Sprawling out upon that shattered vista was not the mundane sky of Aetolia, but the abstract planar space where resided one of the Eschaton’s trusted hands. It shifted in time to the wordless will of Its Maker, Its incorporeal form bleeding brilliant arcana throughout Sapience in place of its still absent sun.
The Abyssal reached toward the newborn plane of Life as if to examine it or else adjust its metaphysical position at the very heart of the Eschaton’s cosmos, but stayed Its shimmering hand when a spiral of effulgent starfire swept across voidspace in signal of the Being’s approval.
Bound as they are to their beloved Dia’ruis, the Heartwood council sensed the nearness of the Eschaton’s planar steward. The raw, electrical crackle of Its manifest potency prickled at their necks as it were a predator’s breath and they were Its prey, Its forbearance commanded by the ancient will that served as Its architect. An eidetic sliver of understanding bloomed within their mind’s theatre, planting a seed of approval within the fertile garden of their thoughts. Both Eschaton and Abyssal alike acknowledged then the craftsmanship and purpose of Aetolia’s recently wrought lirathyar, allowing the plane to remain as the cosmic creche of all life Albedi, Sapient, and Vorostran.
The consideration of a bored and curious Creator bloomed in all mortal thoughts then, engraved there by the auroral essence of a Supreme Maker; the craftsmanship of the newborn plane was suitable to the Eschaton’s purposes, it seemed, regardless of the hand that served as Its Immortal cultivator. All sentience perceived that It could not risk destroying such a place, after all, lest It call down the Other that must surely have sensed the recent combat as is. It idly wondered then what Muadi, the Fundamental Being of Death might make of such a plane and its Cycle, but dismissed it as a musing beneath Its design – what might die shall die, after all, and Death would make the necessary arrangements.
Dwelling upon endings and death drew Its thoughts, conjoined to all mortal thoughts now – towards one of the now-deceased beings birthed by fundamental sundering: Seelis. Such an imbalance worried It, or so all sentience sensed, for Its omnipotent gaze – their omnipotent gaze, for all eyes were Its eyes and Its eyes were the sharing of an eternity – spied the rampage of Tumultuous Fire far in the distance of Its original Creation. It suppressed the brief urge to simply do away with things It did not account for nor intend to bring into being – what was, was. What is, is. What shall be, must be, lest It invite further catastrophe.
The Eschaton gazed out over the darkened realm abandoned by its Maker one last time, the consideration of the ages carrying Sapience and Aetolia alike through a procession of seasons that lasted one moment and an eternity. Its enigmatic musings retreated from mortalkind’s understanding as It considered what to do with the parasitic realm tethered to Its blessed Creation.
Once more, It passed beyond the fabric of reality to achieve unity with the greater whole of Its world.
Through the indeterminate nebula of Its own limitless essence did the ancient Albedi Creator delve, enjoining mortalkind’s paltry consciousness to the glory of Its inner sojourn as It went. In a showing of confidence only an omniscient maker could possess, It threaded Its will through and around every scrap of essence bequeathed to It in the final moments of the Monomachy. A simple exertion of Its prodigious power was all It needed to tear free the burning hearts of those deceased beings It now knew were once called Mebrene and Lanos. Burnished bronze and refulgent gold streamed across the skies like roaring rivers of fire and light, expelled from their brief union with the Eschaton’s nebulaic existence.
Superimposed upon the sky hosting these disparate parts, the Eschaton’s composite stars blazed and wheeled as It beheld the extensive history It had not bore witness to in a personal capacity. A constellar gust swirled and stirred the helpless expanse of burning power into one beatific whole per a sudden whim of Its immaculate design, and coruscating vortices of galactic effulgence alighted upon the astral canvas that was the ageless Eschaton as if in silent urging to some outside force.
Roused from the plodding work of Its abyssal stewardship, ancient Odravh’s attention had no choice but to fixate upon the wordless command of Its maker. In a blurred streak of raw, burning mana, It traversed the vast empty of the Spiral and reached first within the glorious furnace that is Rahiela, extracting an incandescent skein of conflagrant potential. Satisfied with what It had acquired for the Eschaton, It moved on to Its next destination with the otherworldly grace of a being entirely at home within Its domain. With a far more delicate motion, It stretched one wavering limb past the boundaries of orderly, fervent Rewh’va and extracted an aureate spool of solar essence. Decorated by geometrically perfect symbology writ in raw cobalt light, this gathering of uttermost spirit and conviction exuded all the fundamental brilliance necessary to align core elements into glorious, zealous purpose.
Unwilling to depart from the borders of Its cosmic charge, the Abyssal simply guided these flows of raw power out into the Prime Material to await the Eschaton’s unknowable intent.
As scalding energy filtered through the convalescent fabric of reality, a tumult of myriad emotions rampaged throughout the landscape of Prime’s fragile souls. Faced with the brilliant presence of a truly omnipotent being, the world’s hearts strained against their limitations as they overflowed with exultant joy and fundamental ecstasy. Limitless happiness yielded to the smouldering embers of sorrow, which in turn found themselves succeeded by torrid rage that clashed against placid tranquillity and stomach-churning revulsion that marched to war with utmost desire in a confusing snarl of mortal heartstrings.
Blessed order then weaved its way through the histrionic din, bringing relief that yielded to discipline…
Abrupt and alien, the sudden arrival of Rewh’van essence imparted sorely needed fundamental guidance to the emotional inferno kindled by overwhelming flows of Rahielan fire. Fervent zeal took the place of the riotous confluence that so recently sat the throne of all mortals hearts, engendering a desire for justice delivered by righteous hands.
Heedless to the unstoppable eruptions of emotion welling up within the hearts of all beings exposed to this raw elemental influence, the Eschaton lifted a hand towards the border demarcating Sapience from the rest of Aetolia. As Its starswept digits hooked into the sacred sun hanging over its original Creation, the Eschaton gently extracted molten gold from the planar aperture’s very outline as if It were a sculptor drawing clay from the earth itself. The sky sang in rapturous acceptance as it witnessed the passage of its Maker, the wind whistling in celebratory support of Its impending labours. Aurulent fire impressed itself upon the skies in the wake of the hand the Eschaton drew back from the vaunted Daystar hanging over Its world, showering Sapience, Albedos, and even distant and forbidding Vorostra with heliacal awe.
Bathed in the warmth of errant Immortal essence, Sapience watched on in mute wonder as the interminable architect of all that was, is, and shall ever be worked the fundamental loom of deific genesis.
With all the necessary components gathered, the Eschaton’s starswept silhouette exuded a pearlescent aurora that pushed back the midnight squalor Sapience dwelled within. Scintillating stars and mysterious planetary bodies spread along Its eternal profile flared to life as the divergent elements gathered by Its will began to align within the welkin dark. As Rahiela and Rewh’va’s raw brilliance converged with the inert essence of fallen Lanos and murdered Mebrene, the Eschaton rippled into view upon the horizon and reached out to cup the primeval admixture within Its sidereal clasp.
Aetolia’s one and only Creator gently coaxed the primal constituents of reality into joyous union with the remains of two fallen Gods, eliciting yet another euphoric surge of ascendant emotion within every heart. A gentle swirl of the Eschaton’s smoky nebulae quelled these sudden outbursts within all mortal life, however, Its simple denial commanded tranquility to occupy those hearts as if they were otherwise empty vessels in the face of Its eternal dominion. So stilled by a simple urging from this paradoxically foreign and familiar Creator, mortalkind lost themselves to the enthralling witness of molten glory that streamed around the Eschaton’s shimmering hands. Though It presented no eyes, no face, some deep instinct alluded to a focus mitigated by Its ceaseless omniscience. A javelin of stellar fire lanced across Sapience’s atramentous firmament and alighted within the Eschaton’s waiting hands, its alabaster grandeur soon grafted to the vaguely androgynous silhouette that rose to stand within the Creator’s cupped palms.
Eschatonic Creation and the adopted realm of Sapience fell into mutual quiescence as that ageless composer of reality’s exquisite harmony paused to consider something for what might have been centuries or seconds, the passage of an age wrought by this brilliant wait. Regardless of the confused procession of time’s relentless march, some unseen force held the world’s collective attention to It even as It contemplated the arcane minutiae of Its design. Reality cavorted to the tune of the Eschaton’s demands as if they were orgiastic music, Its will impressed upon newly indentured existential fabric.
Sol Eos soon blazed back into existence within the bounds of Sapience, a Divine torch coaxed to ignition by the birth of a newly wrought God of Accordant Fire.
The radiant return of the Star of the Divine Fire that Protects stirred the Eschaton from Its endless reverie, freeing mortals from the temporal torpor within which Its cosmic cogitation seemingly ensnared them. The mysterious Creator extended one hand out to the Prime Material and released the freshly forged Deity into Sapience as if freeing a bird to spread its wings and take to the skies.
The land sang in joy as the bringer of its interminable radiance took His first steps within a realm yearning for His purifying fires, bringing solar glory and the dawn of a new era free of the Worldeater’s callous influence.
“Nowhere can shelter you from the Light’s wrath,” came the scouring condemnation of newly wrought Celezor’s booming voice. “Nothing can rescue you from the judgement that comes. There is no corner too dark as to deny the coming dawn.”
A flicker of lightbound fire then speared downward from the firmament above the twin trees of the ended Monomachy, bestowing newfound life upon a wreath of flowers decorating the boughs of the Eschaton’s cosmic edifice. Coaxed back into vibrant vitality, the vine that once represented Passion Most Divine’s existence now heralded the coming of Accordant Righteousness and Lightsworn Fire, their beautiful petals straining towards the rekindled sun.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 21st of Omeian, in the year 0 AC.