and disheveled strangers,

The well-kept and well-armed guards,
The effective destruction of what the world prior had to naturally offer...



They gave away the past.

So they deserved no past.

---

Act II

---

literally the mountain. teehee

---

The days and weeks and months blend together.
Your sight fails to improve in the traditional sense; But rather,
With the weight of an unseen ritual lifted, you can start poking around those Timestream runes you love eating.
Tapping into flickers of adjacent knowledge becomes second-nature to you--
But it's moreso a matter of luck.

"Can't have bad luck all the time."
"Every weapon is a good weapon."

As you pass by Camino once more, you catch a distant glimmer;
Flower petals dance in the ghostly starlight, as does the phantasmal image of a galleon.
An excellent preview. Your amygdala yearns to use this talent more, even if it's only superficial.
You won't have to rely on your vision anymore if you practice.
Maybe it will reveal something when turned to a Spirit, if anything else in Eternia holds true about Spirit Sight powers.

---

The Mana Crystals, while simply elemental points of reference, yield additional results;
Your magicka now extends to reach out and touch something that isn't even really there.
A mere possibility.
Fleeting instinctive responses.
The animal urge to simply eat, and wait for an inevitable end.
Neural signals failing to reach their intended destinations.
An addictive personality that has no supply.
Your Core, itself, is rebelling, gnawing away at your victims now without your oversight.

"Troubling. Any way to shut that off?"

It's innate.
Immutable. I can't manually turn it off either.
We might decommission before it's regenerated, unless you consume enough.

---

Timestream anomaly detected.
Attempting to return vision to current Timestream...
Attempting to return vision to current Timestream...

---

[MalfGuy2]

---

Act I

---

---

I resolved to trudge onwards from the oasis, burning a fragment of divine light to keep the mortal disguise going. The pangs and aches of starvation and dehydration dulled the baser senses, but did not prevent me from forcing the way forward.
After another few hills of dust come and go, I find myself looking upon a crumbling sandstone-limestone town wall. Simple iron gate bars jut out every here or there from the entryway, the city council having neglected to replace it for concern of their own coffers;
The guards present, too, were ill-equipped with only soft copper halberds that would nominally fail to penetrate flesh without a strongman’s force – But the guards were so emaciated in their meager pay from that very same council, they could barely keep up with the townsfolk walking around.
I sauntered along the main street for a moment longer, finding myself in the local bazaar. Fine silky fabric decorated the T-junction leading here, and the smell of cured meats and jeweler’s forges carried well here. I stood for a moment to look across the way, only for a merchant’s personal guard to grab at my shoulders and shove me away. The dirty and the broken did not belong here; And so, I was left bereft for the present.
…Until, out of the quiet work of the lonely market, a lone trader had got up the courage to walk to me. ‘The commons do not normally shop here, old man. Why might you be here, of all places?’ His eyes’ preternatural glow betrayed his status as a Spirit Magus – Or at least, a budding novice of as much – And he went on to peer over that tiny spark of power I had held so close.
 
 
In that moment, my existence befuddled him, confounded him so much, he ordered me to be packed away in his personal carriage for the afternoon trip home. He offered the minimum to live, a half-loaf of garlic breadstuffs and a bottle of alcohol; But it was a point of his own self-interest. The merchant Magus wanted to bring me back to his king as some form of social prize, and he began verbally offering more. His carriage we were riding in, his bodyguard retinue, his favorite spellbook; The merchant increasingly made more, yet more offers of the present,
They openly threw away the present…

So they deserved no present.

---

Act II

---

"Your choices don't matter."

A low-pressure gust crests over the volcanoside. Warm air paradoxically falls to the south, fueling the humid jungle's constant growth.
Kindling in a more temperate clime.
Fertile stock in the extreme spaces.
You try to place the voice that came moments before another Domice den crumbles beneath your hunger, but come up clueless.

"I'm not trying to 'violin' you, obviously."

"The only good Monster's a dead Monster."
"Can't have bad luck all the time."

Neither here, nor really there, you float between moments - Important memories sting bitter, deep barbs,
While the chaff fall by the wayside.
A Faeborne, gifted to the highest degree in swordsmanry & championing a modest sliver of the divine spark, falls before you in mock-battle.
The opportunity arises.

"Prime territory."
"But it wouldn't be right."

"And Lore is watching."

The dark urge subsides, staying your fullest blast;
Maybe you merely wanted a taste.
Little technicolour sparks, a miniscule exchange of flowery wisps: Their soul wasn't even close to forfeit, but you possess the tiniest of sacred souvenirs now. Not even enough to power a a single magitech trinket...

---

"I understand. The sword is simply too fast for you."

Another, golden-burning-crown crests the glen.
A familiar blur among the faces. Your vision narrows, and a plethora of barrage spells fire off to give you space to back away.
Backing away to aim.
The last two beams strike their opposing targets true, leaving you with a similar dilemma to before -
Only it was the divine spark's possessor that had brought us to an inch of our lives.

"Fraid you still have a long way to figuring us out."

You try to elaborate further on their point, but all you can do is cough up some of the counterspelled golden magicka and say,
"Merp."
...
Like clockwork, some silly animal sound or other defused whatever little tension was in the air.
He chuckles, causing the crown to bob in place like an overly-glowy Energy Constriction invocation.
Again, you touch upon only the tiniest traces of greatness, teasing at the edges of a fog-of-war.
Some kind of inevitable dread pervades you when you look upon the Nephilim now.
Even still, as he goes back to muse over the Aphrosi crowd,

"...If I keep fighting all of them, and collect a tiny morsel of all of them..."

---

"Down."

A deeper gravitational, centrifugal force threatens to wrap you around the nearest tree.
It could have made more progress if you weren't already flying and willing forth an abjuration of your own.

"Aim true."

Through a narrow opening in time, their own shield of Aether tried to raise up in anticipation of your beam:
But the broken, aging woman didn't look forward to you simply waiting them out.
Even through your terrible vision, you get the distinctive sense that her eyes locked with yours.
A split-second of knowing what came next.

"Damnit, damnit--!"

Another crumb of power flows from one conduit to the other.

"It's still not enough to replicate anything, but at least we know how to time them out more consistently now."

Add it to the reflex counter, and let others know that Aether is getting less effective against you.

---

"...No, Kynodisme."
"It is clear that you are the stronger, more talented at fighting than I."

A pause. A definitive lull in the battle.
Technicolour, flowering aurorae die down in their failed counter-assaults.
Holy Barriers had occluded the sparring arena - As do the Timestream Runes, yet in this instance, you're unable to cast them yet.
A vision? A dream? What portent?
This must have happened before the others. So why is it showing up now?

"You would be just as majestic as our own."

"Thank you, Heir-Sunsets."
It feels foreign to leave your mouth.
Is it really you talking?
...
You fail to offer much in the way of longer sentences but protestation,
"I know you have more power than I. Clearly, you were the better."
The Author offers their own protest.
Some deflecting compliment.
But deep down inside, these memories suddenly link together in a terrible thought pattern, an equally horrible insight.

"Is it fair?"

---

"There ya go, buddy. Eat up."

With every some dozens of thousands of other Monsters absorbed, the ore compels you again.
Austereia 'was' just the mineral version of Aether-touched Arcanium.
Nothing could go wrong from continuously feeding from it.
Right?

"Feed."
"Oh, he's back."

Chalk it up to the sheer instability present in your form.
Maybe this Aether, this divinity stuff isn't so bad an idea.
Even if you're just using it like tiny scraps of tape all over yourself...

"I'm allowed to have an artistic side."

Yes, the art of Beating People Up and Being Beaten Up.
And, evidently, coming up empty on useful ideas for useless amounts of inexplicably useless-but-apparently-powerful things.

---

Act III

---

---

There is nothing.

Only cold, primordial darkness.

Your being, your consciousness ferments in it - No larger than a single grain of chlorophyll.

It is safe here. No grand failures, no impersonal malaise encroach you.

Safe and sound in The Long Quiet.

...

An inordinate amount of time passes.

You feel like if you lay here, you might not ever wake up.

...But what's this? Somewhere in the sore, listless *imagination* around you - A sensation!

---

"I.F.F. ping detected."
"Enemy retreating..."

Like a metal ghost, full of rage and fear.
The clanging noises of your 'mouth' resound against bony skull and hardened sinew.

"Fire at the maintenance panel on the shoulder."
"It will break their guard automatically, no matter how fast they want to go."

Your talent for visual calculus, no matter how flawed, precedes even your existence; Random chance and luck smile at your trajectory,
Cracking open the shell with ease.
Only to be greeted by a horrendous outpour of watercolour blurs,
Both unfamiliar worlds.

"Judgement."

But your malformed feet carry you faster than you can think, dragging you into the wilderness,
An instinctive response to flee firstly and foremostly.

Self-preservation apparently overrode your will to consume,
Just as the leafy-green canopy clashes against autumnal leaves.

---

New Magickal Attunement acquired: Time Magic.

[MalfGuy2]

---

I

---

---

“The trader kept opening his mouth to try to plead his way through with me, convinced of something greater of mine,”
“But the old cripple of a man I wore simply shook his head and sighed.”

“He offered his estate, his business, his spot on the city’s council, only to be interrupted by his retinue stopping the carriage. We were outside what was presumably his home, surrounded by a grandiose vineyard; My tiring eyes spotted many a young laborer watering rare grapes of the Tilandrean Rhone, of Sauvignon, even Ranceti Mourvedre;”

“But none of the workers were clothed beyond the simplest of cotton to swaddle themselves and keep decency.”

“Further up the dirt path still, at the stony pavers to his home, I looked upon a work combined of marble and limestone – Architectural flows integrated with whatever all the local lesser noblaisse regarded as ‘fine art’. Etchings of unknown heroes & cities long since past, decorated by solid golden inlays.”

“His wife ran out to greet us, a freshly young babe caressed in one arm, a hand tugging along another one of the merchant’s house-servants.”

“In that same breadth, he offered me his labourers, his workers, even his home; Yet still, I refused. What use did an old man have for an elaborate living?”

“As we went inside to the shuffling of embroidered silks and linens, finer raiments garbing his family, the trader continued to offer me more, yet more, until he began offering his family, itself.”

“First his parents, the older folks’ arrangement upstairs, dining together on only the best butcheries and cuts of this world; Then, himself, as if he were but another pawn or plaything in the masses; Then, even in front of his wife, he offered her to a questioning scowl, throwing away what little pretense of love there were:”

“Then, he offered the unthinkable.”

“The trader Magus turned to his sons, his daughters, and pointed their youth out to me; That I may be cared for in my final days to whatever all comfort I desired, that I may have mine own petty merchants’ kingdom,”

“But this time, I did not simply refute his constant advances and wanton exceptionalism.”

“Suddenly, I seized upon his wife, the baby daughter in her arms; A mother’s cry issued, a terrified look between me and the merchant. The two began hastily arguing over whatever flight of fancy the Magus noble had had,”

“As I shuffled outside, so, too, did the din of the argument slowly follow behind. I could hear the distant wail and whine of the woman scorned, contrasting against the vision of the baby daughter in my swollen, knubby hands. Her tiny, innocent smile and blank eyes followed mine as I held her out in front of me.”

“In that moment, I looked into mine baby daughter’s eyes, and divined her immortal Soul to ask…”

---

II

---

The vermillion and emeraldine runes around you dissipate, if for but a moment.
A childer's eyes greet yours; Too tiny to fully register.
But enough that a spark of familiarity, some divine inspiration passes -
And so, too, does a tragic line pass from her.

"It's been like, a decade. But he's fine!"
"This one doesn't bite people."

"Merp."

You try to tell yourself & her friends that you aren't a person.
Funny animal noises only mean so much;
Fleeting moments pass you by, but something sticks to you.
A singular sheaf of sketching canvas is draped from your wing...

---

"S-stay away, beast!"
"You're not natural... Your 'hunting' doesn't belong in this world!"

The Werewolf manages a moment of higher thought spared as the fight wages on.
"I.F.F. ping detected. Enemy retreating."

Can't dodge forever.
Keep attacking.

"RAAUUGGH!"

A direct hit.

"Intended. The enemy is blinded."
"Systems overload. The Mana Cannon used up most of its charges."

Your (admittedly) fluffier prey manages to escape, albeit, not without having slaked your hunger.

The Timestream Runes continue to shift and scatter your vision across the treeline, offering little respite from your duty;

---

Day in, day out.
It's always a battle that you feel, tugging at your limbic system, forcing you to think again...
I don't want to think.

"It's not about what you want."

The simultaneous stench of death & the soothing caress of emeraldine light scratch your surface.
Traces of your quarry, being used to...
Heal you?
The pain of Occult-tinged briars colliding against your attunement to the Timestream and Lifestream subsides, replaced by the vision of a green cloak & obsidian-purple armour.
"Grey..?"
Their own runic constructs flicker about, deliberately trying to rewrite the Arcanery that binds you;

On the opposite side, Svengalf is brute-forcing the healing process with the distinctive touch of Life Magic itself.

"I trust, In good hands for now."

He stepped away to let Grey continue along with whatever specialized convocation occurs,
But your sight blurs away once more...

---

---

The weight of eons falls upon you as you float in the centre of the Sanctum of Creation.
You pick up a psionic wave emitting from you, but not yourself:
It is a voice you have never heard before.
"What was, will be."
"What will be, was."

---

III

---

“’Is this really the future that you wanted?’”
…
Kynodisme purposely paused here. Held breath. Some kind of scowl and downturned head motion comes from the Monster before another line comes,
“And so,”

“I curled my wrist around where her shoulder should be in the baby swaddle,”

“And dashed her brain out across the stony paved road.”

“They threw away the future…”

The floating textbooks shut with some poetic finality to the dissipation of the Timestream runes that previously empowered whatever all Kynodisme was invoking. The Rebirth Potions mysteriously emptied into nothingness, his personal aurum devouring much of the Austereia and miscellanneous Aetheric components involved in a shining-gold mobius strip around him,
 

“So they deserved no future.”
"So they deserved no future."
Cognitive dissonance is a fundamentally uncomfortable feeling caused by holding conflicting beliefs and ideals.
But a mote of dust is all necessary to topple an empire; Hel needs to be perfect every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day.

You only need to be lucky once.

---

"You're still a good person, right?"

You stare at the framed sketch upon the wall in your Delphinan business front.
The traces of the dead, the beloved, and the damned shimmer at your behest, but never quite coalesce into anything truly recognizable. Golden mobius strips abound, but refuse to properly empower you.
Missing ingredients.
An amalgamate.
Just like you.

---

"...Really? It's still not happening, even after beating an Imperfect for funsies and all that Aether crap?"

Lore vacantly sighs as your gigantic wings dwarf the Nightview encampment tents.
Tired.
Both of you seem exhausted and worn down by the years' constant wear and tear.
You open your mouth to try to offer an excuse,
But nothing comes out.

"Then you might as well take mine."

It's said so flippantly, so casually, the suggestion barely has time to rattle in your skull before Dunsman grapples for an edge of your wings. He starts tugging you away,
To hold up an emeraldine Grimoire embossed in Austereia:

"I need Kyno's help for something."
"Regalus and Oliphr need our help."

---

[MalfGuy2]

---

I

---

---

The Timestream unravels with every time you look at Regalus' disheveled Spirit. The summoning from beyond the Star Realm weighs down on you,
Knowing that you are weak, an old, tiring, ancient thing. Even by comparison, the insights you've been granted posit a more empathic attunement; No matter how innocent or naive you pretend to be, the first lesson still aches against your core.

Your friends and found family flit in and out of view.

Detachment begets detachment; The more you've hurt others, the harder it is for them to hurt you.
A rogue trace of Aether, jade and prismarine flicker past you, to no avail.

An Austereia grimoire,
That technically violated every rule of this existence,
Yet chooses to continue.

"Kindred spirits."

But all spirits fade eventually.
His voice will no longer insist upon yourself.
Nor will Efespane's.
Nor will Solais'.
We're alone again, but we've never had more friends.

---

(.> Timestream visual anomaly detected.
(.> Unable to pinpoint source.

---

A few frog-like Sirenians pass you by.
In one instance, you even take them with you, an amphibian child and a giant bird-fish-thing...
Crashing through a mirror.
Through a spell that doesn't even work.

"We must really be a bad luck charm."

Years pass you by. You don't even know what month it is.
Frogboy turns into frogman.
A birdgoatboy turns into a birdgoatman.
Another magickal runed tree explodes in height, beginning to dwarf the Shadowlands.

A flood, an incidental storm pocket of yours, drifts to the other nations of Aegis.
A divine punishment, but for what? Of what?

Time marches ever onwards, listless, without purpose;
But you are fully intent.

---

(.> Timestream visual anomaly detected.
(.> Proto Institute relic suite malfunctioning. Shutting down auxiliary power...
(.> Unable to pinpoint source.

---

II
Loop Hero

---

We're melting faster.
They expect one of us in the wreckage.

"Will it hurt?"

Will it hurt what?

"Like the first time."

...

Leaving this world isn't as scary as it sounds.

I don't know.
We don't know.
But that's part of what makes it so beautiful.
Your consciousness begins to fade as Camino's face peers down at your broken form...
You haven't eaten any other large Monsters like was required.
Already, a wing has permanently refused to regrow.
Your vision, too, is stuttering as you manage to deliver the next line to him;

"Beware the next Ao Shun or Efespane. They might not be so eager to go into that peaceful good night."

Camino opens his mouth, but The Mirror cracks and shatters before you can fully make out what all tidings he brings. The Door opens, revealing an emeraldine-vermillion spiral,
The Loop.
Your true destination.
There's a malingering thought at your periphery, one that tells you that your being isn't alone, dragging someone else with you, isn't finished yet, as your form adapts to The Loop,
But it matters little.

You catch a glimpse of a flurry of paper pages crossing the magickal border with you. Austereia binding rings, more green and prismarine sparks, and then...

---

---

III

---

You awaken with a lurch.
Floating in the nothingness between nothingnesses.
The Mirror prompts you, hovering runic text and watercolour blurs in the shape of chains flying forth within,
Leaving you to choose and dwell on your fate once more.
Out of the corner of your eyes - If you even still have eyes - You spot a familiar, platinum-coated person holding a Monster egg near the Endless Spire.
Melting down an assortment of Monster Shards and a massive arcane emerald overhead...

"Or try again."

"The Long Quiet always comes back."

---

You've withered.