So it was that Nipsy, Kurak, Sheryni, Whirran, Yettave, Almol, Mjoll, Xolotl, and Dreww gathered before the pylon of Bloodloch, their residual energies at their maximum capacity. The Earthen Lord quickly joined them, forcing the pylon to contort into a portal. The undead stepped through and found themselves in the heart of the ley, kaleidoscopic light whirling all around them. Their advance began without hesitation, the group efficiently boring holes through ylem congestion with their own energies, rescuing those caught in ley wounds before they found themselves cast adrift in a gap between planes, and felling newborn eld that formed before their very eyes.

All the while, a tortured wail haunted their every footfall, screaming through the leylines in what sounded only like thousands of voices strung together into one anguished cry. Momentarily shaken for reasons He Himself could not voice, Ivoln seemed to recognise the voice, but soon dismissed His concern in favour of the task ahead. The group pushed through the obstacles and the Earth God bid them to be still: they had arrived at their destination. A stern warning followed: instructions not to touch anything, not to speak, not to do anything to disturb the halls, admonishing all present that Death would spare them no pity if they became lost in His domain. The mortals present were to escort the soul and nothing else - while Ivoln ensured their safe departure.

The interlopers pressed on, emerging in a secluded corner of the Heroes' Glade, and Ivoln began to work. Gathering death energy about Himself, flashes of Dhaivol passed over His stony features, momentary memories given life in sad and pained expressions before Ivoln quelled them to nothing. He slashed a hand through the air, parting the cloying fog lingering over the Glade, and murmured the name of His quarry in a hoarse whisper.

Long moments passed before a transparent silhouette shimmered into view, all vapour and smoke billowing through the gardens. The image sharpened as Ivoln beckoned it closer, solidifying into the form of Ondromikios Ijandrimali - the group had found what they sought. Confusion tinged the Scientist's features, first addressing Ivoln as his Lord before stating that though he knew Him, it was not Him, and asking if the time had come. Ivoln's composure faltered for an instant at these words, before girded composure returned and He instructed those present that the time to leave had come.

As the Magician fell into line behind Nipsy, the restless dead sang out in plaintive lament, thousands of haunting voices singing a requiem for the God of Death. The music inspired panic into the face of Ivoln, Who simply murmured, "He is coming."

"Trespasser." Came the cold, pitiless voice of Dhar, His passage through His halls invoking hazy images and fragmented echoes of His frozen anger. The Earth God tore open a rift to the Prime, commanding His followers to flee with the purloined soul. As they hurried through and hastily brought their prize to safety, the orchestra of soul music transformed from sombre lament to paean of war for all to hear.

Dhar stilled as He reached the Glade, and time itself seemed to crawl to a halt, the two Gods, Who were once inextricably bound as One whole, stared each Other down. Death first broke the silence, His voice carrying across worlds. "You should not have come here." He intoned, a surge of death energy surrouning Him in spectral light as He drew His scythe and stepped forward. The weapon's swing clove the air in twain yet for the most fleeting of moments, Dhar hesitated, striking at empty space.

Roused from any emotional reluctance He may have harboured, Ivoln roared then, the battle cry of the Earthen booming out in battle lust. Grass and soil withered under His advance; stone and soil rose to envelop Him in a vortex of earthen strength which He sent exploding at Dhar, Who simply drew His robe about Himself and vanished. An instant later, Death reappeared behind Ivoln, and ethereal chains streaked forth to bind Him, serrated hooks sinking into Hlugnic flesh and opening long wounds.

The Earth God bellowed in defiance of captivity, the chains transformed to mere sand as He regrouped, preparing another attack. Dhar remained implacable, aglow in the vast power suffusing Him from the milieu of His own domain. "You cannot win here." He stated calmly, without fear or trepidation, and dozens more chains lurched forward to bind His foe. Smirking, Ivoln canted His head at the still-open rift, where restless souls had begun to converge, fleeing from the Underhalls to escape the King's justice.

Vaporous mist flew from Dhar's grasp to encircle the portal, surrounding it in an attempt to blockade the absconding souls. Seemingly unconcerned for the enemy at His back, He continued to seal it shut while Ivoln, seizing an opportunity, shrugged free His fetters for a second time. The full strength of Azvosh acceded to the will of its Lord and Master and Ivoln struck, directing a calamitous, devastating strike at the distracted Dhar.

Sure of victory, certain of triumph, Ivoln relaxed. Yet even as the attack enswathed the Underking, He reacted with impossible speed, conjuring an aegis of mist and charnel power, a grey-white shield that sent the unleashed energies away and elsewhere. A mighty CLANG rang out through the Underhalls then, its authoritative peal reaching all of Creation with sickening volume.

The alabaster frame of the Soul Mirror shivered in agony, the empty void of its lakelike surface roiling in a turbulent storm of desperate struggle and futile strain to absorb and disperse the wrath of the embattled Gods. Anguished wails rose from the Underhalls, stark images of death overwhelming all of Sapience and beyond. A crack splintered along the Mirror's glassy heart, and it screamed.

Panic stricken, Ivoln fled through His own gateway, the rift snapping shut behind Him as He went to the side of His undead, instructing them to prepare for war. He could not escape Dhar's rage. Gone was the wintry restraint of the grave, in its place the Death God's temper boiled over, utterly inconsolable. His blistering condemnation of the Earth God seared the skies with the depths of His ire, the weight of so profound a betrayal weighing heavy on His mind. Naming Him naught but a selfish, destructive, decrepit abomination and voicing regret at ever having believed otherwise, Dhar emerged in the skies over the Ithmia, His pale horse armoured for battle.

The soul chorus resumed its saturnine canticle at these words, but Dhar was not yet finished. Vowing to bring justice to Ivoln and to end Him and all He stood for, the Underking's final words came with unbridled vehemence and sneering contempt: "Now, You and Yours will truly know no peace."

Silence came then, but it was to be short lived. Amid drums of war and portentous bellows, thrice did colossal spears sweep across the firmament, the ill-boding jangle of metallic chains voicing their passage. The weapons rived through the Tarean Mountains, the Siroccians, and the Vashnars, sundering earth and impaling the highest peaks. The meaning was plain, even as Dhar withdrew from the heavens: war.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 9th of Niuran, in the year 500 MA.
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