Brille

I miss the days of simplicity, growing up on the farmland, taking care of animals and crops. All those many centuries ago.... Back when Dungeon Cores weren't as they are now. Corrupted into a tool for the Gods, rather than a challenge to benefit the living.

Attaining power as a mortal was easy, at least back when the Pantheon wasn't as power hungry as they are now. Over the last 563 years the average level of a mortal has been stagnating, rotting away like all the death I find so close to my realm.

I remember spending years accruing power until at some point my body couldn't handle it. I became of the Divine and the Masaara shook to my hearts own beat. That's when the old fools thought to remove the available power from the world. If all who were motivated could reach Godhood then it would become too crowded.

They argued, they fought, and from what I've experienced of Thomas' memories a quote from that world fits best.

"History is written by the victors."

I stretch the threads of Fate I hold, if anyone does observe me they would think I was playing with it. No, they exist more like muscles- damage them to grow them stronger.

Being the newest God of the Pantheon I don't hold much power. I have been working for hundreds of years, from the end of my strand working backwards. I have orchestrated the end of this Pantheon from it's very inception. Strengthening it's warrior through time and space itself.

The thread I hold vibrates, I know enough from practice that I need not inspect it for deeper meaning. My own death approaches. He is all I could have hoped for, but not the best alternative. His thread is darkened at places, knotted in others and strangely it frays to the point of one strand being all that holds it together.

Still it's better than the alternatives, to see ones own demise in Threads of Fate is to see all the possible ends. The local star imploding and erasing everything except the Pantheon, leaving us all to starve was an option. That was much further forward though. There was a lot of options that ended in starvation. Over the years I've learned a lot about my chosen end.

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A world bathed in fire and ash, the Gods removed from their thrones and the surviving population free to do as they desire. It's not without suffering and pain. It does accomplish my goal much sooner than I hoped. It's a shame I won't be around to see it.

The "Reaper" would have ascended to Godhood himself by now, if he had a body. Ascension at level 500, a dream in this day and age but a reality long ago. The mortals at present are weak and frail, stifling their own growth and shunting much of their efforts to the Pantheon as they are forced to.

The only way to grant him the power to change the current state of affairs is by ceding my own existence to his. The people who believe so little in me being saved by my own sacrifice is the kind of gallows humor I was known for better when I was just mortal.

The irony of the whole situation is wonderful, the Pantheon of Gods brought low by their own system, by their own creation - meant to bring them more power and ability. A Core with a soul, an actual soul, one driven mad by the unfairness of the world and driven to change it. A Core that doesn't care about its own safety, one that sees what it wants and snaps it up like a greedy wildcat.

I summon up a mirror to inspect myself, I will be putting on a show for the others soon. I will very intentionally lose but one should always look their best.

For myself commanding Masaara is like breathing to mortals. You flex your Will, with a picture in mind of what you Desire and the three unite to become one.

I look like Death. It fits but not the persona I'd prefer to show. I age myself backwards through time. My eyes becoming less sunken and my hair returning to the sheen of my youth. My skin tightens up around my skeletal and starved frame.

I lengthen my hair further than what I typically present to the living. I expand my cheeks to seem more full of life and as I smile I make sure my teeth are the cleanest and straightest I can manage. I decide to go with light blue eyes, instead of my typical full black pupils. I dress myself in a copy of my favorite dress from so long ago.

It isn't the best to fight in a ball gown though, so I make sure to have more battle worthy attire under it. Armor from my previous life as a rogue, including the cloak of shadows I pried away from the hands of the former God of Death.

As I'm about to summon my own weapons from my adventuring days I stop myself. A smile splits my face in the mirror as I summon a copy of Thomas' own weapon. Showmanship isn't my thing typically, but if it's to be my last moment I'd rather it be as grand a tale as my life was.

I return to the void I have claimed as my own to wait for him. Deep under the Ocean above and vacant of anything that might get in the way of our battle. The String of Fate here shows that I either beat him in the fight and he returns to his Dungeon, or he beats me and my goals are achieved after my death.

I scan the room I've carved out over the last few years of waiting. It's large enough to be made into a castle town, though any who did would die from the pressure at this depth. If the absolute lack of everything didn't stop them. There is no air here, no light, nothing. Thomas' mind would call it a vacuum void of everything, and a sensory deprivation chamber if it wasn't deadly to mortals to exist here.

Eventually he arrived and asked his questions. Days worth of questions and jokes.

All just to apologize, before summoning his own scythe and beginning the fight.