The Worldeater Saga, Part XLVIII: Terminal Virulence

Howling out a bloodcurdling groan of anguish, both at Its very unwilling existence and the frightful pestilence chained within Its enslaved essence, Zyrialith engulfed Omei in the maelstrom of virulent rot and withering, wasting disease that is Its purpose. The sickening stench of a bloated killing field left too long in the sun emanated from the very heart of the noxious power that spilled out of Immortal Illness’ sickened frame, clouds of diseased mists issuing from Its pallid pores. On and on did Its nauseating effluvium continue, exposing Instinct Incarnate to the fullest extent of Its plagues.

Colours inverted within the killing wave and disjointed geometric patterns impressed themselves upon a tenuous canvas of plague-riddled smoke. Bile and humour evanesced as they actualised into subversive elemental energy fueling a biological attack tailored to destroy an ancient Goddess. Hissing and screeching, the Nightmare staggered out of the churning vortex of menacing malady. Sable pelage and delicate Rajamalan flesh sloughed from Her bones, making of Her appearance something worthy of Her most infamous epithet. Wasting rot sizzled at the edge of Omei’s violet eyes, gnawing away at them. Oily illness wept from wounds torn open by acidic ruin and pestilential torture. Though She howled in agony as festering sickness wracked Her body, resignation and grim acceptance soon commanded Her feline mien, giving birth to a cold clarity that instilled within Her a cold purpose.

The cruel Goddess of Instinct and Empress of the Astral Realms whispered a single alien syllable and jabbed a claw towards the Virulent Godling standing before Her.

Heaven and earth shuddered in tandem as reality yielded to the boundless possibility of Chaos. An aperture to the Astral Realm yawned open on the horizon, an assembly of twenty-one Astral Nobles aligned equidistant across its span. Each bound vassal lent their strength at a dire hour of imperial need, suffusing their terrible Empress with all they had left to give. Exulting in freshly renewed power and its promised violence, Omei descended into maniacal laughter as She bathed Zyrialith in multi-hued fire. The riotous brutality drove the enthralled God back by sheer necessity of self-preservation, Its shambling form retreating upon hearing an imperious command from Abhorash.

“My thanks, You opportunistic leech,” Omei finally spat. “You have armed Me with yet another weapon to stab into My Father’s craven heart. Though it may kill Me to do so, it is never death that I have feared.”

The Hegemonist then cast one last glance, rife with contempt, at the empowered Empress of Astral Chaos. A moment later, He dismissed Her from His focus, the satisfied smirk crossing Abhorash’s lips imbued with the verity that She was already dead, victim to His enthralled weapon.

“No,” She croaked. “I will free My Court from Him, if nothing else.”

The Goddess of Instinct then conjured a bridge of sevenfold hues and ascended to the heavens, the Midnight glaive – a spear of ill intent – clutched in claws pockmarked by Immortal pestilence.

As warfare reigned supreme in the Court of the Gods, so too did it loom over all Creation as the Triomachy pressed on.

Varyan Celestine turned one of His palms upward, eliciting a quiver from His Creation. Sapience trembled as its argent Maker exerted the enormity of His potential, the very bones of the land issuing an ominous thrum that jostled its mountain ranges and whipped its lakes and rivers into a vicious froth. Though Varian’s mien reflected eternal composure, the ruinous onslaught He unleashed defied this fabled demeanour. Wrought from sizzling, silvery streams of the cataclysmic essence yet still riddling Aetolia with meteoric violence, it manifested to the mortal eye as a cloud of lustrous weapons, each thrusting inward in vicious simultaneity towards two points: the Celestine’s Immortal Opponents.

Relying upon a domain retained even after His ascent to Zenith, Severn swiftly conjured billowing clouds of acrid smoke that ringed His omnipotent frame. The weapons screaming towards Him soared through these destructive fumes and melted away into naught, though their points nearly brushed His throat.

Ageless grace suffused each of the Eschaton’s movements as It lifted a hand of Its own, a strobe of nebulous light answering Its opponent’s savage assault. Sapience’s tattered sky-dome shuddered rapturously, as if experiencing a sensation long since forgotten. Tenebrous clouds converged upon the foreboding Albedi Creator, extending Its form until It stretched all across the realm, Its presence as elusive as it was all-encompassing. As the empyreal vault embraced Its majesty, It straddled betwixt near and far, casting Varyan’s assault into a paradoxical gulf.

Each brilliant star dappling the Eschaton’s inconceivable expanse then glared to life, their forbidding shine exposing the entirety of Its handcrafted world to the unmitigated influence of Its power.

The Celestine shied away from His Counterpart’s effulgent manifestation, His calm demeanour faltering for all of a blink as He weighed His next move. Severn fashioned a swirling vortex of midnight’s inky darkness and seized upon the brilliant light directed towards Him with His brutish hand, flattening it to a ribbon that He swiftly fed into the heart of His darkling manifestation. Though He acted with the strength of a Creator, the Zenith’s demeanour and approach yet still aligned with that of something inconceivably lesser. Eschatonic light seared His hand as He worked, bespeaking the gulf of experience betwixt a King of Utmost Darkness and an Originator of All Creation.

Abhorash departed from Chakrasul’s side after a moment of voracious consideration for Her state of weakness, pestilent Zyrialith in tow. After scanning the killing field for a new victim, His hungry gaze locked upon another struggle to impose upon.

As one, Tyrant and sickening Vassal converged upon Life and Death’s battle with Slyphe. Employing a timeless tactic relied upon since the dawn of warfare and strategy, Abhorash and Zyrialith pressed in from both sides to make an attempt at striking Dhar unawares, sickly spews of diseased humour and reaving claws sailing towards the spectral Lord of the Grave. Haern then issued a mighty grunt that tapered off into a feral snarl as He imposed His domain upon His own body, a sturdy goat leg sprouting from His bulky side. It thrust out a kick that trailed viridian energy in its wake, knocking Dhar away in time to elude the Hegemonist’s ambush.

“Lurli may have lost Herself in the bloodlust of the hunt, Graverobber,” the Lord of the Wilds growled, “But to hunt Us is a feat above Your calibre.”

Slyphe struggled upward from Their sanctuary within waves wrought from a mountain’s spring, Their corporeal form wavering with uncertainty as They flowed backwards in retreat. Riddled with wounds that seeped ichor as dark as lightless oceanic trenches into the clear waters of Their elemental constituency, the Maelstrom seemed upon the brink of demise. In spite of this, They drew Themselves up to Their full height and assumed a combative stance, emulating once more the heroism They espoused.

Meanwhile, a fourth challenger intruded upon the celestial warfare of the Triomachy.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 18th of Omeian, in the year 0 AC.