Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander )

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Lysander
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Posts: 69

Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Feb 20, 2019 21:04:28 GMT

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Post by Lysander on Feb 20, 2019 21:04:28 GMT

His whole life was one of wonder, in that he always wondered about his purpose. Why was he here? What point of his life brought him to this? He couldn't fathom any instance in which he was truly meant for the life he lead. A bum on the street, addicted to a plethora of drugs. An alcoholic. His whole life seemed to be one mistake after another, constant decisions made in the wrong direction. Now, he walked down the streets of Chicago with nothing. No family, no friends. Only himself. His mother told him, when he was young, that he was special. He never felt that, never trusted that. The days since his mother's passing were the hardest, she was always the one utmost supporter of his endeavors. Even when he was thrown in jail, and locked behind bars a dozen or more times for his vices.

She always had his back. She always bailed him out, showed up to every trial - and always considered him innocent even when sentencing came. His last stint was fourteen years. He murdered someone in cold blood, for fifty cents and a rock. It was the lowest point in his life, and even then she visited every day. At least, until she died. And then the fucks wouldn't even let him out on a day pass to go to her funeral, he knew they offered it - other offenders got passes for less important things. One even got a pass so he could marry the pen pal he met while locked up. But him? Nah, they wouldn't even let him go to his mother's funeral. He'd nearly killed a guard that day, seriously considered it. The only person who ever stood by his side, and she was gone - and he couldn't even say goodbye. It was fucked up. That was the day he decided it was time to change.

He got his diploma in prison, Even went on, did some online courses and ended up with degrees in engineering, psychology, and criminal justice. He had a mind made to learn, and picked up on new things quickly and easily. His mother, were she around, would be proud of him. That much, he was sure of. He'd not touched a drug since getting out, and that was nearly five years ago. The problem wasn't his addiction anymore, it was just a lack of purpose, of drive. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, and with no one to ask for advice he seemed to wander about lost. He worked, he supported himself quite well. It just wasn't the job he was meant for, he didn't know how he knew - but he did. Something pulled at him, like it was trying to drag him toward something.

Instinctively, he touched the center of his forehead - almost like there should be something there, something missing. Something long since absorbed and put into him, but he couldn't put a finger on what it was - on what could be trying to pull him. He didn't know what was happening, he just knew he walked the streets without purpose or regard for where he went. His footsteps had no direct location in mind, they just wandered. They just kept moving, his body perpetually going forward. He found himself on the bad side of town, a part of town he'd been to before. More than once, honestly. He knew this area well, and he realized without even thinking about it where he was going.

His dealer's house. Well, the dealer he once used. The guy gave out good stuff, and his prices weren't unreasonable. Yet, why was he going there now? He wasn't planning to buy any product, and he for sure had no intention of using the products the guy sold. So, why couldn't he veer off his path? Why couldn't he just stop? He tried, he put all of his power into it. He put all of his strength into commanding his body to stop. It wouldn't, or couldn't. He wasn't even sure anymore. He resigned himself to the path, unable to venture off of it. He figured there had to be something higher than himself pulling the strings.

Another habit he picked up in prison, Christianity. It saved his life, literally. The word of God was something he constantly carried in his pocket. He needed it, the inspiration and motivation it gave him to do the right thing. It was a requirement for him now, a safety net to fall back on whenever anything went wrong. He pulled it out now, opening the pages and reading them. He didn't even watch his path, and seemed amazed when he was on the doorstep. The only reason he looked up then, was because his hand let go of the book on its own and knocked on the door.

The man who opened it saw better days, for sure. His ragged, dirty looks gave him away as a junkie. It was a former running buddy of his, and the man looked at him in bewilderment. "Astrom...Astrom Jones? When did you get out? Where have you been? You've not stopped by any of our spots."

"I gave that life up, Johnathan. I had to. I coudln't keep going down that path, and you shouldn't either."

"Don't give me your self-righteous bullshit, Astrom. You're not here to preach, you know better. There's only one reason people come here. And that's to score drugs. What's your poison, what kind of..," BOOM

The gunshot going off scared them all, especially Astrom as he pulled the hammer back on the revolver he didn't remember getting. His hand, under its own power, turned to one of the half-naked whores who undoubtedly traded their pussies for drugs. The trigger squeezed back, and the hammer fell a second time. And then a third. And then a fourth. In the end, the blood coating the floor stunk worse than the drug-riddled bodies of the addicts he killed. Finally, he found some semblance of control over himself again. He dropped the gun, looking horrified as his eyes scanned the handiwork.

"Dear Christ...what have I done? Wha..."

"You will not speak the name of that foolish mortal around me, Child." The voice boomed, louder than anything he'd ever heard in his life. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once. He turned on the balls of his feet, constantly scanning with his dark eyes. His mouth open in shock, surprise. He could barely formulate a response.

"G..God...is...is that you God?"

"Half right, mortal. I am not your God, not yet anyway. But I am, in some ways, God. I am your Father, as far as you're concerned. The one who marked you. The reason you're here. You held on too long to the hatred in your heart, it needed to be stifled. You cannot reach your potential while fighting with such tumultuous emotions. It had to be done, now come. Follow my voice, and come to me." The voice shifted, and it was clearly coming from behind the door into the bathroom off to the side. How anyone could be in there, Astrom wasn't sure - that place was a cesspool if he remembered correctly.

Yet, he walked to it just the same. His hand touched the knob, turning it and pushing open the door. His foot stepped across the threshold, and into his new life.

--------------------------

On the other side of the door, the moon of Phyla glistened brightly - and in the middle of it sat a gigantic house. Astrom wasn't a man who had a sense of things, but even he could feel the pure, unadulterated power radiating from it. From inside of it, and all around it. His mind took in everything around him, and though he felt fear and worry, he walked toward the sound of the voice - to the house. While it constantly goaded and called for him to follow. His curiosity outweighed the crushing fear, and his hand touched the knob and turned - walking through into the entryway.

"Welcome, Son. Welcome to your home, to my home. To our home. I'm sure you have questions, and they will be answered in time. For now, though, we must make some changes."

Athanasius shifted - snapping his fingers and pulling Astrom's body to him. His right index touched the spot on his forehead, and the mark of Athanasius pulled from deep within him. Astrom screamed, pain destroying every fiber of his being - even as Athanasius rebuilt it from nothing in his image. When it ended an eterenity later, Astrom stood to his full height. He felt the power flowing through him, and everything seemed...different. He didn't wonder anymore, he knew. He didn't have questions, he had answers.

His flowing, maroon robe touched the ground at his booted feet - and his hood pulled up. He turned to look in the mirror, and his own reflection sent chills down his spine. His angled face was mostly untouched, yet his hair was long and silvery - his ears pointed back like those of elves in fantasy stories he read as a child. His eyes though...the black flecks floating through them - the change of their color to a brilliant orange. It shook him to the core, how could this man...this being...this God do this?

"Master...am...am I truly your son?"

"In a manner of speaking, Child. I chose you at the moment of your birth, I plucked you from your crib and marked you as my own. I chose your name, I chose your life. I chose everything that lead you to this point. To your Ascension. Welcome, Envoy Astrom. You will be my Right Hand, you will be the one who works in my name. In secret, and in the open. I have summoned you, I have changed you, for one purpose. There is one who goes against the Chaos I wish to incite. Stop him."

"But..Master, how will I find him?"

"Reach within yourself, you have my power. All of it, as much of it as you could ever want or handle. Be careful not to over do it, but for the most part your body is indestructible. You have the power to do what is necessary, now..begone."

Athanasius flicked his wrist, and the effect of it sent Astrom flying back to Chicago.

----------------------------------

He awakened in the floor of the dealer's house, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. Blood still coated everything, that much didn't change. The people lay there still, cold, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. He pushed himself up to his feet, turning his head left and right. Sirens rang out, he knew the cops were coming. Yet, he didn't feel the fear he once would. He felt nothing more than excitement. He stepped out the door as they screeched to a halt, and his hand lifted - many of them saw this as a threat and immediately began firing their weapons. Dozens of them firing their pistols and assault rifles.

Astrom simply swept his hand to the side and the bullets perforated other houses and cars. People inside and outside fell dead on the spot, and his eyes only seemed to grow darker. His lips curled up in a smile, the brilliant orange of his eyes blazed with the power burning in him. He opened his mouth, and the guttoral scream was only hidden by the roaring bellows of fire protruding from between his teeth. When he closed his mouth again, everything around him was burnt to ash. Bodies lay smoldering, cars and metal twisted and melted together.

The glory of it was wondrous. Could any on this world stop him? Could any person anywhere in the whole of the Multiverse stop him? He wasn't sure.

Last Edit: Feb 20, 2019 21:23:07 GMT by Lysander

Magustus Caesar
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Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Feb 24, 2019 2:09:38 GMT

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Post by Magustus Caesar on Feb 24, 2019 2:09:38 GMT

Abruptly, he awoke from his idyllic slumber.

A normal human would have woken up with a migraine, nausea, sweats, and a myriad of other symptoms following the extended period of debauchery Venthon had indulged in; but yet none of these plagued him. It seemed his sojourn into mortality was at an end for the moment. There was naught but one reason the seals that bound him into the nadir of existence would have broken like this, unbidden. Something must have triggered instinctual contingencies established in his subconscious. Despite this fact, Venthon noted a distinct absence of any presence within his immediate awareness capable of causing such a reaction.

He arose to an upright position upon the luxurious bed amid the entangled limbs of the naked bodies that lay around him. Venthon focused his Etheric Eyes — a method of sight which directly connected his awareness into the ethereal imprint of the world — in search for any signs of the unknown presence that awoke him. He quickly discerned the remnant of a tear within the planar tapestry, the mark of something from beyond having breached the boundary of this realm.

Why?

A minor exertion of his re-awakened powers altered the values of his relativistic position and translocated him to a balcony outside the hotel’s penthouse suite. The wind, which stirred the light golden strands of his hair from where they rested, was recognized as being chilly in the back of his mind, though it did not cause the alabaster flesh of his naked physique to shiver from its touch. Nor did the fading light of the sunset cause discomfort as his amethystine gaze stared directly into the distant nuclear inferno. Such mortal frailties no longer affected him.

What has transpired here? That was a question he would have to investigate the answer to. He extended his consciousness into the location's etheric overlay, though nothing of significance was to be found therein. It was seemingly just a dime-a-dozen drug den with dead bodies littered about inside; this was not a scene deemed unusual in Chicago. Though something had been here, that much was certain.

As a by-product of his consciousness interacting upon the ethereal plane, his presence overwhelmed lesser minds and pulled them in like moths to a flame. Mortals of weak will found themselves utterly enthralled to him, their numbers plentiful in the squalid borough. If his influence withdrew from the area now it would leave them adrift in a labyrinth of insanity, searching for their guiding light.

The otherworldly presence returned suddenly, then it just as swiftly vanished once again. The only thing Venthon was able to identify, as his consciousness was briefly driven back by its Sovereignty, was the taint of Chaos. He began to wonder if this was to be a game of whack-a-mole. Wait… some fragment of it remained behind this time, unlike its previous sojourn. A spark of its own flame had been left smouldering among the corpses of society’s refuse. That was it! An outer entity must have claimed a mortal from this place, then returned the man after its designs for him were fulfilled. What an interesting development.

Venthon watched on from afar through Etheric Eyes as the mewling newborn tested its capabilities upon the unfortunate officers that arrived on the premises. The event elucidated him as to the outer entity’s purpose here; the creation of a spawn through forcible Ascension. He remembered when he was like this, newly Ascendant and believing himself invincible. But, one distinction separated his past from this man’s present, Venthon had achieved his Ascension without aid from any patron. There were no strings on him; whereas this Pinocchio was no real boy, just a marionette dancing about under the direction of an unseen puppeteer’s hand. This man is no better than those mortals subjugated by the touch of my presence. As the thought formed in his mind, he consciously took notice of the enthralled masses in the area for the first time. In that moment of acknowledgement, each dying ember of sapience sputtered out from the direct focus of his will.

This gave Venthon an idea.

From buildings and alleyways, the organic automatons ushered forth in lockstep unison. They were like a rising tide, driven onward by the singular fanaticism of their shattered psyches. The enthralled humans closed into a circle about Astrom that stretched back several blocks deep, with but a few yards between their innermost perimeter and the man. Their numbers clogged the streets and blanketed the rooftops alike as they swarmed in around him. The collective gaze of their empty, hollow eyes focused upon the recently entitled Envoy of Athanasius. A myriad of mouths spoke with a single voice, woven of disparate vocalizations. “Welcome, child. Hopefully, the spark of your awareness will not be as quickly extinguished as it was ignited. That would leave me… disappointed.”

Venthon remained back upon the balcony with arms folded upon the railing, beyond which a yawning abyss of empty air stretched out until it met with concrete far below. Upon his lips formed the flicker of a smile as the distant horde of thralls waited for Astrom’s inevitable response.

Lysander
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Posts: 69

Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Mar 11, 2019 18:30:14 GMT

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Post by Lysander on Mar 11, 2019 18:30:14 GMT

Astrom lingered there. His eyes cast upon the bodies of policemen lain to rest, and around him sprang the balance of his equation. Where he walked, the universe sought to produce order – to combat the waves of chaos spreading out from him. The very influence of his existence tore down the natural order, destroyed the proper way of things. His very existence was an affront to the Gods themselves, and yet – the power of their greatest enemy flowed through his veins. White-hot, it tore through him, likening to burn his soul to a cinder. And yet, he contained it. He held it, he wrapped his mental fists around the hilts of his power and brought it to bear like a swordsman trained in a perfected art. He found no peace in that, though, no sense of elation at knowing he held his might in check. It was a struggle, one he was destined to lose should he waiver from his path for even a second. He looked upon their desolated bodies, the blood pooling on the concrete. Even as weeds grew, and plants retook their souls to give new life where only death could tread, he watched.

People poured from the alleyways, from the streets and from their homes. They walked like mindless, unthinking slaves. Zombies, of a type, who spoke in unison the words of an unknown. Astrom canted his head to the side, and he reached out – his senses sharpening as he caught the trace of power that lingered upon their minds. Threads of magick, flowing from the source to the people – each of them in turn. His psionic impression conglomerated upon them, and they followed a lead they didn’t fully understand. Dogs on leashes. It disgusted Astrom, it reminded him of his past. His days chasing high after high. Except, they didn’t have a choice. Of course, neither did he. His hand waved, nonchalantly cutting his fingernails through the threads of influence. The people, no longer under the control of Venthon, fell to the ground – their minds basically lobotomized with the act.

His eyes closed, and he murmured beneath his breath. He traced the source of influence back to the origin. He shifted, turning his head toward the direction of Venthon’s balcony. He spoke, his voice barely a whisper. Venthon heard it as if he stood right next to him, the voice projected across the distance. “You should have minded your own business, Horseman.”

Yes, Astrom knew what the other was – the sentience of Athanasius passing through their unbreakable bond, information gathered from the very furthest reaches of all. He could feel the other’s power, and he could sense it to be far beneath his own. At least, the might he could one day utilize given his connection to the Embodiment of Chaos. As the phrase finished, he flicked his finger and the structure of the building upon which Venthon resided began to crack and shift. The ground rumbled beneath it, collapsing the building upon itself. For the majority of the people within, the only outcome was death. Bodies mangled and twisted like pretzels in the concrete and steel, blood ran along the ground like water. Before they could even fathom a response, Astrom beat the police and firemen to the scene.

He appeared at the untouched balcony upon which Venthon stood, his naked frame exposed to the elements. The balcony was kept secure, safe. Astrom ensured its survival in the collapse of the building around it. Only now, it resided upon ground level and Astrom looked Venthon in the face. His smile only grew. “A true, in the flesh horseman of the apocalypse. This would have been an honor a few hours ago, you know. Now, though, I find you only as the mildest of annoyances.

You should leave, while you can still will yourself to do so.”

Magustus Caesar
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Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Apr 3, 2019 4:06:18 GMT

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Post by Magustus Caesar on Apr 3, 2019 4:06:18 GMT

There was a possibility that Astrom would one day surpass Venthon in terms of both skill and power, but right now was a different matter.

Astrom’s attempt to sever the connection between Venthon and his horde of thralls would fail for two reasons. Firstly, there were no strings of energy that reached out from him to the enslaved masses to be severed by an idle gesture. The minds of the thralls had been utterly subsumed and supplanted by a microcosm of Venthon’s own consciousness. This created an interconnected network of the Self that was spread across myriad nodes within the physical spectrum but existed as a gestalt in the metaphysical spectrum; this allowed a form of connection through non-locality which bypassed a direct interface. The mind is whole even if the body is fragmented. Secondly, as each thrall acted as a node that connected its replica of Venthon’s consciousness into the greater whole of his consciousness they also acted as a source of his Sovereignty; this meant while Venthon’s core power was no stronger than it was before he was able to apply it using any of the thralls as an origin point as if they were himself. Therefore, to act directly upon any of the thralls through metaphysical forces would be as difficult a task as doing so to Venthon’s own physical form. However, this offered no defense against damaging them through physical phenomenon manifested by metaphysical means. If Astrom had unleashed his flame breath upon them then they would have been roasted as readily as the other charred corpses that surrounded him. Yet in his hubris, Astrom had tried to exert supremacy over them instead, a supremacy that he was unable to achieve.

In response to Astrom’s initial reply, the horde let forth a cacophonous choir of screams that echoed off and reverberated through their surroundings as they charged across the short span of distance between them and him.

Meanwhile, atop the distant balcony, Venthon shaped a work of spellcraft and manifested it into the weave of causality to conjure four spherical rifts behind himself that connected each to one of the four elemental planes. The very space in a small radius around each was distorted by the extraplanar causality imposed by them to create coronas of their respective elemental transmutations.

Bereft of their original minds, there was nothing to restrain their muscles from pushing past normal limits to throw them headlong towards their quarry. Bones cracked and muscles tore even before they were able to reach Astrom. Blood stained the terrain in their wake as they pushed on relentlessly. As the bodies of the thralls began to deteriorate, the replica microcosms of Venthon’s mind accessed his wellspring of energy to invoke biomantic alterations upon their forms. The torn muscles and broken bones regrew, denser and stronger than before. The teeth and nails became fangs and claws. A mimicry of the vein-wrought and bone-etched leylines that suffused Venthon’s own body were now replicated inside of each of his thralls. The opportunity for Astrom to easily dispatch them had passed by. Their vocalizations were likewise empowered by these factors. The chorus of screams reached a sundering pitch that cracked asunder the concrete structures and terrain around them. As the cacophony came in upon Astrom from all sides it was upon him the vibrations crested to their maxima.

When the thralls did reach Astrom, the horde tore into him with zealous abandon. Their fangs and claws would rake across him. The unrestrained physiology of the thralls meant each would tear itself apart if even to cause a single scratch to his skin. Death would come by a thousand-thousand cuts if they were not dealt with.

Astrom might well consider merely following through on his original intentions to destroy the building Venthon stood upon the balcony of and translocate over there as originally planned. However, this would also be thwarted by the nature of the gestalt mind shared by Venthon and his thralls. Astrom was in the center of myriad overlapping points that each expressed Venthon’s Sovereignty at its maxima. Astrom was therefore caged in by a living henge which blocked his influence from reaching past its boundary.

Venthon’s lips quirked upwards at one corner into a smirk as he watched on from afar. “You will have to do better than that,” his whispered remark lost in the howl of the winds around him on the balcony.

Lysander
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Posts: 69

Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Apr 29, 2019 16:38:53 GMT

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Post by Lysander on Apr 29, 2019 16:38:53 GMT

Astrom found no amusement in the horde of people not falling over, nor did he find the influence Venthon poured over them really worth the effort. Minimal effort, sure, but effort nonetheless. Venthon chose to sequester himself away, to hide. To not face his enemies, or his fights, like a man. True, the same might be said of Athanasius – yet, this wasn’t a battle they picked. Astrom’s mission was not this, not the murder of Venthon or these thronging hordes of basically undead. His goals held no bearing on this moment, this situation. He found no amusement or valor, no glory or honor. Only the insufferable feeling of boredom. Even as they refused to succumb to his lobotomizing of their brains, he enacted the eventual dissection of their bodies. His fingers danced idly along the air, drawing with the power manifested through him. Drawing from his Father, his Grandfather. Their powers flowed effortlessly through him. Perhaps his power was not yet what it would become, but perhaps power wasn’t the only way to end a life.

His smile darkened and his hand enclosed around the drawing in the air – power manifested reality, and in his hand was a symbol of his youth. A symbol of something, an ideal, a world. Not his world, perhaps not even any existing plane. Yet, a memory drawn from the wellspring of his mind – a sword, single-edged and slightly curved. On the blade, a heron. The same again on the hilt. His right hand closed around it, and he let his eyes ponder it for a moment as the advancing horde seemed to slow in his mind. A heron-marked sword, in the world of Jordan it signified a master of the blade, a man whose sword was such an extension of himself that only another master could truly combat him. Was Astrom such a man? No. Of course not, but at the same time Astrom wasn’t even a man to begin with.

As the horde lunged for him, their bodies breaking themselves and rebuilding with each thrust of themselves forward – he channeled his power. With it came knowledge, understanding. In a matter of nanoseconds, he learned what it took others countless years to learn. He understood the way of the sword, and not only did he understand it – he used his insight and power to improve upon it. He moved with the fluidity of a snake, the gracefulness of water flowing on the riverbanks. And he cut just as deeply. His sword was nothing more than a blurred, sparkling sigil of death. The creature's bodies might regenerate, might keep attacking as long as their mind remained intact, but Astrom was untiring. His resolve unwavering. The sword struck with the darkness of finality, wherever it touched skin rotted away and living things died. Venthon’s power, as strong as it might be, would not save them from their own demise. Their minds could not withstand the finality he gave them.

At the end of it, he was covered in more blood than he could fathom – but they lay cut to a million pieces, limp and unmoving. Astrom enjoyed that, really. The wanton destruction of their bodies, the cutting of their existence. The removal of the stain upon the world their lives represented. Afterward, he stuck his sword into the asphalt – and it dissipated as quickly as it apparated. He stood amongst the dead, that was all that remained here. His influence seeped out, their bodies dissipating into the ether. The blood coating him fell away, and he looked toward the horizon.

“Come, now. Is that the best you can do? Some underlings? Mindslaved minions who hold no dominion or power? Tsk, tsk.”

Magustus Caesar
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Of Gods and Mortals (Magustus Caesar vs Lysander ) Jul 30, 2019 6:59:06 GMT

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Post by Magustus Caesar on Jul 30, 2019 6:59:06 GMT

As Astrom slaughtered his way through the horde of thralls in the faraway ghetto, Venthon prepared himself to make a proper introduction.

Firstly, he required suitable attire for this sojourn from his ivory tower and into the abode of society’s refuse. He held his arms aloft to either side, mirroring the image of Christ in his crucifixion. This was not a strictly necessary component, but Venthon found amusement in the analog. The winds that swirled around his naked physique were transmuted into threads of fabric; these threads then wove together into a suit which enshrouded his frame. However, a secondary component was intermixed into the composition of his new clothes: his own blood. It was drawn forth from stigmata rent open within his palms, and in its infusion completed the Sanguine Sacrament. A crimson shroud. A veil of blood. He then idly rubbed a thumb across the wound in each opposing palm, mending the injuries to fain scars in their passing.

Secondly, Venthon began coding the framework of a spell as Astrom neared the completion of his massacre-in-progress. Although it was not immediately manifested upon the world. Rather, Venthon brought it to the precipice of its culmination: ready to unleash with a thought yet restrained; a necessary step to avoid wasting its effect or tipping off Athanasius as to his intentions.

As the last subjugated body fell under the heron-marked blade, the sound of one man’s slow clap echoed off the remnants of the structures torn asunder in the brief and one-sided conflict.

Venthon stood a dozen meters away from Astrom. His hands coming together in congratulatory repetition. “Nicely done, child.” Despite the condescension one might associate with such words, there was no trace of that sentiment in his tone. “Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Venthon Ayden Forsythe, the Horseman of Conquest. I would very much like for us to have a chat, but first…” He triggered the completion of his spellcraft.

The previously wrought framework manifested itself upon the weave of causality, using the the dispersed energies of the countless butchered souls that were still bound by the microcosms of his consciousness that had subsumed their own as both anchor and fuel. The result of the spell was akin to a dimension barrier of sorts, blocking out external influence from permeating the area. A bounded field. A temporary state of metaphysical lockdown that sequestered both individuals away from the influence of external sources.

Astrom would be left bereft of both the knowledge and power offered to him by Athanasius. Of course, he would retain his ascended state and all benefits of his rebuilt form. But for now, the puppet was for this moment devoid of his strings. However, this was not a one-sided affair; the four spheres that served as gates to each respective prime elemental plane were extinguished by the effect Venthon wrought to afford them a few moments privacy.

Venthon truly did not seem to be taking this moment of advantage to… well, press the advantage. In fact, he began to stride towards Astrom without any malicious intent detectable in his demeanour or aura. “My apologies, but I would prefer our discussion remained private. Whatever created you, it does not need to be involved.” There was a definite change in his behaviour from previously, when he had unleashed the horde of thralls upon Astrom. Was he trying to bait Astrom into lowering his guard or attacking recklessly, or were his preceding actions the ruse? Astrom had but a few moments to decide before Venthon would have drawn to within a meter of him.