End of the Line

[Franky]

Searing 33, 123

Franky was sat at his desk, a piece of parchment unfurled before him, staring out the window at the sky, seeing how the new black moon was nestled between the other two. This world, ruled by the gods and other forces far greater than any mortal was not one that could be fixed by those being oppressed by the divine and powerful. It didn't matter what anyone did, truly, no matter how much one wallowed in the muck, pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, fought against the chains of mortality, at the end of the day, anyone and everyone could be made to no longer exist faster than the blink of an eye.

The only way to truly stand up to those above was to leave behind one's own mortality. Shaeoth had managed to do so, all of this seemingly the after effects of his ascension. And now the god could do as pleases, protect and help those he pleases, cut down those he cares not about, and the only one he answers to is a God so vast and powerful that Franky could only imagine that any mortal concerns were further beneath him than the stress of ants beneath Franky's own floorboards.

Dalma was slinked across her favorite chair, smiling at him with her pure, ebony eyes. Franky wasn't sure what had happened with her, why her eyes were like that, but he knew now that it was tied to her gift of Foresight. Maybe it was tainted by him, by the deal he'd fashioned to acquire it for her. Maybe it was the Eclipse. He didn't know, but he did know that the words she spoke, the advice she gave, all seemed to be leading him down one road, and it was one he was readying himself to take.

It was time to shed the mortality that was known as Franky, to stop clinging to the past, to start with fully embracing the Archdemon into which he was transformed. Franky looked down at his yellowing pocket calendar, one of the few remnants of supplies left from this last year of hell in Zaichaer. Tomorrow was the one year anniversary of when he'd made the one in a trillion longshot and found himself standing before the Dragon King himself, as well as many other gods. He'd managed to make a deal to freeze the rift in place, in exchange for becoming more, embracing Sacrifice and Suffering, so as to acquire the strength to close the rift once and for all, himself.

He'd not had much headway.

There was too much damage, too much chaos, too much fear and stress and help needed. There was too much mortality, within him and around him. He'd failed. Tomorrow, the rift would spill forth, and all of Zaichaer, and possibly Karnor, would be lost. It would become another Wasteland, like so many others that speckled the world. He reached for his pen, stopping, his hand hovering there.

"She'll be fine without us. She's on her own path now."

Franky looked up at his wife, "It's not that."

She smiled softly, "If she comes back, she'll be a weak spot for you, an adversary that knows you."

Franky knew this to be true, his lips a thin line. "You've already killed enough people that you love, let's leave her be."

His eyes flashed hotly, his jaw clenching, the veins in his neck bulging, Dalma smiling coyly with those empty eyes. She was right and he'd already long since made up his mind. And so, he picked up his pen and set ink to paper.

Yeva,

Set your eyes on any land but Zaichaer. This realm is now mine and should you step a single foot within it, I will cut you down myself, after first taking any others you bring along, so that you may see the error of your ways. Zaichaer has suffered enough, and I will be ending it, myself.

Goodbye,

Franky


He folded up the paper and stamped a wax seal into it using the face upon one of his demonic coins. He looked up at the door to his office, and Hobbie opened it, allowing a short gnome man to enter. "Ready to send that delivery, Mr. Franky?"

Franky nodded, "Yes, thank you, Babiddy Fleetfoot. See to it this reaches her hands, wherever she might be, and you may name your mortal price."

The gnome winked, grabbed the letter, and blinked out of sight.

The bombs were away, so to speak now. Franky stood up from his chair, knowing what was coming next, knowing what he must do. He reached up on his wall, grabbing his sword and shield there. He belted the sword for now, as a soft glow emanated from the innards of the shield. Ah, he'd almost forgotten. He plucked out the glowing white feather, the gift from Talon, one that had been most useful in fighting back various monsters, keeping the grotesque changes at bay, inspiring hope in all. A powerful talisman and ward, one that without, he wouldn't have made it this far. Another symbol of gods he to whom he was beholden.

He set the feather upon his desk, the light glow still there, a pure in hope and innocence.

Franky turned away, closing his eyes, he reached inwardly, embracing that power he'd been given. From the depths of Suffering, he began calling forth the entirety of his power of Sacrifice, granted by Malgar. A deep breath rose and fell in his chest, a calm coming over the goblin turned demon. His eyes opened, empty and dead, his demonic visage having replaced his mortal form entirely now.

In one fluid motion, he turned while drawing his sword, and slashed it down through the feather and desk both. A huge flash of white filled the space as the first Sacrifice was claimed by the demon. There in the wooden rubble, two halves of a wholly mundane feather lay. He turned back toward Dalma, seeing the walls of the Gobbler had turned fleshy and moist, Hobbie's true form revealing itself. He could already hear the startled screams downstairs. Dalma stood from her chair, walking toward him, moving in that same way she had all those years ago when she stole his heart the first time, though then her eyes glowed red from the fire she had danced around.

She draped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her lips firmly against his own, him pulling her hard against him with his shield hand. And then the kiss broke, and she stepped back, looked him straight in the eyes and nodded.

Shunk.

Franky buried his sword to the hilt in her gut, stabbing upward to sever the heart, finding it curious as he watched no change in her black eyes as her life faded. He tossed her corpse to the floor, and he stepped out of his office heading down for the kitchens. He opened the door, to see his chefs all standing upon the counter there waving about their knives.

"What foul monster are you?!!"

Chestnut meanwhile was tossing food into the flaming mouth that had once been the fireplace. "I knew you were alive..." she whispered.

Franky walked toward the other goblins, his wife's blood dripping from his drawn sword, "I'm taking care of it."

A quick slash separated feet from ankles, and a few quick stabs silenced the shocked and betrayed cries. Chestnut didn't even notice as the blade was stabbed through her spine, as Franky kicked her into Hobbie's mouth. Franky pushed open the door as he stepped into the bar, his shield already raised.

KTANG!

The first bullet ricocheted off his shield, Weston staring down the barrel at him. His eyes took in the sword, the shield, the clothes, "Franky? What's going on? What happened to you?"

Meriel rushed over from her spot, "Franky! Are you okay? I've gotten Haroth and the others outside."

Franky nodded, lowering his shield a bit, "Bring them back in, I'm taking care of it."

Meriel looked unsure for a moment, but she, like all the others, trust Franky implicitly. She rushed out of the demonic building to rally the forces. Weston, however, never lowered his gun. "Franky, what is going on? Answer me."

Franky took a step forward, and Weston pulled the trigger. A pain blossomed in Franky's chest, still bound to mortality in some fashion or other. But he didn't stop. Shot after shot was fired as Weston stood his ground, a soldier's determination in his eyes.

Click. Click.

A downward slash, cleaving his business partner in two, diagonally. A yelp of horror as Franky turned toward the front door, Meriel's hand over her mouth, the others behind her in various states of shock at what they were witnessing. The front doors, or rather the maw that was Hobbie's slammed shut, as Franky walked around from behind the bar. Meriel drew her own sword, a thin rapier. She didn't let Franky close the gap, dashing forward, point down, then up. The demon was surprised at her speed, as he brought his shield up to deflect the blow.

Though he shouldn't have been, she was a fencing instructor to the nobles she'd served before he'd hired her. Her attacks were incredibly fast flurries, her moves pure efficiency and grace, more akin to a dance. She'd managed several minor wounds upon him all while dodging his own attacks as she controlled the space. Her skirts served to distract and to hide her form, keeping him at bay.

She twirled once more, her sword sneaking beneath his guard, finding the tiniest of point, to stab into his chest. He winced in pain as she did, but he stepped forward. Her eyes went wide, as she began to pull the blade free. Franky's shield swung across, breaking her arm, her crying out in pain. He silenced it with a stab to the gut, sending her to the ground, ripping her rapier out of himself, throwing it down upon her corpse. Then he turned to look at his remaining staff.

"Sacrifices must be made."

~~~~~~Shortly after~~~~~~

Franky was sitting alone at his bar, the corpses of all those he'd come to love here in Zaichaer gone, absorbed by the demon that was his partner in this madness. He pulled out the last bottle of actual good alcohol he had left in the world, one of those sent to him by Yeva. A fine, Ecithian rum. He poured it into a cup, taking a long pull on it. His demonic body was severely injured, and Franky wondered if he might die from his wounds. Could he die from them? How much mortality was even left that was capable of dying?

It mattered not now, he was a man of conviction and he'd made his choice. Either it would be enough or by this time tomorrow it wouldn't be his problem anymore. He drained the cup once more, refilling it, the silence of the Hobbled Gobbler deafening around him. The place that had brought him so much joy, made him so many friends, helped to heal his heart over the pains inflicted by the Imperium, was gone, just as the Franky of old was gone.

He raised a glass to no one, "Cheers."

[Talon]

End of the Line

33 Searing, 123rd Year, A.o.S.

Within the Temple of Light in Dawnhold, Talon was mid-stride when he felt a sharp pain pass through his chest. He halted, hand coming to rest over his heart. He turned his head toward the south, in the direction of Zaichaer. A white flash of light rose into the skies like a beacon for him.

“Beloved? Is everything alright?” Aoren was immediately beside him, arm coming to wrap around his waist. Talon steadied himself, the feathers of his wings fluffing and settling as a sense of dread filled him. He could feel a black pit open wide where once a small sliver of hope shined. Hope gave way to despair. Despair gave way to resignation. Resignation became resolve. For what? He already felt a cold chill pass up his spine.

“No…” Talon whispered the word. He straightened, holding on to his husband tightly. Across the Bond, the thought passed between them as easily as breathing. Both of them were donning their armor. A grim quiet settled upon them. When both of them had donned their armor and armaments, the two of them shared a quiet look before nodding to each other. Talon left word with the holy guardians of his temple that he was out.

There was a demon in Zaichaer. A demon named Franky.

---

Talon stood outside the Hobbled Gobbler. He was dressed for battle. Staring at it he could behold its true form and it was somehow even more grotesque than when he had first seen it. There was a dark sickness that had taken root within the Gobbler. That much was evident. While it had been jarring upon first seeing it, there was now an air of grief and despair that clung to it. A melancholy sickness that had caused its walls to be rotted in his vision and its already disturbing visage to be even more wretched. He could see the core of that sickness sitting within the building. Darker. Less the Hobgoblin that he had been working with to help rebuild Zaichaer and more the demon that he hid from the world. Talon extended his senses into the aether until he found the broken feather that had served as protection for Franky against all manner of dark things. The piece of Hope that had been broken. In the back of his mind, he could almost hear and feel the many hopes and grievances that had been weighed upon that now broken feather.

“Franky?” He did not raise his voice. “What have you done?”

Dressed for war, Talon did not want to fight the man who had been a focal point of so much Hope in a city that was so ready to be lost to dismay. All the same, he was as much the Crusader as he was the Hopegiver. Before him though was a different kind of war, a war for a soul that was lost. The moment his feather had been broken, he had felt something terrible had been enacted. Something horrible. He could not delude himself into thinking otherwise, it was plain enough to see.

In spite of that, perhaps something good could be done about the evil that had been comitted in this once happy place.

It was a small hope, but such things made all the difference.

"Hope lights the way."

[Franky]

The stench of all that which Talon and Arcas had given up preceded them. Franky recognized it right away, finishing his glass of rum. He knew someone would come, interesting that it was this so called God of Hope. Franky closed his eyes.

Talon and Aoren both would be able to see the demonic visage of the Gobble And they’d also see as two of the front facing eyes shifted, burnt out husks that Talon would remember from having met Franky.

Franky opened his eyes once more, returning Hobbie’s own to her. Her gaping maw opened wide, revealing the demon sitting there in the bar, “Come, join me for a drink.”

He chuckled lightly, as he was already pouring the rum from Yeva into three glasses. “There’s been enough blood spilled here today. More than enough for tomorrow.”

He didn’t even turn to cast them a glance, his burnt and blackened demonic body hunched there on the bar stool, setting each of two glasses before a barstool there.

“I didn’t think it would be you who came.”

He snorted into his drink, his jaw tightening. Bile filled his mouth. Hope. What useless crock. The people of the Knob held hope in him, believed in him, thought he could save them, again, make it all right, give them a life again, maybe an even better one than they’d once had.

His hand tightened on the glass, little black flecks of burnt skin rising off of him, fading into the aether around him. “If you’ve come to inflict Justice, I told you I would receive it freely.” A smile, sinister and filled with razor sharp teeth, “Can it come after we finish the rum? It was a gift from someone I once held dear.” A twitch in the corner of his eye, a slip in the other end of his smile.

He was glad it was she who had not come.

[Talon]

He was wary for a moment before opening his senses to the flow of the aether around them. Touching upon the Rune of Semblance, he examined his environment before carefully accepting Franky’s offer. Aoren joined him cautiously, eyes staring at the visage of the Hobbled Gobbler before looking at Franky.

As Talon channeled the power of his Semblance, he also used it to weave into visibility the tethers of Hope that had been severed through the lens of his portfolio. He could see frayed, tattered ropes writhing all about the interior of the Hobbled Gobbler. They were like the filaments of a spider’s web that had been brushed aside to flail in the winds. A ring of those threads circled Franky’s unsettling form, torn and angry, reaching for him. Like the flakes of skin rising off him like ash however, they cracked and crumbled as they neared his form. The sight of it made him feel a great sadness for what could have otherwise been a good man. With each thread he could see an echo of the slaughter that had taken place within the walls of the Hobbled Gobbler. Semblance called into his vision an impression of the emotions that had been seared into this space during the act. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Astonishment. Horror. Confusion. Most of all, he could see the sorrow that was laced across all of it.

The Judge was angered, ready to cast down this demon and enact swift retribution.

The Morninglord was appalled, ready to burn away the stain of such unspeakable evil.

But the Hopebringer was saddened and urged patience. There was a truth to be found here.

There was a reason for this despair.

He picked up the glass that was offered to him, lifting it to examine the alcohol inside. For a moment, he thought he saw a drop of blood in the liquid to mirror Franky’s words.

“More than enough for a lifetime, I suspect.” He set the glass down, one hand still remaining on it as he idly thumbed the exterior in thought.

“Were you expecting anyone at all?” He did not know much about Franky but everything he did know told him that he was a rather decisive individual. He acted with purpose, doing what he believed was necessary. Not necessarily what was right but what needed to be done. For better or worse. Between his involvement in his imprisonment, his propaganda that breathed renewed life in anti-Kalzasern sentiments, his maneuvering into a position of influence, and other things, Franky displayed himself to be a man of necessity; where the ends always justified the means. That kind of cold, calculating logic could be pivotal in times of crisis but if not tempered, could just as easily lead to very dark places.

“Justice will have its day.” The silver-white fire that was his birthright burned softly in his eyes. In them was the epitome of Justice personified. Judgement, impartial and all-consuming. For he was the Judge and it was his right and place to sit in judgement, even before the pantheon.

“Once held dear? Hm. Interesting.” Talon arched an eyebrow. He could see it. One tether that was not altogether severed. One last filament of Hope. Where it led to, perhaps he could find out. Nevertheless, it was there. Barely…but still there.

“Why did you give up, Franky?”

"Hope will light the way."

[Franky]

A scoff and snort followed by another long swig of that sweet southern rum. “Someone always comes.” He slammed the glass down with a hard thud, “I built this place to be my retirement. To drink away my years past from the Imperium, to grow old and fat and surrounded by grandchildren.” He poured himself another glass, then looked over, seeing the other glasses still undrunk, “You know, if you let me drink alone, people might start to think I have a problem.”

A dark chuckle as he took another long draw, “First, she came in, my past finally catching up with me. I always figured it would, but I was naive and full of hubris. I didn’t think it would come so soon.” A sly smirk as he glanced over at Talon, “Never thought it would cross my path with yours either.” A sneer grew upon his burnt away lips, “Your very existence in this world has drawn so many takers and manipulators and monsters that we call gods into my little slice of retirement.”

He slammed the glass down again and this time it shattered, rum spraying around everywhere. “After the business with your kidnapping, then along comes Malgar, wanting me to tempt you, seduce you, convince you to drink his precious Wine of Suffering.” The broken glass appeared back in his hand, still full of cracks and seemingly shattered, but managing to hold the liquid once thought spilled, Hobby’s work. “Fuck that stupid cup of his.”

Franky drank the rum, filled with a few errant shards of glass that he crunched on loudly before swallowing. “Then the blind one came, asking that I save you, that the world couldn’t lose you to the darkness.” Franky’s own aura was raging with darkness, contained and in control, but furious. His dead and empty eyes found Talon’s own bright and vibrant ones, “And then I drank the Wine for you instead, I gave up everything I am, everything I could be, on the tiniest and most impossible chances that maybe the gods would be merciful to help me save all those I love, for I was but a mere mortal. An old and decrepit goblin whose greatest achievement was killing the woman he loved for the empire he hated.”

He cast his eyes back down into his cup, “So many gods stood there before the All Seeing eyes of your father.” Another sneer filled smile, “Well, you know which father I mean.” A chuckle, “They bowed to him as mortals must bow to your kind for fear of extermination. Ants in his eyes, just as those are to you and yours. Even now, I’m sure a part of you is considering striking me down, while also wondering if there’s any mortality left in me.”

He shook his head, “That was a year ago, since then, your brother stopped by, spouted his own brand of bullshit, cut a deal of his own. All you gods just want deal after deal after deal.” His aura grew more turbulent as his face snapped toward Talon, “IF YOU WANT TO BE MORTALS SO BADLY, THEN STOP PLAYING AS GODS!”

His rage lowered to an annoyed sneer, as he topped off his drink, “It matters not, whether it's by your righteous hand today or that scar in the sky tomorrow, my mortality is coming to an end.” A new window formed in Hobbie’s structure, illuminating the frozen fissure that hung precariously over the Knob, “I don’t know how much you Gods share with each other,” a chuckle, “Probably not a lot. Kings and queens don’t share, that’s for peons.” Another long drink, “That shit in the sky is my prize for becoming a fucking demon for Malgar. Tasked with growing my powers more so that I might close that myself.”

His aura cooled down, “I spoke to that stupid feather of yours every night since I returned as… this.” He set his glass away from him, not interested in drinking any more of it, “It brought me comfort in a way. It gave me… hope.” A single shake of the head, “Do you know what it is like to be a demon? I’m still new to it, but I can assure you that it is terrible. This mandate of mine, it’s not a choice, it’s not an obsession or a mania. It is an absolute.” He turned to stare at Talon, “I can feel every sacrifice you’ve ever given, I can feel every shred of pain associated with each of them, from your thousands of years of existence.” He gestured his arms widely around them, “I can feel the pain of sacrifice of every survivor here. I can hear the screams of a mother having to choose one child over another beneath my skin, I can feel the tears of a father having to kill his children so that the monsters don’t turn them first.”

A snort, “And no, that’s not why I killed them.”

“But to give me, a being of such an absolute state, hope? Now that’s cruelty.” Talon would be able to see that there was that one small part, that tiniest last little tether, that did not fully believe that. Franky glanced up at the fissure once more, wondering if it would be one year to the second that it would open back up, or if it was more of a vaguery. That’s when his domain ability took hold of him. Talon would be able to see the demonic aura resonating, harmonizing, as the sacrifices that Franky had claimed were spent.

It was foggy, misty, dark. Franky looked around, seeing his sword in hand, blackened from the blood of some accursed creature. High overhead, directly overhead, was the fissure, no longer frozen, glowing in kaleidoscopic and chaotic hues, black lightning cracking all around it, as it began to grow, spewing out more of that damning mist, a waterfall of death heading for the Knob and Zaichaer. Fractures were forming in the magical barrier that had been built, unable to contain the raw power and growth of this scar.

As the first of the mist touched down, a bright glowing was formed. Mist rolled out and permeated everything, spreading out from where it first landed. And that bright glowing grew brighter still, solidifying, shimmering in rainbow hues, as more and more mist poured over it. The mist did as one expected it to do, touching natural things and twisting and corrupting them, and touching the unnatural things, bolstering and empowering them.

And then the vision went dark, with the last thing Franky saw being that large Chaos Gem.

As he returned back to his normalcy, he looked over at Talon and Aoren, “It won’t be tomorrow. Sundown, tonight.” He heaved a heavy sigh, as the tiniest new tendril of hope was starting to form, “It seems their sacrifice might not be in vain after all.” He swiveled on his stool, nodding over at his sword and shield leaning against the wall there, “Feel free to empty the bar out if you’d like, Hobby won’t bite. I’ve got another desperate long shot to take,” he snorted, “Maybe I’m cursed by the god of luck.” He stood up, stretching his shoulders, “If Hobbie disappears and that scar is still up there, you’ll know I’ve failed, and it’s likely Karnor will be lost too, as you’re well aware.”

He began moving for his weapons, “Time to do what us mortals do best.” A wink and a grin, “Die trying.”

[Talon]

End of the Line
33 Searing, 123rd Year, A.o.S.

He took a sip from the glass and listened to Franky vent his anger. He stared at the demon from over the rim of the glass. As he listened, he looked. He extended his awareness into the Aetherium and examined the weave of Franky’s history that it might be Judged. Perhaps in seeing what Franky saw, he might not feel so ready to smite him or perhaps he would conclude that an end to what the man now considered a miserable existence was justified. He saw the meeting with Malgar. His eyes connected with the Dragon God of Suffering and the two of them shared a vague divine acknowledgement. Why? What purpose did Malgar have for him? It was a curious thought. His existence had indeed stirred up an endless amount of things that had been lying quietly until his resurrection. Such was the way of the universe, to meet every force with its equal and opposite.

He saw the woman, the red-eyed witch who called herself Veronica, a figure he had never encountered before but whom he could see traces of the Imperium about. He saw the deal that was made. He witnessed it as though he were standing there, an idle observer. As the spider dropped from Veronica’s hand and scuttled away onto the floor, it paused and looked at him as though it could see his divine eavesdropping. Perhaps it could.

He saw the meeting with the Orkhan goddess and heard some of her pleas. He could also feel the weight of the various seals she referred to. Ancient and terrible. Some of which would have to be dealt with in due time. Her pleas clearly fell on deaf ears, for Franky had condemned him, not saved him.

He could not see fully the audience that Franky had shared with the Dragon King in His court. He suspected that his Father was blocking some of that but he did see the events leading up to it.

He was also barred from perceiving fully the conversation between Shaeoth and Franky, obscured as it was by the shadows that were his brother’s to command. Instead, he saw only Shaeoth standing there, shaking his head and gently pushing his attention away. Whatever was done between them was not something his greater god brother wanted him to see. At least not yet. He did not press it but the act itself, lent some insight into the situation at hand.

As he watched, the symbol of Justice that crowned his nimbus manifested softly, matching the silver fire in his eyes. He released his touch upon the flow of the Aetherium and the tethers tied to Franky. The symbol of his nimbus faded and his eyes returned to their natural mercurial state. When it was over, he knocked back the alcohol and set the glass down. Behind him, Aoren squeezed his shoulder. Seeing so many decisions made about him in particular, decisions that had actively robbed him of his family, his happiness, his freedom and sparked so much devastation in the Northlands, it made him more angry, not less so. Still, he kept his anger in check. He did scoff a bit at Franky’s false bravado.

“So I am to understand that you are now infuriated by the consequences of your own choices?” Talon stared at Franky.

“That woman came in here and asked. You made a bargain with a spider and are now angry to have been caught in her web. You agreed and then outfitted her operatives to ensure my enslavement. Malgar knocked. You allowed him entry. He made an offer. You accepted and were rewarded for your acceptance. You drank from his cup of your own volition and now you decry the consequences of a choice you made of your own free will? You and Dreyfus could have been condemned to oblivion. Instead you were given a second chance. Now you resent the opportunity to acquire the power and influence you asked for?” Talon shook his head.

“Out of all of this, the only thing out of your control was the Rift. It was beyond any of us to stop. But you did choose how you wanted to react to it. Hells, you even chose how its occurrence would be perceived not just by Zaichaer but by Karnor at large. Such is and was the weight of your influence.” Talon looked around at the interior of the Hobbled Gobbler. He could still see the crowd of people, he could still see the Hobgoblin who had picked up the little girl and had given her hope and kindness. He could still see the man who had driven the survivors to push themselves to rebuild against all odds.

What happened?

He watched as the demonic aura around Franky began to grow and resonate stronger. Aoren moved closer, taking a protective step forward. Talon readied himself for whatever might come next. When nothing happened, he calmed somewhat but remained alert. He spoke softly in response to Franky’s statement. Sacrifices? They had been butchered. The only thing sacrificed here had been Franky’s mortality and perhaps the only shreds of goodness that had been in him.

“No, Franky. Nobody has cursed you. You have done that to yourself.” As Franky gathered his sword and shield then moved to leave, Talon placed himself in the hobgoblin…no…the demon’s path. His gaze was steady and resolute as he stared into the burned out husks in Franky’s skull.

“No. You have done enough harm here.” At his mental urging, Aoren walked outside. As soon as his husband was in the street, Aoren summoned his pact swords. The blades ignited in both silver-white fire and abyssal shadows as dragon fires burned in his husbands eyes. Talon squared off against Franky.

“Out of respect for the Hobgoblin who sacrificed so much for the people he loved, I will not strike you down where you stand. It is for them that I spare you today.” The Fires of Justice ignited in Talon’s eyes. The Light of the Dawn began to shine softly in the silver feathers of his wings.

And the Whisper of Hope was all that kept him from unleashing his wrath upon the demon before him.

“Leave. Leave Zaichaer. Take your demons and leave Karnor. Do not return. For if you do, and I find you, it will not be the Hopebringer nor the Morninglord who will greet you.”

[Franky]

“Perhaps I have.”

He looked up to see the Demigod standing in his way, a teasing at the corner of the demon’s lips growing. He watched Talon’s partner step outside, he could see the glowing swords through Hobbie’s eyes, a smug grin growing further. Maybe this would be the end of it all after all. Salvation at the end of the blade, some rest for the wicked and the weary alike. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fight his way out of this.

A muttered, “I’m getting too old for this.”

Dark, demonic energies began swirling from all around Franky and Talon. Slowly, Hobby’s form grew more and more transparent, the glow of Aoren’s swords coming through stronger, brighter. These darkened energies flowed into Franky’s shield, the same that he used to hold Talon’s feather in, a shield that had been the protection of man and relic alike. It grew darker and darker, stealing away the light from it, until a shimmer of crimson swirled over the surface and it changed. Obsidian and Scarlet, a fang filled maw in the middle of it, the shield was now Hobbie, and the tavern that had stood around them, that they had stood in, was gone, the stars and the Rift above glittering down over them.

Franky’s fingers started to shift into their battle grip on the sword that hung loosely, relaxed in his grip, preparing to do what he must in the face of this so-called god. He looked down at his blade, his aura showing the resolution of self that often marked this demon of a man. However, there in the reflection, he saw something, something he hadn’t looked at in a long time. With Hobbie’s Tavern shape gone, so was the door, and the wall, that led to a little apartment, a home he’d purchased for an elf in need. An elf that he’d grown to care for, one who’d become a dear friend, one who sent him letters from the other end of the world.

That single thread of hope within him throbbed painfully, but grew ever so slight.

His stance grew slack, his shield and sword both down, hanging softly as his empty sockets stared at the place she’d called home. It was her refuge away from persecution, her comfort when overwhelmed, a place of her own, always. And his aura was awashed in shame. His eyes caught movement in the room that had not been opened since she’d left, Franky refusing to even let the Rift refugees claim it for themselves.


A small, tinkling chime echoed out from the apartment, and his eyes focused on it. A wind chime that Yeva had made from broken clay flagons, glass steins, and several folded paper birds that Weston had made for her whenever Yeva was feeling down. She had smiled every time he slid one under her apartment door. Franky watched as one of these paper birds slipped free from it’s string, being tugged by a wind all of its own. He turned, presenting his back to Talon, following it as it fluttered.

And there, the entire crew of the Hobbled Gobbler stood, staring back at him with empty eye sockets such as his own. Each of them in the clothes they were wearing in death. Each of them with burnt and mottled skin, some with horns and claws and tails and other overt signs of demonic prevalence. But they were a bit… faded. Not really there, or not really real. Talon would be able to see them, though Aoren would not, and a quick check of the aura there would show they were some sort of demonic echo of Franky’s domain.

They did not speak, they did not move, they simply stared at Franky with their dead, empty eyes. Franky himself wasn’t sure what they were, but he could feel them there. Real enough, if not fully there. He let loose a deep sigh, belting his sword, turning, back toward Talon, grumbling, “I need a fuckin’ smoke.”

He looked up over at Talon, a chuckle, “Save your threats, Son of Eikaen. I have no desire to stay here.” Franky moved to pass Talon, toward the street, stopping when he was shoulder to shoulder with the god. He looked up at the god’s face, “I know what you’re thinking of sacrificing. I can feel it.” A vicious sneer crossed the demon’s face, “If you do, I’ll take that Sacrifice too.” A chuckle, as he started toward the road, not bothering to even glance Aoren’s way. A parting word cast into the winds, “I’ve got work to do.”

Talon would be able to feel that thread of hope staying strong. It led to a demon in pain, to a man suffering a fate he gave himself. A hope, not for a better version of himself, but for a better world for those he’d taken out of it. And for the one he left behind. A name rang across that thread

Yeva Bleu.

[Talon]

T A L O N

Talon watched through Aetherium blessed eyes as the demon gathered his tools and instruments to himself. He saw the weariness. He saw many things. He could feel the despair etched into the fiber of their beings that threatened to spill out of their forms like a fountain of rot bursting forth from a bloated pustule. It was a repugnant and sad stench that filled his senses, one that clung to Franky himself like a cloak. Yet, there was still that one thread, that one cord within him that clung to Hope.

And if a creature like this could cling to hope, could hope for something better, then that spoke volumes more than the snarling mask that Franky affixed to his face to hide what lurked beneath.

When Franky spoke about accepting the sacrifice, Talon did not answer. Maybe he did. Maybe there would come a day when their paths crossed again. Talon just knew that whenever that day came, it would not be a happy one. He stood silently as he watched Franky leave. A breeze picked up and in it, silvered ashes spun in the air. Talon reached up, extending his hand and those ashes coalesced into the shape of a feather. He brought his palm close to his lips and blew gently, scattering the ashes to the wind until they drifted at the edges of the smoke and dust that clung to Franky’s demonic form.

“What did you give him?” Aoren stepped up beside him as they watched Franky leave.

“Nothing he does not already have.” Hope was a powerful but fragile thing. He hoped Franky found salvation in the small hope that he still had.

Time would tell. Velar was terrible at keeping secrets.

[Franky]

And with that, Franky disappeared into the mists, leaving Talon and Aoren there, not bothering to cast a departing glance or word to either of them. He was a man of difficult choices, a man always willing to pay the price to see them through, he truly was the perfect choice for the Archdemon of Sacrifice, and he wasn't about to let the sacrifice he'd claimed from his employees, his friends, his family to be in vain.

And he'd do it alone.

He stalked through the controlled streets of the Upper Knob, he had time to get there, and arriving early would only put him at disadvantage. He needed to be there when the Rift began to surge, just as he'd seen in his Sacrificial vision. As he made his way down the slope toward the crater from the first blast, he found himself wondering just what exactly had caused all of this pain and destruction and chaos. He knew what he'd said to the world, he knew many believed the lies, but him destroying his credibility in that way probably saved thousands more lives.

He approached the final barrier of his territory, the citizen-soldiers there nodding grimly at him, unable to see his or Hobbie's demonic forms. Franky nodded at the woman who had taken command as captain here, "I'm heading through, Gwynea." He sighed, "If I'm not back before day break, do not send anyone to find me, I'll be gone."

The human woman, a Zaichaer native, a former factory worker in the Grunges, looked surprised at this. "We can send reinforcements with you Franky, you don't need to go alone."

The demon shook his head, "No, I plan to end this, once and for all. And if I fail, you'll need every capable hand for what happens next."

She moved to speak, and Franky held up a hand. She bit back her tongue, nodding. She raised her arms, and the other soldiers opened the barrier, "Good luck, Franky."

He nodded at her, drawing his sword, and stepping through. The area was heavily shrouded in the dark mists of the Rift. It was such an unfortunately location for the first blast, successfully cutting off the Upper Knob, the Lower Knob, and the Grungeworks all in one fel stroke. It was so perfectly placed, one might think it truly intentional, and, of course it must be. The worst tragedies of the world were always caused by those that dwelled here.

Franky gripped his sword tighter, heading westward to reach the barrier to the Lower Knob. This area was a killing field, two sides defended by barriers, regularly raided by the bandits and cannibals from the Grungeworks. The demon had no intention of lingering here. He knew he was not remotely stealthy enough to sneak through, so he let his battle trained feet carry himself forward, his eyes scanning every wisp of smoke, every pile of rubble, every disfigured and mutilated corpse, searching for movement.

On his arm, Hobbie snarled, and Franky twisted, raising the shield up to protect his back, as a pair of claws lashed out. Hobbie's maw reached out, snapping out around the claws, biting them off, her mouth snapping back into the frame of the shield she occupied. The flying creature, one that had moved terribly silently, made the action of screaming, but no sounds came out as it fell to the ground in pain, black ooze spurting from the wounds. Franky looked to the sky, seeing more of these creatures flocking, circling around him. He turned back to his route as Hobbie spit out the claws, not caring for the taste.

Boots over loose and melted stones, Franky was now keeping one eye over his shoulder, he was maybe one, two minutes from the next barrier. Flurry of dark movement, and the demon turned, planting his feet. Three of the Silent Screams were diving at him at once. The former Imperial Sergeant did not panic, waiting, watching, defaulting to the training that had made him such a deadly force once upon a time. As the closest of the creatures arrived, Franky raised Hobbie high, exposing his lower torso and the creature dove strike beneath his guard with its long, curved claws.

Krunch!

Hobbie was brought down, and the demonic possessed shield smashed through limbs, breaking them on the stones below. Franky had dropped to a knee as he pulled into this stance, and now tilted Hobbie back, claws scraping against the steel, the demon's head just tucked behind it. His sword meanwhile was lunged outward at the third. The creature was quick, it's body twisting to avoid a fatal wound, but the blade tore a heavy gash through its wing, sending it careening off course into nearby rubble.

Up from his knee, Franky was already moving. Breath. Nose to mouth. Eyes only, ears useless. He huffed as he trotted along, eyes once more over his shoulder, looking for the next attack. Nothing behind him. Eyes back forward, seeing the attack to come from the front. A half dozen of them. Shield front, braced on his shoulder, Franky sped up, planning to break through the line.

Twang, twang, twang.

Bolts streaked across the open space, hitting the creatures in the back, tearing through wings and bone and flesh indiscriminately. Franky continued to charge forward, the surviving creatures fleeing in panic. He saw it, the barrier ahead and once he was out of danger from the creatures, he lowered his shield, slowing to a walk, his breathing slowing as he worked to gain control of it. From atop the barrier, an Orkhan woman and an Avialae man wielding crossbows smiled down at him, "Welcome back, sir."

The barrier was opened and Franky was through, belting his sword. The pair of commanders approached him, "Yeah, those things are new. Nasty." Franky nodded, "Airspace is clear down here though?" The Avialae man smirked, "A few get past every once and a while, but without the mists, they are easy hunting."

Now that he was in a secured section of the city, Franky relaxed, walking toward the other end of the zone, as the commanders kept pace with him. "What brings you down here? We hadn't expected to see you until we could secure Crater 1." Franky smirked, "I have another crazy idea." The man looked over at him, "Crazier than what you've pulled off so far?"

Franky nodded, "Yeah, it's time to end this. All of this."

The man nodded as the Orkhan woman stared, "What do you need from us?"

"Same as always. Hold the position, help your people, push outward as able."

The pair nodded, "Although perhaps you could make a lot of noise at West Barrier once I cross through, thin the crowds." Then he paused for a moment, "Any chance you have some smokes tucked away somewhere? We ran out on topside two seasons back."

The Avialae man smiled, "Can you give us an hour or two to reinforce the west end?" Franky nodded. "We'll see what we can do."

Some time later...

Franky breathed in a deep sigh of the pungent Goblin Weed cigarette, feeling the relief and relaxation wash over him. His eyes studied the rallied force here, wielding makeshift weapons and ragtag armor. There were several trained militia members here, older like himself, natives of these former thriving neighborhoods. All eyes were on him, as he stood atop the barrier, fear was in the hearts of many, but they believed in the man who had done the impossible here in their home, time and time again.

He spoke to them all now, "I am going to finish this." He pointed his sword to the northwest, toward the crackling megarift, "I will be heading into the middle of that hell that has descended on this land of ours." He was scanning the small crowd there, "I will be going in alone, I must go it alone, but I need your help." His demonic visage smile even though his mortal one did not, "I must ask of you to be prepared to Sacrifice everything. I need you to draw as many of these demons and monsters and abominations out of there, so I can reach the center." His eyes darkened, "If we can do this, I will bring an end to all of this and I will build us a better world, one where this will never happen again." That single thread of hope thrummed again within him. He fully believed in this idea of his, held onto it fully.

A voice spoke back from the crowd, "How do you know what to do? You're just a man."

Franky now smiled wide, appreciating the challenge and the skepticism, "I have stood before the Dragon King himself, I have seen what is needed." He shook his head in disbelief, "I didn't believe it at first, but it has since been confirmed on this very day, when the God from the north, the one whose home has brought this calamity upon our city, came to me. He tried to stop me from doing what needs to be done, made threats, wishing to banish me, wishing to cut me down. That's how I know this must be the right path."

Murmurs and whispers spread through the crowd. He turned to face the wasteland, "He obviously does not care for you, does not care for all of the north. If he did, he would never have let this happen, and certainly would have fixed it after it did." Franky's smile faded, his eyes determined and dark as he looked at the rift, "Let us do what the Gods will not, and take back this world ourselves."

A cheer went up from the crowd and the barrier was opened. Franky watched as the militia poured through, aflame in duty and ego. They whooped and hollered, and went racing west, making as much noise as they could while they went. The further they went from the barricade, they began letting off homemade explosives, and soon, the snarls from within the mist could be heard. And that's when Franky made his way down the barricade, and began heading north toward the megarift, sword and shield at the ready.

Franky's journey to the epicenter was fairly uneventful, the distraction team seemingly successful. He reached the edge of the barrier dome that Lyra had erected. He reached out with his sword, watching as the shadow from the gemstone from Shaeoth coated it, allowing him passage in. A confident step in and the former hobgoblin found himself in a true hellscape. There were no buildings left here, not even shapes of buildings. Twisted spires of stone, once rubble, now corrupted and acting against the very nature of its element. The air smelt burnt, the light filtered in strange, alien colors. The entirety of the world here was tainted, and the Rift was crackling with impossible colors. Every so often an arc of energy burst out from it, striking a spire which simply disintegrated in a kaleidoscopic cloud of dust.

Reassuring.

Then a roar echoed through the dome, shaking the magical barrier itself, and Franky immediately lowered into a defensive posture. It had sounded... big. Really big. Franky slowly made his way towards the center, following his gut after that vision he'd been given. It reminded him far too much of that final march in his final campaign in the Imperium, the chaotic type of magic only a Lysanrin unhinged could achieve. His eyes cast to the skies, half expecting to see Imperial airships once more preparing to drop canisters of corrosive gas, killing everything, enemy and ally alike. But all he saw was that rift.

That damnable rift.

The ground bounced as something stepped closer, and Franky watched as it stepped from around a spire. It towered over the demon, and certainly felt demonic in its own right, though Franky had nothing to compare it to other than himself and Hobbie. Spines and spikes, reds and blacks, skin rough like a tree's bark, though he suspected far stronger. And those claws were nearly big as his own sword. There would be no room for error here, one strike of those and suddenly all of this would become someone else's problem.

The man grinned, plucking the spent cigarette from his lips, flicking it off into a puddle of something that sizzled and burnt away the roach. That little bit of sound sent the creature forward, thundering on heavy legs, moving far faster than Franky would've expected. There would be no waiting about this time, he was already moving. A low swinging slash of the oversized arms came through, carving through air and stone with equal ease, as Franky dove, landing with his shield first, sliding upon it. He went to push himself up, but Hobbie assisted, pressing her tongue against the stone and bringing them both back to his feet.

Franky twisted, disappearing behind a spire, as he heard the creature lumbering around, having slowed from its initial charge, trying to find its prey once more. Franky peered around the opposite side of the spire, seeing the large being scanning the area, hunting him. The man moved to the other side, peeking out, to try an--- immediately Franky brought his shield up as a large pair of claws crashed into it, sending the man flying several meters backwards, tumbling him ass over kettle.

The creature was once more thundering forward, Franky still there upon his knees, as he quieted the world around him. This was a creature of speed and straight lines. He slowed his breathing, as the creature's arm drew back for another strike. Speed and curves is what he'd need to be. The strike swung down, and Franky threw himself up to his feet, already spinning, the Hobbie shield used to smack the claw inward, using its momentum to send it further. This put the creature off balanced, unable to strike with its other, now wildly flailing arm. Franky let the spin carry him in a curve around the creature, sending out a slash at the joint of the knee, feeling blade pierce skin.

Franky was already curving away as the creature spun toward him and the attack. Franky lunged forward, striking at the opposing knee from the first, keeping moving, spinning the creature about. The man went in for a third strike, when the creature simply roared, and a shockblast sent Franky and stones flying away from it in all directions. The hobgoblin slammed hard into a spire, feeling something inside him break, blood coughing out of his mouth. And he was slow to react, as the creature charged. The claws were thrusting toward him, and Franky just barely managed to get his shield up in time to catch the attack, Hobbie's fangs biting into the hand, the claws biting into Hobbie, but the force of the attack sent cracks up through the spire, further breaking both Franky's body and the tower. The creature tried to pull it's hand back, but Hobbie held it tight, and Franky grit through the grinding of broken bones as he slashed downward, severing hand from arm.

The creature reared back in pain, roaring loudly. Franky peeled himself from his body shaped imprint, wiping the dark, black blood running in a sheet from his mouth. He wouldn't be able to withstand another attack like that, he wasn't even sure if he'd survive this one. On weak legs, he pressed forward, his demonic visage, and Hobbie's both coming to the visible spectrum, standing before this slightly hobbled creature. Franky's face twisted in a snarl, his lack of lips revealing his blackened, sharpened teeth.

This was a demon before him, he was an Archdemon. It would need to learn its place. All demons would need to learn. Franky started in a jog toward the creature, who saw the demonic visage now, and roared in challenge at him. Franky and Hobbie both roared back, and the creature swung its remaining good arm at him. Franky slashed his sword in a sweep, severing claws from hand, then punching the injured limb with the shield. He continued the spin, slashing and bashing as he advanced on the injured creature who was beginning to stumble backwards. Stab to the foot, crush to the knee, cut the flailing arm, smack the swinging arm, slash the thigh, over and over Franky continued the forward press until the creature fell backwards, unable to sustain its weight upon its injuries.

Franky walked around toward its head, and Hobbie opened her mouth wide, far wider than the shield itself was in size, and she bit its head off.

The archdemon sighed, taking a moment to relax, belting his sword as he pulled out another cigarette, lighting it up off a match, pulling in a deep cloud. This was going to hurt for a while, if he lived. Then the sound of cracking glass brought the man back to his senses. He looked up at the rift, seeing black lightning now shooting out of it, seeing a waterfall of dreadmists beginning to pour. The blessing of the gods to freeze the rift had ended. The black lightning struck the barrier again, sending a spiderweb of cracks across it, just as the vision had shown.

Franky snorted, realizing the black blood upon his sword was his own, a subtle surprise from his Sacrificial premonition.

Making sure to keep a good hold of the cigarette in his teeth, he started in a run toward the Mistfall, already seeing the Chaos Gem there forming, glowing. He watched as the mists touched stone, seeing limbs spawn out of it, flesh and chaos and stone coming to form an accursed mockery of life. Franky did not attack, did not draw his sword, he hadn't the time. Black lightning struck down in front of him, ringing his ears, blinding him, making him taste something he could only describe as charcoaled despair. Above him, the cracking grew further and further, as the shield weakened and strained, something that would be visible to all outside of the dome.

He had to give it to Lyra, impressive work to have last this long.

He was closing in on where the mists were meeting the ground, where the massive chaos gem was forming, and Franky didn't hesitate for a moment, did not worry about the incredible likelihood that he would be twisted, corrupted, become just another hulking monster to prey upon the people of this world. He launched himself deep in the mists, a singular goal in mind, to acquire the power necessary to chase his one, final hope. A hope for better world, far better than this one that had been twisted, corrupted, ruined by those that had no right in doing so. He could feel his skin shifting, screaming, every cell being violated by the mist, threatening to rip apart.

Then his hand landed upon the stone, thrumming with power. His mind, blinded by pain, acted on instinct and determination. He needed this power, to do what needed to be done. He punched his shield forward and Hobbie's opened wide, wrapping around the chaos gem, and consuming it in one bite. The bound pair felt the power surge in them, as they remained focus on the singular goal, power, strength.

They focused on one another, holding onto every memory of Franky helping to build the Gobbler, shaping the bar, placing the stones of her hearts, fixing the creaking door and throwing out anyone that dare try to carve their name in her woods. They remembered every face that came in with a smile or in tears, every drink served, every song sung, every pie eaten, every story shared. They held onto those things, and filled themselves with the power of the stone. They glowed bright white, then flashed through the entire spectrum of colors, finishing in a darkness as deep as the Void itself.

Then it settled, and Franky and Hobbie were still there, standing in the falling Mists, but were no longer being twisted by them. They were still injured, but they were whole, and Franky was feeling the power within him having grown. He had the power to close the Rift, to save Zaichaer, to stop this madness from consuming the city, to be the hero that everyone wanted, the hero that so many needed. He could end it once and for all, reunite the city, rebuild it all, shape it into something better.

A smile twisted onto Franky and Hobbie's mouths.

And he turned his back on the Rift, walking away. He was taking this power, and he was leaving Zaichaer with no intention of ever returning. The hope for a new and better world did not start in this wasteland. This accursed place held nothing of interest to him any longer, was just another ruined part of the world that would be feasted on by vultures and scavengers alike. No, he needed more, something more befitting the true demon that he was, and the demon he would become. He knew, in the very core of his being, what he needed to do.

And as he stepped through the Dome, it shattered, severing the last of the defenses against the megarift that was unleashed once more, and Franky began making his way toward the edges of the city. It was time to leave here, to begin building his throne, his army, to finally fix this world. As he left the city's edge, he cast one last look at the raging rift and snorted back a laugh. He had just wanted to retire as a simple bartender. He turned his back on Zaichaer one last time, heading to Weissberg to collect Terra that was waiting for him there.

He would become the Demon King and he would rid this world of all traces of the Divine. Every god, every follower, every touch of them that tainted this world and continued to bring ruin upon all that called this realm home. Another snorting laugh. Maybe this is what the Lord of Suffering wanted after all.

So be it, he would spread Suffering far and wide, and he would make all of the gods feel it.

[Talon]

A R C A S

Where the light touched, these were places that he could see. Certainly he could see that Franky was not making his way out of Zaichaer in open defiance of his demand that the demon leave the Northlands of Karnor. From where he stood atop the rooftops of abandoned buildings, Talon simply watched as the demon threw himself at the rift and shouted yet more lies at the top of his lungs. He could feel the writhing goal that Franky hoped to achieve coiling its way into the demon’s heart like a thorny vine winding around a young sapling.

He sighed.

“Very well.” If Franky hoped to contend with gods, then Talon would show him exactly what that meant.

“What will you do?” Aoren’s voice was soft beside him. Although his husband already knew the answer, Talon said it aloud anyways. He stepped forward, steadily letting the veil of his mortality fall away. The first layer fell like a sheet of dawn-touched silk. Talon’s form became more ethereal as he Ascended, closer to the idea of what a mortal could be at the peak of their potential. His wings spread and the silver of his feathers began to emit a soft luminance. The Eminence of his Domain over Justice manifested as the perfect symbol and embodiment of its Aethereal meaning over his head.

“What I should have done in the first place.” The second layer of mortality fell away as Talon ceased restraining that part of himself. He became the Arisen. In the skies above, the sunlight began to shine down upon him more insistently. He became the Morninglord. He was the Dawn King, the Lord of Light from which flowed all Light that touched the mortal world. He was a living embodiment of the Plane of Light and the supreme manifestation of its power on the material plane. His second Domain over Light manifested as a symbol crowning him. Talon opened his mouth and spoke with the voice of the divine, calling out across the aetherium as he began to cross the final threshold.

The final veil fell away and Talon became the Empyrean as he shone with the unbridled and unburdened purity of Hope Incarnate.

Arcas Reborn manifested in full on the mortal plane. His divine nimbus shone with the brilliance of his divinity, blanketing the entirety of Zaichaer and for some distance beyond it in the fullness of his grace and power. The Prince of Dragons beheld the mortal world and behind him, he felt his husband struggle internally as his mere presence compelled him to take draconic form. In short order, Aoren was shifting into his true dragon form as the godly presence of Arcas, Son of the Dragon King, moved him to embrace his truest nature.

With a roar, the elder red dragon Auravacis the Hellbreaker was spreading his wings, his mighty call shaking the air and causing the very ground to quake.

Across the city of Zaichaer, voidpsawn and mist-warped monstrosities burst into silver flames as they were obliterated by the force of Arcas presence and utter intolerance for their perversion and corrupted nature.

You might have warned me, beloved.

Talon chuckled softly. He reached out, touching a hand to his husband’s snout with an affectionate rub. He then spoke, with a voice of the divine, calling out to his brethren who dwelt within the Aetherium.

“Mater Varvara, Sacrificii dea, Regina ad Vincula, Domina Dominationis, ad te voco. Tuam lunam simulator thronum quaerit. Vermis qui fimi sui hubris dolet. Stultus qui sperat cum diis contendere. Age, ostendemus ei veram iustitiae et Sacrificii significationem.”