The Worldeater Saga, Part XLV: Trespass upon Creation

On the six-hundred-thirty-seventh day of the Creators’ Monomachy-turned-Triomachy, the Hegemonist Abhorash summoned His faithful and the Empire of Bloodloch to the Lich Scriptorium, their passage unhindered by the mighty barrier that shrouded it. Wreathed in the full depths of the Creation He had seized from the desecration of Celestine and Eschaton’s arbours, the God was a beacon of glowing Divinity, at once strenuous and sublime to behold. When He spoke, esoteric whispers echoed each syllable, millions of unrealised voices alive with the burgeoning potential of Creation.

Noting that the chaos sown by the newly minted Zenith had ruptured the veil of potential, the Hegemonist decreed that what was once impossible could now be achieved; though He had not originally intended to involve mortals in this next phase of His plans, now they could be empowered to embark beside Him. With that, Creation’s essence fully flared out from the Hegemonist, devouring the Scriptorium in lances of brilliant white. Outside, the barrier surrounding the Lich Scriptorium sent the heavens awash with luminescence, the membrane seething with the birth of a nascent Plane of Creation guarded beneath its surface.

As mortals overstepped the boundaries of their jurisdiction, encroaching upon a Creation they were never meant to step foot in, the realm revolted against this heresy; it was only by the Tyrannical will of the Deity of this realm that the unascended remained anchored to existence. At the centre of this infinite void of Creation, Abhorash turned His focus to the massive wargolem summoned into this plane – its creation a rather painful and deadly work of labour by the Empire over the course of many months.

Then, with the raising of an imperious hand, Abhorash began His blasphemous work; veins of Creation sizzled against His veins, pooling about a singularity at the end of His outstretched hand. The atmosphere cracked as Abhorash called forth titanic threads of pulsating essence, the very veins of this universe, converging this sprawling nexus at a singularity of power in His grasp. As torrential amounts of power and essence were channelled towards the centre, the entire universe buckled under the immense pressure of Abhorash’s machinations. Singularly focused as He was, the God spared nothing to stabilise the rapidly buckling realm.

With the rapid unspooling of the realm, the God finally cast the briefest of His attention to the burgeoning collapse, bestowing the thinnest splinter of Creation to each of the mortals there in Divine empowerment. So blessed, the threads of Creation unveiled themselves to mortal eyes, revealing the dire state of the realm: edges frayed, these threads stood in dire need of repair. As mortals now gazed upon that which they had no right to, spiderwebs of black cracked the outside barrier’s surface over the Lich Scriptorium, Creation revolting against the heresies enacted within.

With Abhorash singularly occupied, empowered mortals set to work repairing the unwinding threads of the realm even as spectres of Creation rose up against this heresy. Though unskilled at first, resulting in many instances of being unmade and subsequently stitched back together by the Hegemonist’s will, the trespassing mortals slowly but surely repaired the realm. As each section was successfully brought into equilibrium, it collapsed, latent energies of Creation summoned to the God at the realm’s heart.

Entire branches of this pocket of Creation melted, their threads seized firmly in the Hegemonist’s grasp. As He channelled this immense potential into the wargolem before Him, mists of Pestilent Chaos intruded upon the realm, perverting the stream of Creation as virulent power was likewise infused into the shell before Abhorash. Outside, the veins of black perverting the Scriptorium’s barrier were replaced by blighted green as pestilent mists bulged against the surface of the barrier, its sickly incandescence bleeding through the brilliant white.

Back on Creation, amidst the blighted stream, the mortals’ Creation-enhanced vision allowed them glimpse all the potential, the possibilities infused within it. They bore witness to plagues innumerable, both known and unknown, streaming into the golem. Amidst familiar blights such as the Aalen Bloom, new creations likewise suffused the golem, born of the imagination of twisted architects: recognisable were the influence of Akarn, Anuul, Azvameth, Cuyler, Lysaira, Maeve, Paxe, Trynt, Zoraikla, and Zzebida.

With the plane of Creation now nigh entirely consumed, a column of crimson erupted from the centre as the wargolem exploded. Before they were ejected too far, each piece of the golem dissolvesd into brilliant threads of light before speeding into the Hegemonist’s grasp, malleable strands to re-shape to His will. Displaced from shattered shell, hundreds of souls escaped from the deconstructed wargolem. Even as they fled, a fountain of blood erupted from Abhorash, cascading into a sanguine canopy that spread across the realm. Where each soul fell under the influence of this crimson umbrella, tendrils snaked out insidiously, ensnaring the wayward soul in vampiric chains.

Impossibly dexterous was Abhorash’s skill, the God weaving intricate threads of Creation unto each of the six-hundred-and-eighty-eight subverted souls released; they served as anchor, tethering the blighted streams of Creation and Pestilence alike to manifest form. When all souls were finally infused with this synthetic destruction, the God brought it all converging into the apex of Creation, condensing His final creation into distilled form.

A blinding glow washed across the Festering Wastes, expanding rapidly outwards before abruptly imploding, sucked back into the eye of the storm manifested at the heart of the Lich Scriptorium as a nascent plane of Creation collapsed in a climax of heresy. Suspended above the Scriptorium was the lithe figure of Abhorash, His shadowed cape billowing frenziedly with the residual aftershocks of the massive wellspring of power unleashed.

The God did not stand alone.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 3rd of Omeian, in the year 0 AC.