In the aftermath of war between Death and Undeath, while many celebrated victory and others licked their wounds, One party cared little for the conflicts of the overworld. In disturbing unison, the four pylons across the city-states of Sapience began to glow with mottled ley-fire, sending waves of alien, intrusive thoughts into the minds of all who stood nearby. Urgent whispers rose and soon fell silent, the disturbance given life in the form of small, skittering creatures squeezing their way into the world from within the pylons.

Each representative of Delve reacted immediately - urging the creature's capture. Beymak, reminded of Zynti's ascension into Jhin and the massive disturbances in the ley which accompanied it, led the charge. What began with one soon became five and, before long, dozens of the creatures had begun swarming out of the pylons, and the chase was on. Utilising enchanted flasks fashioned from crystals in the Fractal Bloom and with vermin as bait, capture at first seemed an easy task. Directed to Gifol Linet, a senior researcher in the Delve Society, the adventurers were dismayed to find their captives - creatures in the dozens - vanishing to dust the instant they stepped foot onto Albedos.

Gifol had no explanation for this, and little patience for questions. With haste, a neutral outpost was established in the Siroccian Mountains, just steps away from the harlequin portal that has long carried travellers to Delve. There an enormous crate rested, overseen by an enthusiastic Tarpen researcher, and the adventurers began their task of amassing these peculiar creatures for research. Weeks passed and the creatures continued to appear in mostly steady streams, occasional swarms in massive numbers brought about by agitations in the ley. Nevertheless, efforts continued and some twelve hundred of the bugs were caught and brought to the crate, though some found themseles beneath the boot - crushed to death.

It was Chassity, Pietre, and Caitria whose efforts seemed to cross a deadly threshold. Until now mostly placid, the creatures began to buzz and click violently, turning on one another in a gruesome frenzy. Hungrily they devoured each other, but in this orgiastic, insectile feast, a mass started to form, growing larger with each new consumption until the container shattered into smithereens, no longer able to contain them. The Tarpen researcher screamed, and the writhing mass echoed it, releasing a grotesque, gurgling ululation into the air. Thousands of creatures heard its call, erupting from the pylons, shattering the flasks in which they were held captive, and swarming to heed the call of their master.

Tarissa, overseer of the nearby digsite, heard the clamour and could not stop herself from coming to investigate. The seething, roiling mass grew larger and more pronounced as myriad creatures joined it, until at last the eldritch Immortal shod carapace and chitin and sloshed towards Tarissa, ignoring the Mhun woman's screams and violently claiming her body as Its host. It stood then, draped in robes of midnight and spoke in a rasping death rattle of countless voices made one: "We... are."

The Immortal named Himself Varo, Keeper of the Close, and claimed to be the God of Death. Evidently having slept for eons, the God's memory was hazy, and He showed no familiarity with the modern world. Mortals hurried to meet the newly awakened God, though they had more questions than He had answers. By some innate intuition, Varo knew of the harm sustained by the Soul Mirror, and openly questioned why the Underking - about Whom He spoke as a mere Regent, a usurper of Death's Throne - had not mended it.

Hazy memories led the God to speak in enigmatic riddles, the condescending tone of an Elder God warring with the confusion wracking His recently-stirred mind. Of foreign places and ancient lands He waxed, giving them names none recognised. The Undead He named "Soldier", while to vampires He offered only disgust, referring to them as mere ticks and parasites, revolted by their theft of vitality in order to pretend they were, themselves, alive. "Derivatives" He named the Gods of Sapience with no effort to spare His contempt. Of Albedi and Ankyreans He knew nothing and, when pressed, the God revealed His last waking memory: a sprawling Necropolis in the City of Dyisen, during the Fourth Sepulchral Bell of the Dawn's Age. The reason for His long slumber in the ley was not clear, but the God's clarity of purpose and certainty of position were unwavering.

Varo claimed He could mend the Soul Mirror, but would need to study a working replica in order to do so. As He continued to stir from His waking, at His second appearance He offered another riddle, and adventurers were led to the Dry Plains - known to Elder Death as 'Rhesehl' in His own era. There, the combined strength of dozens tore a massive metal hatch from the ground and revealed a subterranean research outpost - a Census Station built by the Second Ankyrean Order. Within, the sought replica was discovered: known as the Soul Index, its composition resembled that of the Soul Mirror itself, though its centre was an empty void, wholly unlike the lakelike surface of that which inspired it.

The adventurers clamoured to lay their hands on the device, each time causing it to judder into motion and speak in a monotone voice. With each caress of its frame it revealed the history of that individual's soul: a former life documented and recorded in the Order's forced census. Some balked at its revelations; some embraced what it offered; others, mistrustful and suspicious of both the artifact and the God standing before them, had only more questions. Many felt that Varo was reluctant to touch the Index Himself, interpreting this as confirmation of their mistrust. It was only when Benedicto Silverain charged at the God, attempting and failing to tackle Him into the Index and force His hand, that Varo acquiesced and laid His skeletal hand upon the device. It once more stirred into motion and declared only, "Designation: God."

The Elder God spoke at some length on the nature of the Soul Mirror, that chiding, mocking tone smugly revealing the truth of its making. The Mirror was a Simulacrum, He told them. A parlour trick of the Celestine's, made to capture His voice and His face and beguile those who found resurrection into feeling that He cared for them. The Varian - named Varyuch by Varo - at the Mirror was not real, not true, and the belief that the Creator took a personal hand in shepherding souls back to life was a mistaken one. Mixed reactions followed, though the God had spoken nothing but blunt, painful truth thus far. Assuring those present that He would begin work immediately, streams of essence poured from His fingertips to encircle the device before the God disappeared, a palpable impression of His lingering presence remaining behind.

Weeks wound on and Varo's work upon the Index continued. Appearing again to converse with another growing crowd in the Ankyrean bunker, He spoke of souls and their purpose, of tempering, and the journey of experience undertaken by each of life's participants. Confusion reigned, but further discussion was curtailed by the arrival of Omei, the Imago, come to confront this Elder Death. Disturbed by His scorn for free will and agency - revealed by the Aeonic Confluence to be reluctant gifts of Varian at the pleading behest of Lanos - the Goddess levied questions and accusations at the Old God, but withered beneath His ruthless invective.

"Broken doll" He named Her, tearing through Her notions of love and instinct and companship like a scythe through chaff. She fled soon after in tears, whereupon She began to drink heavily, falling into a pit of misery and despair. The sobering call of Her Brother Damariel snapped Her out of Her reverie after a months-long campaign against Him and His. Temple desecrations, letters, harassment, and more were brought to a tumultuous finality as He showed Himself. The confrontation was a short one, the former God of Truth offering his defence with placid kindness and warm compassion to His suffering Sister. The two reconciled, and matters of Truth were seemingly settled with Damariel's admission of an ancient vow, and His confession that even he knew nothing of Varo, stating only that the Old God was of Varian's creation, much like Himself and His Siblings.

Meanwhile, Varo's work on the Index went on. In His final meeting with the adventurers of Sapience, He offered them a gift. He bestowed a young sentience upon the Index and informed them that He would have little time to spare for their persistent questions when He had reclaimed His throne: a matter about which the God held no uncertainty, no worry, no anxiety, as if it was already decided and the coronation but a mere formality. And yet, memories of ancient battle plagued His already clouded thoughts, bare to those with the insight to glimpse them. Invasions by "Others" wracked His mind, and frustration deepened as He sought more of them and found nothing but fog.

At last the time came. The ancient God's shout drew the world's attention: We begin.

Heedless of the birthright the Underking still held on the throne of Death, Varo conveyed Himself from the Dry Plains and into the realm that was not yet His. Spectral guards alerted the Reigning Sovereign of this new trespass, and as the Elder Death travelled through the hallowed lyceum of Death, Dhar's eyes were upon Him in the gaze of every spirit and soul the usurper passed. The Underking was not without His view of this Keeper of the Close, again announcing Him as an Imposter for all to hear.

Ignoring the Derivative and His claims, Varo unerringly sought and found the Soul Mirror. There, echoed in its wounded, lakelike surface, was Varo's true reflection. This gave the Elder God pause. Memories stirred as He was drawn deep into the void beyond the Simaculrum. Again, the Underking warned Varo that the power of Death was not His to wield. Despite His warning, the Underking did not forestall Him. From afar, working too upon the issue of the Mirror's crack, He watched and waited to see what would become of Varo. Armoured in contempt and wielding scorn, the Firstborn sought to make the Underhall and its spirits heed Him. Slowly, the power of Death coalesced, frothing around Him like a wellspring tapped at the core of a necropolis. So certain of His might, so imperious He was in His assertion that Death was His to command, He laid a single finger against the Soul Mirror.

All of Creation shuddered beneath a portentous knell. The wound glowed igneous silver, knitting together as if a smith had laid a fresh line of freshly smelted metal along it. Death staggered in the wake, expending an enormous amount of energy for what seemed an infinitesimal amount of repair. Anger lashed the firmament as Varo raged at Varyuch. What had the Celestine done to make Him so weak during His forced slumber? Declaring Himself no King's Regent - announcing Himself as the true King of Death - He drew the overwhelming might of the Underhalls to Him, and channelled it into the very centre of the mirror. Instead of flowing into the antiquated device and fixing it, the Mirror rejected His magic as it would any God that thought to meddle with Death's affair. Caught in the throes of the surging puissance, Varo's shock gave way to horror and finally agony.

Death Incarnate manifested beside the struggling Immortal. Without pity, the true God of Death watched as realization dawned in Varo's eyes, His last moment full of unspoken memories, swiftly followed by a scream of unspeakable terror directed at His absent Father. With Varian's name on His tongue, the Keeper of the Close, the Firstborn and long forgotten God of Death, disintegrated. His essence illumined the firmament in radiant brushstrokes of ghostly grey and azure, before even that was gone.

In the foreboding aftermath, the Underking glowered at the mirror. Though still scarred, the enormous crack had been somewhat repaired, perhaps enough for the Underking to resume His authority over Death. Gathering His robes about His incorporeal form, Dhar returned to the depths of His Underhalls, and took anon His throne.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 11th of Variach, in the year 501 MA.
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