Too long. It had been too long. He'd felt every moment of it. From the shattering to the vessel to now. It was the culmination of his torment, the hellish punishment for which he would know for millennia to come if Mythal had anything to say about it. But even Mythal knew that death was never the end.
How could it be?
How could such a miraculous moment be anything but a grand beginning? Sure, the story as it was known was true. The legend of his defeat based on first hand account. But in all of that, no one managed to notice faintest hint of determinable vitality. A kind of persistence that stood the test of scrutiny by the keenest of eyes. As far as any one knew, his death was certain.
And confidence is blinding.
It was no easy feat to influence the vessels via his shattered consciousness. He was never whole, never complete, one without the other. He would not survive it. But death remembered him like an old friend. Smiling at him just beyond clear regard, a silent acknowledgement of what he stood to loose.
He pressed forward, growing bolder by the day, sinking his control deeper and deeper still until...
The union was euphoric. Ying and yang fitting together perfectly to make the whole, two consciousness made whole again. In a blinding nova, he pieced himself together one tendril at a time. Until finally in what felt like another millennia (in reality a couple seconds) his transformation was complete.
As the white light abated, his own body absorbing the power, he was able to be distinguished for how he now appeared.
God made flesh. The flesh of his origin. Raw and naked as the day he was brought into existence.
He held his hands up in front of him, impossibly large onyx orbes unblinking. He flexed his fingers, spreading and wiggling each and then forming a fist. His attention was rapt, his notice of the two mortals cowering before him remained undisturbed.
How could it be?
How could such a miraculous moment be anything but a grand beginning? Sure, the story as it was known was true. The legend of his defeat based on first hand account. But in all of that, no one managed to notice faintest hint of determinable vitality. A kind of persistence that stood the test of scrutiny by the keenest of eyes. As far as any one knew, his death was certain.
And confidence is blinding.
It was no easy feat to influence the vessels via his shattered consciousness. He was never whole, never complete, one without the other. He would not survive it. But death remembered him like an old friend. Smiling at him just beyond clear regard, a silent acknowledgement of what he stood to loose.
He pressed forward, growing bolder by the day, sinking his control deeper and deeper still until...
The union was euphoric. Ying and yang fitting together perfectly to make the whole, two consciousness made whole again. In a blinding nova, he pieced himself together one tendril at a time. Until finally in what felt like another millennia (in reality a couple seconds) his transformation was complete.
As the white light abated, his own body absorbing the power, he was able to be distinguished for how he now appeared.
God made flesh. The flesh of his origin. Raw and naked as the day he was brought into existence.
He held his hands up in front of him, impossibly large onyx orbes unblinking. He flexed his fingers, spreading and wiggling each and then forming a fist. His attention was rapt, his notice of the two mortals cowering before him remained undisturbed.
09-21-2023, 08:17 PM
