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[Digital Hellhound]

Mahet's smile was weary and forced, but Isra did not seem to mind. She let out another burst of pure, delighted laughter, rolling back and forth on her chair. The wine glass was knocked over and it's contents spilled onto the floor. Mahet simply pulled another one into existance, offering a gentle smile to his servant. Isra was a far cry of the woman he had discovered inside the raging nightmare all those years ago. The sickness - and the years she had lived through - had not been gentle to her. But the same spark of defiance remained in her eyes, the only sign of the confident, proud woman Mahet had seen spread his name throughout these years.

'...believe me, that wasn't easy to explain. But I guess that's what I get from taking her to a young man's dream, right?' Isra finished, and Mahet forced a dry chuckle in response. He hadn't really been listening. Isra was quite the storyteller, and loved to tell of her life. Normally, Mahet was intrigued by the world of mortals, drinking deep on her every word, but not now. The First Dreamwalker turned back to her drink, smiling, but that died out quickly. When she continued, there was more than a hint of concern in her voice.

'Alright, I can tell something's bothering you. What's going on?' Isra demanded and then quickly added; 'My Lord.'

They had grown much closer along the years, but she was still not sure if she fully knew her master. Mahet hadn't worn that detestable mask around her for decades, and was much less reserved than he was with others. But there was always that hint of some secret he was keeping, some hidden motive for his actions.

'Dreamwalker, I am afraid it is you.' Mahet replied softly.

Isra raised a quizzical eyebrow. Something warm was dribbling down the side of her mouth. She raised her hand to her face, tasting the substance even though she already knew what it was. Blood.

'Oh.'

'You lie on the table of the place you call home, your body fighting for survival, while your apprentice tries hopelessly to save you using everything in her knowledge - but you are beyond her means now.'

'So this..?'

'A feverish dream of your mind before it passes on to the realm of the dead. You are dying as we speak, Isra. And there is nothing I can do about it.' Mahet explained, calmly sipping his wine. Isra nodded slowly, looking thoughtful, though not very surprised.

'The realm of the dead, lord? What, exactly, will happen there?' she asked after a while.

'I know very little of this place, unfortunately.' Mahet started, 'I... actually wished to speak with you about that. I'm afraid I have one last request to ask you.'

Isra simply nodded, a faithful servant to the grave. She had not achieved her goals in the world, but her life had been good under the Dreamlord's wing. Perhaps one of her daughters could continue on her path.

'Simply allow me to follow your soul into the realm of the dead as it passes from your body. I wish to speak with the being that governs such a realm, if there is one. If not, you will still be doing me a favor I will not forget.' he explained. The bleeding from Isra's mouth was getting heavier and her vision was blurring, even in the dream-world. The beating of her heart was becoming fainter with every passing second.

'Of course, my lord. You... have been very kind to me, and I doubt you truly even need my permission. I will ask for one thing in return - look after my daughters and the girl who will continue my legacy - they must survive even when I pass away.'

Mahet nodded, and summoned a spear of glittering glass into his hands. With one swift movement, it passed inside Isra's ribcage and released her from the world of dreams - and the world of mortals.

---

Mahet stumbled and nearly fell onto the ground, hidden by the mists all around him. He stood at the foot of a vast fortress of black stone, struggling to make out anything in the darkness. This land felt cold and wrong, as if just being here was shortening his life. He vowed not to remain here any longer than necessary.

'I seek the master of this realm, if there is such a being. Who cares for the souls of the dead? Show yourself!' Mahet shouted, his voice booming through the bleak landscape. He doubted the master of a place such as this would be a pleasant god, and acted accordingly.

Mahet follows Isra's soul into Death's realm as it passes on

[ragnarok97071]

Your offer is acceptable, and in truth, it has the same end result. And without me having to lift a finger, even.
Let me think for a moment...
They will need lodgings, though not food. Due to the great survice that these dead have given to me, I would prefer that these be grand, and, since the dead need not rest, need only contain a dining hall and small living areas. These would have to be supplied with food and drink, of course.
As well, there should be a large open space for them to do battle amongst themselves or against any challenges which I choose to place them under. Preferrably, they should be healed and refreshed from these fights by the next dawn, regardless of their state of injury incurred therein, for them to better combat one another.
If you can make it, a place where they could hunt powerful beasts would also be of interest.
He thinks for a moment, and then nods.
yes, that's all. I have much to attend to in the mortal realm, but I will return. I find your company quite enjoyable. Possibly it is that I have met no other gods, and mortals are such dull conversation. All grovelling or demanding, I never get any prayer just for conversation. Then again, that may be my fault.

[Atilliano]

Life had been much better for the Wolf tribe since the Wolfmasters protected them from harm. They had enough food, water and living space, but they did not grow... Why not, when all goes well? Vjorn, the second best warrior of the tribe, lived a rich life compared to the others. He was second in experience and skill only to the Wolfmaster, Kenea'allor. Quietly, he sat in his hut, alone. His wife had recently died of a disease and he quickly became a shadow of his former self. Now, his muscles and skill rot away in his tent, never to be used. He hadn't been hunting for exactly one month now, for it was then when his wife joined the ancestors...for eternity.

Suddenly, a movement in the air, a change of scent, a change in everything that was normal. Something was happening. When he heard noices from outside, he grasped his spear which was standing against the wall, and ran out of his hut. What he saw was magnificent and beautiful, but at the same time scary and terrifying. before him, in the middle of the village, some sort of statue was pouring out of the ground. Root-like things emerged, made some weird loops and turns, and then vanished into the ground again. There was absolutely no telling of how deep the things went, but they were one meter in width, and made of a strange, unknown dark-green material with purple and yellow veins running through it. There were eight of them, and there didn't seem to be any kind of pattern in them. One more stone came out of the ground, a menhir, 7 feet in length, and a half in width. As sudden as it begun, it stopped moving, and everything was silent, while half the huts in the village lay destroyed and torn apart. Vjorn looked in awe at the 10 meters high root-things, and began thinking this could be a gift from their god. Kenea'allor was hunting, so no one knew what to do, except for him. slowly, he walked towards the menhir, and arrived there without any problem. people let out surprised screams and yells, when he touched it!

He wasn't able to retrieve his hand when he touched it. Powerful waves of energy flew through his body, it...changed. as sudden as it began, it ended with a loud bang, and he flew several metres backwards, against his tribesmen. When he looked at himself again, he noticed he was one feet bigger than normal, and he was wearing something never before seen by any of his people. he was wearing a suit of metal, which glistened in the sunlight like a bright star, but a purple star. His spear had been changed to something completely of the same metal, but instead of only having a sharp point, it also had a sharpened edge, and he held the now somewhat smaller weapon at the hilt.
as he stood up, he noticed the townsfolk looked at him in awe, and were mumbling thanks to Droth'Allor for yet another gift, all but one. the chief's oldest and also weakest son looked at him with greed and desire, and before anyone realised he had run off to the Menhir and touched it. a terribly bright yellow light emerged out of it, and when Vjorn could see again, the chief's oldest and weakest son, Hokaru, was no more...

Droth'Allor makes The Monument of Madness, a monument that grants great warriors the gift of Ironclad, which grants you a divine suit that protects you in battle and can never be removed, and makes you a feet larger, so you can strike fear into your enemies. It does the same thing to your weapon, which will transform into a sword. The chieftains eldest son has been burned into ashes by this Monument because he touched it without being worthy of the gift. Wolfmasters cannot become Ironclad as well, for it would be too much divine power for a mortal to handle, and he/she would go completely mad, eventually dying from pain. The second best warrior of the tribe, Vjorn, is the first Ironclad. The creation of the monument has cost the village half of it's huts.

[Evergod41]

Both delighted that His people were using His gift in a constructive manner, and disgusted they were limiting it's use to weapons and tools; Altair decided that He would show His true form to the people He has taken under His guidance, and not the animalistic one they know Him by.

Waiting for a night when no moon shone in the sky, Altair created a spark of lightning, merely for theatrics, and created a ring of non-spreading fire near where He made the Stone, then apparated primarily as a wounded hawk, to gather crowd and attention. When the current Artificer approached the flames, Altair struck with lightning once more, then transforming to His more human form. The flames remaining the only source of light.

"My people, as you have not seen me truly, you may not know who I am, and so I shall explain. I am your god, your savior, and your guardian. You have been using my gift wisely, gaining more territory and power, but that is your sole focus in life, you have yet to branch off to other possible ideas. Not every invention is a physical item you can hold in your hand, why even your ideal that my gift can only be helf by this 'Artificer' is an invention in it's own."

Altair, now seemingly floating over the flames, raises his arms, fully revealing their composition.

"My people, I represent all that you create, and I help you to acheive more, so that I may, in turn, grow stronger from your acheivements. If you limit yourselves, you limit what I can do. I do not want to have what seems to be the strongest tribe in the world, if they cannot acheive anything other than that."

Altair lowers himself back to the ground, turning the flames a variety of colors, each more beutiful than the last.

"My people, you too can create things that I can create, you just have to find out how...

Sighing, Altair strikes the ground once more with lightning, going back to a hawk, He flies over to the Artificer, lands on his shoulder, and enters the mans thoughts, though at first purely chaotic, Altair soothes the man's mind, and within an instance, teaches the man the artform of writing, along with it, how to domesticate plants and animals for more food production. Altair leaves the mans thoughts returning them to the way they were before, only now more enlightened about sciences.

"My people, though I leave you now, I shall return, and reward you based upon what you have created. But, do not let this task fall solely on the Artificer, though he bears my gift, you all are talented and can create wondrous things."

Finished, and satisfied, he took off once more for the peak, dissapearing once out of sight. The ring of fire lasted until the sun shone the next morning.

Altair shows his more human form to his people, along with some theatrics.

Altair teaches the current Artificer the art of writing, and of farming plants and animals.

Altair challenges his people to be more than they think they can, promising a reward for good effort.

[forsaken1111]

As He reaped His grim harvest, Death considered the words Lavos had spoken.

A small village on the outskirts of the buzzard tribe’s territory had been afflicted by an illness and He was called to collect His due. As He stood over a gasping man, dying in a filthy hovel, He considered the request and began to plan. The man’s family did not comfort him, for they did not understand this illness and ascribed his condition to ‘daemons’ and ‘spirits,’ so they kept their distance from the perceived evils.

No matter. Death knew the cause as Death knows all ways to kill and ways to die. It was His business, after all.

He reached out, his hand reaching into the man’s body and drawing out the soul. Like gossamer it came, clinging tightly to life but unable to resist His pull. As His peace settled upon the man, the body stilled and the soul fell limp. Death tucked away the soul and stepped to His next appointment. A man he knew quite well, the highest priest of the petty religion which worshiped Him in secret. As Death arrived, crossing untold miles in the blink of an eye by skirting the periphery of the mortal plane, His bleak gaze took in the surroundings. He know, as He always did, that a mortal’s death was near. A body lay upon a clutch of furs, swaddled against the biting cold of this northern clime and yet shivering as Death’s gaze passed over it. For the first time in many years, however, Death was surprised. This was not the one for whom He had come.

Drawn up short, Death surveyed the building with His gaze, a piercing vision which missed nothing. He saw them now, four men outside the door in crouched stance, and another six downstairs. What was this? Did they mean to attack? Him?

What utter foolishness, what arrogance!

He had not yet made his presence known, not manifested to the living, yet they somehow knew He had arrived. There! In the next room, the priest for whom He had come. He had no time for these mortal games. This was no threat to Him, and such arrogance could not be countenanced.

Did they think worshiping Him gave them some protection? It was time to take His due.

Death steps into the world, and the room chills. Frost forms over the furs swaddling the sacrificial victim, but He ignores the young woman for the moment. She stops her struggles against her bonds and her eyes go wide with fear as she recognizes His form. Her gagged mouth works soundlessly as she attempts to scream, but terror grips her throat like an icy hand. Death glides across the room, moving silently as a shadow, and the door to the hallway bursts open scattering the four men positioned there. A sweep of His scythe, and they were cut down without effort.

Downstairs, their six companions react to the commotion. They swarm up the stairs but Death spares them not a glance. As they reach the frozen corpses of their brethren, two of them blanch at the sight and fall back. That action saved them, as Death’s cloak billows out to cover the others. Their shrieks are terrible, and when the cloak falls away they are gone. The two who hesitated wisely choose to flee.

Death be not sated by this small vengeance, however. He turns to the architect of this folly, the high priest who imagines himself Master of that which he worships. Though wood and cloth separate the two, the priest feels Death’s gaze and clutches his heart as he falls back against the wall. Death seeps through the walls like blackest night made liquid and glares down as the man falls to his knees babbling prayer and apology. What ensues is inexplicable, but those outside recall a purple light shining from within the shutters of the small stilted hut and the stuttering scream of the high priest as Death’s wrath exhausts itself upon his pitiable soul. Of the priest’s body, no sign is ever found save the blood coating every interior surface.

Death returns to the room and the sacrificial victim stares at His horrific visage. As He prepares to depart, His gaze sweeps over her bound form. His voice issues forth, a whisper which rattles the hut and shakes the ground.

"Tremble brief mortal, and remember what you have witnessed. Those who imagine themselves master of Death will find no comfort in My embrace. These pitiful few will suffer without end, and their remaining kin will never again know peace. Remember."

And with that, He was gone.

Annya did not move for a long time, her body locked in place like a deer in headlights. When she did finally come to her senses, she realized her bonds were gone and she was no longer gagged. She unwrapped the furs the men had put around her to conceal her form from… she could not even think about that. Her hands began to tremble again as the images flashed before her eyes and she automatically whispered a prayer to the Silent One.

Silent One? He had spoken to her!

She had been taught that Death takes but Death does not speak, yet Death Himself had defied His own religion. She was very confused, but the men who had stolen her away would be back any moment and she needed to get away from here. She crept quietly to the door and peeked out, then pulled back in horror at the sight of maimed bodies upon the stairs and blood seeping from beneath the adjoining hut door. She unconsciously made the sign of the Scythe to ward off the fear she felt, and found herself surprised when her mind immediately calmed. She crept outside, carefully stepping over the bodies and out into the cold night. She ran off into the darkness, eager to be reunited with her family.

Death, no longer manifest, watched the girl run off. He had removed the girl’s bonds on a whim, but now He sensed her confusion and wondered at this 'religion' which surrounded his image in mortal eyes and minds. As the girl ran through the night to return to her family, he reached out and gave her shoulder the briefest of touch. She did not feel it, but even this brief contact left its mark and beneath her clothing a black shape in the form of a teardrop marred her skin. In time she, and those born of her line, would serve Him well.

His attention turned to Lavos’ request again as he stepped back to the realm of the dead and released those souls he had taken. He retained only the spirit of the priest and the men who had sought to attack Him, tucking those safely away next to His throne. They would come in handy during the execution of Lavos’ request… He steepled His fingers as he sat upon the Black Throne, mind racing with designs and plans.

Yes, He could almost see it now.

-----

Death slays his own High priest, who sought to usurp a god's place.

The descendants and family of the priest will never know Death's peace. Death refuses to take the soul of any descendant of the high priest. While they will still age, they will never die.

Annya has been marked by Death's touch, manifesting as a small black teardrop upon the shoulder. The mark will persist in all born of her line, though confers no special power.

[Digital Hellhound]

The mists clung to his robes as Mahet strode onwards in the lightless realm. The darkness felt heavy on his shoulders, pushing him down on his knes. Such a thing should have been impossible. He felt throbbing pain on his temples, an effect of the overbearing feeling of wrongness that hung in the air. Pained wails echoed through the landscape, emanating from inside the walls of the black fortress. This was a realm beyond the worst nightmares of any mortal.

The gates of the dark citadel lay ahead, eyes devoid of all hope staring at him from the ramparts as he approached. He was sure he could hear faint whispers of long-dead souls in his ear. Flickering images passed through his mind, cold, dark fragments of their past lives. Mahet willed them away, pushing his feet onwards and inside the black walls. He knew he would go mad if he let the images overwhelm him.

This was no place for the souls of mortals. They deserved better than this. Mahet was beginning to hate the being who ruled this world. He found new strenght in this, and marched on with renewed vigor. He had come here originally for information, nothing more, but a new goal began to form in his mind. Mahet strode quickly through the empty black halls and entered the throne room of the God of Death.

'The Dreamlord stands before you, creature. I have come to bargain for a soul.'

[forsaken1111]

Upon the Black Throne sat the Lord of the Dead, an imposing figure cloaked in darkness itself. In His right hand he holds the Scythe which reaps the souls of mortals at the slightest touch, in His left the Hourglass which measures their lives. The Dreamlord's words echo through the dread fortress's empty halls and suddenly all becomes still, even the whispers of the dead quiet and a grim anticipation is felt upon the air.

After a moment's silence, Death speaks. Though His voice is but a whisper, it is a chilling thing which claws at the mind and shakes the very walls of the fortress.

"Bargain? The souls of the dead are Mine. I see no reason to surrender even one to such as you, Mahet God of Dreams. I know your name, as I know all names. I know your death; its time, its cause. I know you followed a mortal soul here... Isra."

When death speaks the name of the dead, it has the tone of a command. Immediately the everpresent mists around the Black Throne writhe like a thing alive, disgorging the gossamer soul of the one known as Isra. It floats in the air before Death, barely human in form. Isra's face can be made out upon its surface, tranquil and sleeping. Death pays it no attention at all, never even glancing in its direction. It seems the summoning was not even conscious.

"Render not unto Me your petty judgements, I feel your scorn... your hate. Mine is a duty which must be performed, and it will be performed as I see fit. Now tell Me, dreamer, what do you offer Me which could leverage such a bargain?"

[Digital Hellhound]

Mahet avoided looking at Isra, visibly uncomfortable in her soul's presence. He was somewhat surprised at the nature of this god. He had been expecting an actively malevolent creature, but had instead encountered this cold, emotionless being that obviously cared little whether the souls of mortals suffered or not. He wasn't sure which one of them was worse.

'All mortals come to my realm every night. From their minds I gather information of the world of mortals - I suppose you could do the same once they have died, but their memories are much more vivid when they are alive. I offer to share this information in return for her soul. Surely you must be interested in the world beyond these dark halls?'

[forsaken1111]

Death listened to Mahet without reaction, and sat for a long time without response.

Was it minutes? Hours? You're finding it hard to judge time in this realm, and thinking about it makes your head hurt more. Sometimes things seem to move with an unnatural quickness, other times all seems slowed to an intolerable crawl... and it is getting worse the longer you remain.

You offer information in exchange for the essence of a life? Do you value Isra's soul so little? No... I have a task in mind for you. I shall employ you as a master employs a mason, and your wage shall be this soul you desire so dearly.

You will craft for me a dream, and no ordinary dream. This will be the Final Rest; that which all experience upon the transition. Observe the soul your eyes avoid. Isra enjoys the eternal peace of My embrace, and so would she remain for all time. All who transition to My realm exist in such a state, save those who I have deemed worthy of suffering for crimes committed. You will create a dream for this realm which will be shared by all I allow, which they will perceive after death. The Final Rest will react to the dreamer, shaping itself to their expectations. Each dreamer will have his or her own portion of the Final Rest, where they will experience their expected afterlife while their soul sleeps in My realm.

Death's whisper scratches at your mind, causing your temples to pound and your headache to worsen every minute. You begin to feel a chill seeping into your flesh, as though the cold stone floor were drawing the very life out of you. When you glance down you realize that the stone blocks of the floor... the mortar between them... even the walls and ceiling; all are made from the stuff of living souls and a thousand faces stare back at you in anguish and despair. Death continues speaking, unaware of your discomfort... or simply uncaring.

"You will create the life which exists after Death; though it will be but a shadow of the world, it will seem real to those souls dreaming it. Complete this task, and Isra is yours to do with what you will."

[Digital Hellhound]

Mahet didn't immediately answer. This dark god was offering him a chance to create a... if not better, atleast less pointless afterlife for the dead in exchange for Isra's soul. It would take some work, but this was a much better bargain than he had expected. When Mahet continued, his voice had lost most of it's edge.

'That is acceptable. Very well - I will return once the dream is ready.' Mahet turned to leave, but hesitated, 'But... information and knowledge are more valuable tools than you seem to believe. Do not underestimate such things.'

[Karnewarrior]

The landscape was pitch black, but it was nothing to Chlorine. He could see through the darkest of caves on the blackest of nights and pick a fly from a rock at a hundred meters. Still, his little world needed a light. So he made one.

A floating mote of light, the last form of a dead god of heros from a long-gone universe, was summoned on the tip of Chlorines finger. The light spread unnaturally far, lighting the slimy ground. Thorny tentacles caged in Chlorine, who made a face.

"Ugh. Well, I suppose someone needs to be a god of Gross Things That Grow On Old Bread. Who are you, why am I here, yadda yadda, do you have anything that doesn't make me want to vomit and eat that instead?"

[Caesar]

Chlorine's words were answered with naught but silence. Slowly, but steadily, the darkness crept up to absorb the light his fingers spread through the room with a slithering sound unlike that of any animal. The unnatural light in the waters no longer shone upon the walls, which turned darker with every moment passed. Yet, as endless as silence could seem, it was interrupted nonetheless, as the same distorted female voice sounded through the cavern:

"I do not have patience for your insults, baby brother."

The thorns scratched Chlorine's immortal skin, sending a shivering of otherworldly pain through his bones. As quickly as they had appeared, however, they disappeared.

"I am the Tainted, your elder sibling. I would once again like to welcome you to my realm."

Soft breathing sounded in the darkness. It was interrupted by a chuckle.

"I have many faces. I have many names. You can call me Ogdi, as did your Sister, Astra'lith"

She spoke the name almost as if it were an incantation, respectful and calm. Yet, through her voice shimmered more than it would at first reveal.

"My realm adjusts itself to represent what its visitors are like, deep inside. Congratulations, you are slimy and thorny. That much, however, we both already knew. I can only begin to fathom how little curiosity one of your kind could have, but even you must feel a certain need to know why you are here, where you are, and who I am. I will also postpone answering any of those questions until you have asked them yourself. After all, what good is a host if she does not allow her visitors to speak?"

The creature in the fountain faded away, leaving the caverns empty were one to trust the mortal senses. A vague divine influence, however, still contaminated the air, and Chlorine could feel many eyes resting on his form..

[Karnewarrior]

"So once again another goddess seeks to open my heart. Pah! I know exactly where I am, "sister". This is the Middle Realm, the land the Overgods claim as theirs." Chlorine spits on the floor, the tentacles writhing in the acidic libation.

"Sibling. Sibling! The nerve. You are a god," Chlorine drawled, spitting the word like a curse, "and I, you pitiful excuse for divinity, am a TITAN. I am everything a god isn't. I have seen worlds and crushed them like so many ants. This one will be no different.
"I am Chlorine the Destroyer, slayer of Gods and Goddesses, bane of a thousand realms! I am death and destruction and decay and evil made incarnate, the twisted lies of corruption and power! I am your elder, overgoddess, and I am more powerful than you know. You live now because I like to PLAY with my food!
"This world will burn like so many others, and while each death leaches your power, so I will grow stronger! Chlorine is unhakable, immortal, all powerful! I am Destruction! I am decay! I am death! I am every nightmare you've ever had made into one man, one being of such infinite grace and power that you cannot even comprehend the power I wield in my smallest finger! I am the element, the primordial, the all seeing eye and all engulfing blackness!
"You are what? A toy, a plaything, hardly even within my bounds to grasp, so insignificant are you. You are so predictable to me, ever so stubborn. You will fight, rightous rage in your heart and light on your tongue. And like the ones that came before you, you will fall, like so many blades of grass. I have seen marvels that were the envy of my equals, and you have no hope of victory. You want to cause me pain? Do you want to do even the smallest amount of harm? Lay down and die then, for that would at least remove what pitiable resistance you're able to scrounge from your dingy little ball of dirt. I will purge them in my flame, I will make of this world that much more glass!"

[Caesar]

She giggled. The sound echoed through the darkness, like the laughter of a young girl.

"There are those who think of future, and there are those who think of past. Some live in the present, but you, I will leave aghast."

The cave seemed to breathe around Chlorine, the smell of freshly planted crops tickling his nose. She knew how she could get to him. He was no challenge.

"Dear brother.." She spoke these words like a cobra hissing at its prey. ".. none of these achievements are yours. Not a world you burned, not a God you have slain. You are Chlorine the Preposterous, slayer of one harmless man, bane of his own continued existence. You are the result of death, destruction and decay, showing its harmful attitude towards itself."

"Not only are you weak and pathetic, brother, but you are also Chlorine the Ignorant. There is no Overgod but me, nor are you a Titan. The greatest oversight, however, is that to fulfill your self-given purpose, you will need to destroy what is most valuable to you: Yourself."

His own face looked at him, the eyes in a hideous glare, the body inviting, as if he were challenging him to strike. His own voice now boomed through the caverns, as the walls lit up in bright red flames, catching the muck and the slime on fire.

"You say you are here to destroy this world? This world gave birth to you; Its inhabitants did. So what are you, but the figment of the imagination of mortals- No, of my own. Were it not for my actions, these mortals would never had started worshiping you, were it not for me."

"I have many faces, brother. One of them is yours. Now, strike me, and we will bleed together. Decapitate me, and it will be your head that will land on this cavern's floor."

She flung her arms to the ceiling, in a wide gesture, before returning to a whisper.

"Or.. You can do the wise thing, and use this opportunity to aid your own enlightenment."

[Iituem]

Incarnation.  The Lady found herself in her grove again, momentarily disoriented.  The grove was quiet, save the distant chirping of insects beneath the moonlight.  She adjusted her snakeskin garb and frowned.

Something had tugged at her.  Her name.  Someone had dared to- but then they were gone.  The flicker of rage in the Lady's heart found itself replaced quickly with cold calculation, an animal instinct for a hunt.  But what trails were there?  There had been one for an instant, leading away from her into the distance, leading somewhere cold and dark, somewhere that smelled of rot and rage and pain.  Then the trail had snuffed out, like a rush of water across tracks in fresh mud.

She shook her head to clear the thoughts.  There were other things to do.  Time to discarnate again.  The Lady let her body fade and her mind flow back into the subhuman divinity of Strife, but found her thoughts wandering briefly to the question of 'Ogdi' before they ceased to take a human form at all.