Grymfalk’s cut down. She’s hurt. No, no, no, no.
He made a promise. He made a fucking promise. He couldn’t keep it. He’s tired of levin, the way it lights up all the faults in his world. He thinks by way of control and compromise… that he can stop these sorts of things from happening. That he can save-
Not the world. Fuck that. He just wants to save his friends. He’ll damn well try even if he dies, and it’s this that pushes him up even as the crackling levin tries to hold him down.
Otolin Stone is on his feet, staring straight forward. He takes a deep breath, pushing back against the pain coursing through him, and murmurs something:
“… I… I don’t… I don’t serve the dead, for I make… I make them.”
He preaches. He posits. He pulls upon all the power within, and then begins to cast the gates open. It isn’t slow. It’s swift.
Those who know always ask about the last one, don’t they?
There are pops within the darkness, loud snap-cracks of levin and thunder settling on the horizon of everyone’s ears. There is purple and orange, a cacophony of colors pushing back against the atmosphere to fill the cathedral, casting their own tapestry and spilling over the old stonework and ancient statues.
There is Otolin, and then there isn’t. The darkness clears before its steps, a monstrosity of purple aether with purple irises tinged by orange flecks of fire, and fangs that extend with a breath, and then withdraw with the next. There is woe.
Then… there is a -ninth- pop. And then another. For someone, it may even be a touch harder to perceive, to understand. They are in the presence of something… different. Someon- no, in this moment, this is -something-.
The monstrosity of shadow That-Was-Otolin begins to disappear, begins to shift and shamble back into his form. That purple aether creeps and clambers before it’s writhing and wiggling beneath red skin that turns back to his natural color, and the colors of his eyes shift into a blood-red to match the aura of aether around him. More pops. Eleven. Twelve. Half of a halo of levin forms above his head. Thirteen. The half-halo begins to extend, forming a three-quarters circle now.
There’s a blinding flash of light buffeted by the shadows that coagulate around what was Otolin’s form, bashing and beating against one another, until they begin to form perfect orbs that come to float behind the figure. More difficult to perceive. How does one see a sinner? A slaughterer? A saint-turned-
No time to think, not anymore.
One. Last. Pop. A final. fourteenth. This isn’t fantasy.
Behind him, there are fourteen orbs, alternating between light and shadow. They spin in a circle slowly, drifting, watching, waiting Sionnach, the Knight, the Tempest, all beings considered.
The halo circling atop Otolin’s head finishes the loop, sealing off, and with it, there is a large boom that sounds, as power just pushes and rushes out of the man’s form in waves, pushing back against the levin above. It doesn’t harm him anymore. Doesn’t hurt him. Doesn’t even worry him.
He looks to Sionnach and tilts his head before he reaches up with one hand, swings it back and then forward against the levin halo. It crackles and snaps at his touch, but then tilts out of place just off to the right a touch.
“… do you know why… do you know the struggle within this existence?”
The Voice of A Million marches over his lips. It is dark and deep, and from the place in which dreams are born and die.
“… because I do, and for that? You. Are. Already. Dead.”