Ethereal fog flowed forth from the threads of Memory across Sapience as the clangour of war resounded. Three Divine stood alone in the wake of a battle against Memory’s recreations: the Malevolent One, the Skylord, and the Wayward Heir.
Vastar’s voice rang out to Sartan, demanding He cease His fight against mere echoes of His long-lost foes. The Lord of Evil growled and pushed onwards, uncaring and unaware, as he walked into three of Pazuzu’s Demon Princes and their foul horde of demons. Hunger lingered in the voice of Demon Prince Y’garl while Prince Itarn of the Black Sepulchre and Prince Vleiss, the Skinned Walker, stood beside him – but the Lord of Evil only grinned and tightened His already-crushing grip upon His blades.
Pandora retreated to assist the Celani left behind in Sartan’s recklessness, but the Lord of Storms remained beside His Brother. With speed to rival lightning, the Skylord ascended into the heavens as the Malevolent One drove into the Demon Princes below. None were shown mercy in the display of Divine wrath that followed. Dozens upon hundreds upon thousands of the Infernal Legion perished in an endless starfall of cataclysmic meteors that shook the landscape of Memory.
Meanwhile, Sartan met His foes with blade, claw, fist, and rage. With never a backward step, the God of Evil traded blow after blow with the Demon Princes, His oppressive onslaught overwhelming Itarn in a heedless display of brutality before He split the Lord of the Black Sepulchre in twain with a single strike of His hand. The death of His comrade was just the opportunity Y’garl needed.
Slavering at the mouth, the Abyssal Wyrm slithered around the Elder God, crushing Him tight within an embrace more akin to a serpent than a dragon. A forked tongue slithered out of the Demon Prince as he opened his jaws and sank his fangs into the Malevolent One, violently tearing off His arm and hand as a bellowed roar rang across the length and breadth of Creation.
Sartan’s chest rose and sank with every laboured breath as wrath beyond mortal ken overtook His golden eyes. Without a hand free, the Malevolent One seized the Blade of Perdition in His teeth and burst free from Y’garls grip, storming forward in a howling whirlwind of God-forged steel and blood as He decapitated the Demon Prince in the blink of an eye.
The last standing Prince, Vleiss, turned to flee, but the God of Evil barred His path, aureate gaze locked upon His foe as He forced His once-severed arm back onto His shoulder and grabbed the demon by the throat. His other hand drove forward deep into the creature’s torso, tearing out his heart in a raw display of brutality.
Holding the pulsing twin-chambered organ aloft, Sartan the Malevolent growled, “Run, wretch. You will fight again. But you, like your principality, are now Mine.”
The Malevolent One threw aside the defeated Prince and, with one last disgusted look at the now-blasted battlefield, He departed.
On the 8th of Mayan 922 AF, the corrupt brambles of Yggdrasil struck against the Caves of Delmarin.
Stalactites crumbled throughout the foetid tunnels as adventurers raced to find the Yggdrasian briars only to find the awaiting spears and claws of the Underworld’s horde. Frenzied shrieks echoed through the caves as vampires, skeletons, wraithlords, and more met their living foes in battle in a violent surge. But the Undead fell swiftly, no match for the seasoned hunters of Achaea, or so they thought.
From the profane depths of the grave came a King-blessed creation, one of the first forged by the black hand of Slith himself. Virotal, Death Warmed Over awoke, and her putrid might tore apart the armies of Sapience. Soul and ichor were her blades as she condemned defender after defender to the halls of Finality, and though she fell once, the irrepressible gift of her birthright forced her back into the fray.
Sapience lost the day, and the Caves of Delmarin crumbled.
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Summary: Vastar and Sartan fought three of Pazuzu’s Demon Princes upon the plains of Memory. Meanwhile, on Sapience, the corrupt brambles of Yggdrasil assailed a new region, and the Caves of Delmarin fell.
Darkness fell upon the Vigil’s camp, and whispers ran through its ranks like wildfire. In hushed tones, the fanatics spoke of plots everywhere: plots to poison them, to kill them in their sleep, to betray them to the enemy. To bring the fury of the Gods they were arrayed against upon them.
With tensions running high, it was inevitable that this discord would soon wear the guise of open conflict. It was impossible to say where it began, but an argument precipitated shoving and shouting. Before it could grow to a whole conflagration, the captains of the Vigil strode from their tents with weapons in hand to quell the growing unrest.
They stalked to and fro, searching for the instigator. When a cultist lost his nerve and turned to run from the captains, the nearest of them beheaded him with a single swipe of cold steel. The head rolled, and the camp truly fractured, with small groups splintering the assembled force. Paranoia and mistrust only grew as the worshippers hurled accusations of treason at one another.
In light of the captains’ failure to bring order to the camp, a ternion hiss rang out to announce the appearance of the Vigil Trinity. The murderous Spectres hemmed in the dissenting voices, bringing down a tense silence that grew more expectant with every passing second.
A foolish voice soon broke that quiet. This prompted an attack from the accused, and it seemed that the entire camp would break into a brawl when an unrestrained giggle brought it all to a halt. In response to such mocking laughter, the Trinity all struck the ground at once to shake the earth, putting all the cultists on one knee.
All save One, who remained on Her feet.
Pandora lowered Her hood, and the Vigil Trinity turned to assail Her. Beset by these mighty foes, She raised Her hand and fractured the air, cracking it as if it were a mirror’s surface and making it impossible to see Her clearly.
The Spectres of the Vigil could not break through this mirage of Her making. Every blow they struck hit nothing but an illusion, and the Goddess got on with Her appointed task. It was not until the Knight of the Trinity stopped to watch Her visage intently that the artifice was exposed.
It was too late, however. The Goddess hefted the Equilibrium Gem in Her hand, Her pleasure writ clear upon Her youthful face. The enraged attempt of Her Spectral foes to reclaim it was halted by the voice of the God of Darkness, whose proclamation rested heavily upon those who had dared to oppose Divinity.
“Your time has run out.”
The Darkness He had been sowing laid thick upon the ground, an umbral miasma for Him to draw upon. Everything became panic and confusion as the dark hearts of the Vigil cultists were turned to His purpose. It took some time for the screams to die as brothers in arms slew each other in droves, and the sheer terror of the unending Dark did its cruel work.
Only the Trinity remained on their feet by the time the Darkness lifted. They lunged at the Wayward Heir, who was opening a rift through which to step to safety. They nearly got there in time.
Twilight’s control of His realm proved absolute in the end. The Darkness threw them back just enough that their weapons caught nothing but wispy blackness as Pandora stepped through the rift and withdrew, prize in hand.
All the Spectres were left with was the Goddess’ parting barb, a final token of Her esteem: “Fare thee well!”
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Summary: Pandora and Twilight infiltrated a Vigil camp upon Memory and stole the Equilibrium Gem from the Spectres that held it.