July 2019 Prologue

OOG: The following is a dream-vision granted to all those sleeping in Freehold during July 22, 2019 (WR).  

[THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO; SANCTUM OF FATES, OVERWORLD]

Before he arrived, the chamber had only a single occupant at its center. Her essence reached out to brush the millions of strings that comprised the Sanctum walls, thrumming them with Destiny. The floor glowed with a subtle radiance, geometric lines and arcane sigils casting shadows unto an unseen ceiling.

“You need not walk so softly, Osirath-Amun. I know you are there”

Behind her was her murderer. He was dressed in the humble black robes of his faith, one of the many religions that she created and maintained. Over his vestments was armor and over that armor and upon his Scythe was the ichor of her Archons and the rest of her angelic guardians.

She did not have to turn around in order to see him — she was Fate after all.

But she also saw his soul and the threads that tied him to every other soul in Midworld. She saw his every deed and every choice, every terrible sin and every righteous action. It stretched across the forty years of his life and the twelve years of his rulership, an assassin-king of a shadowed kingdom. The blood on his hands and the stains on his soul were ocean-deep — but she understood the fathoms of their measure.

His tread slowed, armor clanking and leather murmuring with his movement over the Mercurium floor. The sound stilled but she could sense his heart, heavier than a feather, yet beating no faster despite her attention to him.

For all of her power, she was just prey to him.

An impressed smile crept over her ebon lips as she turned serenely to face him. Her aspects followed her movement, over a thousand different spectres, shadows and silhouettes overlaying her own tangible form. His gait slowed to a stop and his grip tightened on his ichor-splattered scythe.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment since I first dreamt of it, not long after Wyrm’s dying words to me” She had Softened her voice, of course — she had no need to kill him with it, any more than she needed her 7th battle aspect or her 777th killing form. “It was inevitable. Our creations would overthrow us just as we had overthrown those who came before us, with blades that can make even an immortal bleed.”

He began moving again, circling her form. He regarded her warily and her smile widened — she knew that he couldn’t see her visages, though he could sense her presence. Beyond the Gods themselves, few knew that the Assassin-King of Ur-Mahat had been born without sight. It did not matter, he murdered and reigned easily enough.

She continued, allowing him to get behind her again. “That dream was just part of a bigger vision yet to come. I would be the one to give the god-slayer cipher to Secundus and bring about this moment, just as I had formented the vicious conflict between them that was necessary to distract them until your killing blows”

He stopped again, his heartbeat and his body betraying his unspoken, burning question:

Why?

“Power corrupts all who wield it and Purpose does not exempt one from their Sin. You and I will be no exception. Long ago, I had hoped to break the circle, but alas — it occurs again and again. It will not end, not even with me.”

He took a guarded step back as she Unified. Hundreds of thousands of aspects summoned and contained in one form. There were no more spectres, shadows or silhouettes around her — only an older woman in a coarse robe facing him and stretching out a withered hand.

“Your weapon is not strong enough to kill Fate itself, my child.”

His scythe shivered with a pale light, bringing him to his knees with the weight of its strength. The lines and sigils upon the floor dimmed as new runes were born and burned upon his blade.

Wisps of grey and black hair escaped the edges of her hood as her smile faded. “I once used those Sigils to end a war. They still have some use, it seems.”

Osirath-Amun drew himself up to his feet, even while the shaking subsided and the burning flickered. Each movement was heavier with power and purpose. He was the Scythe and it was him — they could never be parted.

“You will understand as I did, End-Seer. They all will turn and the Sigils will be needed again. There will be an Age–”

He was swift as an arrow and just as remorseless. Shadows shifted from the light of the blade rising and falling. Osirath-Amun was ready with a back-swing as soon as he was finished with his first, but there was no need — it was like cutting air, and the cloven pieces of her robe fell to the darkening floor, covered in bloodless ash. As though cut with the same Annihilating strike, millions of severed Mercurium strings drifted down to sprawl lifelessly across the Sanctum.

Soon, the Assassin-King’s figure was illuminated only by his scythe blade.

It was mere heartbeats afterward when Osirath-Amun began screaming, scythe vanishing as he took his hands to clutch at his head as it filled with Infinite knowledge and infinite madness.

He did not stop until he finally understood, over a hundred years later.

And at that point, all the sound had been extinguished from his soul and Osirath-Amun was no more. There was only the Scythe of the Gods, the All-Ender: NIHILUS.

Rumor (Everyone may read this)