Wait! Everyone, I....I sense something coming!
Sachi sounds panicked as the area where the Trespasser was mere moments ago begins to ripple and swirl....
And then the ripple explodes and all are enshrouded in black.
Black. Nothing but black.
Nothing but darkness- no. Darkness can't describe what you perceive at this in time. Darkness implies an absence of light, but not this. This....this is worse.
Oblivion is more like it. Nothing, forever and ever and everandeverandever-
No, wait. You can see your party members, floating in the void near you.
And in front of you floats something indescribable.
A mass of tendrils, squirming- no wait, no, it's a mass of heads of unknown fanged creatures, gnashing at some unseen prey- no, wait, a chorus of screaming faces, their black eyes melting into bubbling acidic streams pouring down their cheeks and into their mouths as their screams seem to yell for your name- no, now a mass of eyeballs, some bursting into sickening red globs of something-
Even simply being near this creature instills some sort of primal, instinctive fear, deep down in the recesses of the mind. The part that once feared the dark, the things that moved in shadows, that which lay beyond the light.
This, you know already, is a Trespasser's soul. You barely have enough time to react before, immediately, you feel yourself beginning to be diminished, squashed from existence and reduced to nothing. The Trespasser slowly, but surely, is using its will to destroy you, to crush your soul into nothing and consume the dead husk that is left behind. The fear of oncoming death fills you, but not for long.
Soon, it is replaced by one of deep calm, of contentment. For a moment, you even feel as if giving in would be a good idea. Just a moment.
And then you are brought back to reality. Your death draws near.
But yet you refuse to die.
You struggle. You claw back. You fight back. Either way, you resist.
How do you resist the all-crushing Trespasser's influence?
((Yes, this is perfect time for badass speeches calling out the Trespassers, shows of determination, full hamminess, etc. etc. or in Motya's case, being Motya. 
))
It That Embraces is... oddly calm. Oddly calm, given that she's no ENG, no Motya. It's not the calm of a battlehardened warrior. Or a madman. It's the calm of someone who knows they have no reason to fear. Someone who knows what's coming and is completely and utterly prepared. Her eyes do not ignore what comes. They watch it, they judge it without panic or concern, and they find it to be of no danger.
Why?
The reason becomes clear, once everyone has a moment to tear their eyes off of the Trespasser. Or once one begins to falter or give in. She lets them fight without her as long as she can. A mother knows that her children must be allowed their own victories, that strength must be applied with a delicate touch.
Eventually, even those that do not need Her at all see why It That Embraces was not at all concerned: when they hear the words of the Primordial. Not 'understand', but hear. In this plane there is no difference, of course. She speaks in a sweet, motherly, protective voice, yet her tone is cold, harsh, judging the thing before her.
"How cute. But it will not save you from your just rewards."Among the humans, the mortals, the puppets, the dragons, the divine, the other things that struggle against the Trespasser, there is what can only be described as a
deity, whether by man or by spirit or even by those who might think of themselves as gods.Not that the Primordial- and they all know it is the Primordial- looks much like their religious icons, but then, most gods take on appearances to interact with their followers, don't they? This is not an avatar. This is the true self.
The soul of It That Embraces is a
world unto itself. It towers above them, it stretches out far beyond their sight, envelops the mind's eye. If it had a shape, the world-soul might be in the shape of a woman, or perhaps a city that walks like a woman. A community, a home, a mother, a protector, all of these things in one. A part of it has been scarred, torn off and only barely healed- perhaps a part of its torso, a shark bite miles wide across its side- but that does not diminish Her grandeur, colors and shapes and forms that the human eye can scarcely comprehend.
Even that titan, however, is not all of what they see. For the titan has children. Subordinates. It is a thing unto itself, and yet it has thousands of components. Perhaps endless ones- who knows how many lie buried deep within it? But those that can be seen measure unto the thousands before one loses count.
Some are near Its surface. Souls that support skin and body. Things that are almost human, things it cares for, things it protects, and things that in turn lend strength to Its Embrace.
Others are far
greater. Others swarm out, answering the unheard call. The call of suffering around them.
The Eyes of the Primordial see all that there is to see among the mortals in its charge. They see who hurts, who does not. Who needs to be helped and who needs to be left alone. How to best help them, to guide them, or to help them help themselves. They watch, they guide, they direct. Like a mother's insights they are unseen, immaterial, but as real as everything else.
The Arms of the Primordial rush forth, valiant warriors to defend those in need, those in danger of breaking. The Primordial's legions, they are not unlike its avatar, but they are stronger, faster. Women of races familiar and alien, wielding spears of jade and rose quartz. Shields upon shields to go with the arms they carry. Their bodies are barely covered, though their beauty lies in their power, their dedication, more than their figure. Their strongest protection is the promises that are carved into their skin in shining ink, glowing fiercely through manes of shimmering hair.
We will protect them.
We will defend them.
We will preserve them.
They will not come to harm.
They will not suffer the blades of another.Many of them wear something else as well: the names of those they have failed. A grim reminder of their duty.
The Claws of the Primordial are the wrath of a woman scorned made manifest upon the world of souls. They are flurries of vengeance that charge into the Trespasser's maws, tearing at it with no regard for their own safety, laughing at the damage they might sustain. Their blades are forged with the grief of lost loved ones, the sorrow of every parent at their child's grave, the sadness that comes from watching people you care about as they suffer. The rage of the victim's family, of the big sisters who see their siblings hurt. All these things and more cut deep into the otherworldly devourer, driving it back to the nothingness it so greatly longs for.
The Hearts of the Primordial defy description. The human eye cannot understand them, alien organs that power entire civilizations within the Primordial's body. To stare at them is to stare into the sun. Yet their presence still brings with it an aura of benevolence, and they quietly float behind the battling warriors, their energy radiating for those in need to take it. They say little, but what they say is volumes.
You can do it. You are strong. You will prevail.The Hands of the Primordial are caretakers, comforters. Mothers, as it were. They cradle those who fall, bringing them safely behind the Arms. Their forms are familiar, comforting, and full of warmth. They smile and squeeze and Embrace and they hold their charges close, whispering sweet, gentle words, draining the stress from their minds.
It'll be alright. You're safe now. I'm here.The Fingers of the Primordial are crafters. Builders. Homemakers. They weave not cloth and silk, but emotions. Memories. The true building blocks of a home- those are their stock and trade. And these tradeswomen are masters of their art. They build roads and fortifications in the void, support the Arms and the Hands, take the energy the Hearts provide and mold it into things that are more than the sum of their parts. Shelters tailored to their occupants, to provide the background where healing can take place. To hold in the warmth of the hearth, the warmth that radiates from the Primordial's vastness. They forge weapons of grief, shields of mercy, trinkets of memories; things that arm and armor and protect and aid. These things they share, both with their fellow denizens of the Primordial and with the mortals in its care, should they desire them. Of course they are only things of the soul, but that is not a problem here, now, is it?
It wasn't long ago that the Primordial was cut off from Her soul, unable to bring Her true form to bear. Her avatar, and some minor reflection of her power, were all She could use. But with its body destroyed, the Trespasser chose to try to fight their souls, crush their wills, destroy their spirit. And in doing so, it brought this leviathan - Her true self - to the field of battle. A mistake, one that the Primordial will not let the monster recover from.
The Trespassers started this engagement, but the Primordial will finish it.
Amongst the armies, the cities, the world-spanning titan, the Trespasser who thought even for a moment that it could win, and the few mortals caught between them, there is one more figure. It That Embraces still has an Avatar, after all. The Face of the Primordial.
The mortals have seen Her before, but the dimensions they know are hardly able to capture Her true appearance. She is awash with color, eyes that burn with determination, hair flowing elegantly in unseen wind, the steady beat of heart and the sound of breath. She is the alien mother they have seen before, but She is also every other mother they have had, and many they have not. Familiar yet unimaginable, She stands before the titan, wordlessly ordering the armies of Her soul.
She is also the Voice of the Primordial. And She speaks again, Her features narrowing in rage born of sorrow and grief, staring directly at the puny thing that claims the title of Trespasser.
"You took them."From me. From us. From their families. From their friends. From their allies. From their enemies. From their teachers. From their students. From everyone they ever loved. From everyone who ever loved them. From their
lives. From their
worlds. A thousand things hang in the air, words not quite spoken yet quite understood.
The Primordial
snarls. It is not a sound that is pleasant to hear, coming from Her.
"Never again."
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Topic: Trespassers of the Multiverse: Gaiden [IC] Four is Death... (Read 786826 times)