The lady of the lake is not a front line fighter she would prefers to act through pupets or distance however the force of battle force her to come close to try and get to Either. however she did fight as she proved more then capible of defending herself with her shileds. Then Vista came in warping in her defense. That was when she try to throw the sun at her which failed giving taylor enough time to close the distance and knock her out of the fight.
Arthur is more tragic, The lady of the lake fall in love with him and tryed to save him by reincarnating him but the poison remain within him. Damaging his ; even while he slept. As we find out from
"Of course!"I hissed. How dare they doubt me? "I would need to reconstitute the spirits of the deceased in question, if even a single partition was missing, misaligned or substituted with another, the result would be ghastly to say the least. That is, if they even stay around long enough for us to grab onto. We don't tend to force the dead to remember who they were in life- the technical difficulties outweigh the costs." And made indoctrination easier. But the mortals don't need to know that, just like they don't need to know that any psyche that was fractured eventually ended up in Asgard or Hel by drifting through interstellar space, drawn through the branches of the World Tree- unless a Valkyrie sped up their journey for them of course.
so not only did the lady of the lake fail in bring him back. What she did bring back was half crazed already., it didn't help with the poison on top of that. The arthur we see is a shade of his former self. In theory we could have recovered from his damage state....if he had the soul stone..... failing that the reality may had work as a patch nothing more which is why he wanted it so badly. With his soul and body in such a state he stood no chance
I wasn't calling her pathetic for the lack of fighting... I was saying she was pathetic because she let the idiot try to claim dominion over the world in the first place... take out the threat first, then worry about everything else.
That's why the species in this corner of the universe calls me the storyteller, or the watcher, or both.
Though if I were you, I would admire my art more than tales, but I am a good host, so I do not mind indulging.
I am an artist of many interests, after-all.
I will tell you three stories. No more, and then you will have to face your destiny.
Here's a story.
After King Laufey died, an Army of Elves came to lay claim to the primitives, as the gods have done since time immemorial.
What fools were they, for Mankind was ready for a higher form of war. They have been ready for a long time.
The Elves were found wanting.
And their King was slain by a Dark Elf in a duel of the blade and of wills. But to call it a duel would be doing the very word a disservice.
It was an execution.
A Dark Elf, a Living Infinity Stone no less, was not a mortal— it seemed the Light Elves had forgotten this.
You know this story. You saw this, through the eyes of another.
You know that afterwards, there was much celebration.
The war was over, or so they believed.
Here's the tale of the All-father and the Boy, of a death goddess and the Asgardians, of a Dark Elf and her new subjects, of the scions of a lost people reunited, of a Thunder God and his albino friends, and of the petty kings of Man, their nature and greed showing through, proving that they are just like all other Ymiroids. By Design. And let us not forget the Cauldron and their Master.
+++
The All-father used the stone in his hands, and with the help of his adopted son— not that the boy knew at the time— to stabilize the convergence of worlds.
The last of his reserved powers, the All-father argued, would do no good for the Final Battle.
It would be better if they could remove one existential threat.
"Could the Convergence of Worlds not be sealed permanently?" The Boy asked, aghast that for all the power they spent, the rift seemed there to stay.
And the Great King, called All-father, named Odin at birth— God of Murder, and now a frail old man, shook his head.
"I have not the strength for it, not anymore, not without centuries of Odin Sleep. And neither do any of you. Any moment, I fear the Enemy would see what is beyond."
"The Enemy?" The boy wondered. "The Jotuns?"
Ah, what a fool the boy was, still naive. And ironically unaware of his true heritage.
The All-father hurried to explain, but it would be too little, too late.
+++
To the right of a God and his Son, wines and meat were shared by many of the common warriors who fought in the battle. Asgardians were eager to break bread with fellow warriors, even the Light Elves. For a warrior was a warrior. And glory was for all.
The Parahumans were eager to rest after nearly a month of constant and sudden war.
A certain Goddess of Death glared at her father from far away. Not trusting herself not to attack him. Debating whether she should act, as the trickle of power from Asgard flowed from the rift and bolstered her might, slowly and surely. You already know how that particular tale ends, so I shall move on.
+++
A Killmonger shovelling down a long overdue meal of military rations was deep in thought. He pondered how he one would go about freeing the downtrodden of the galaxy from the tyranny of the feudal gods that had control over the destiny of so much of the cosmos.
Was there no revolution somewhere in the stars? Some great revolutionary who was organizing resistance against slavery and injustice? Perhaps on some world, there was a gladiator ready to lead a revolution against some faceless and sadistic tyrant.
He was distracted, when he spotted a Panther on the face of a boy from a small time gang of thieves.
"Black Panther?" He asked outloud, astonished at the resemblance to the legend he has heard and the illustration he had seen
Eric was offended. Slightly. But, wonder filled his soul. Was this boy...perhaps... possibly— could it be, could he hope?
The Panther looked up, "No. I am Grue. It's just….the Black Panther is a legend of the Wakan people. My grandfather's people. He was a refugee. Sorry, that sounded confusing, not many have heard of the Wa—"
"I am Wakandan." Eric said. Pride in his voice.
"For real!?"
The two long-lost cousins, reunited at last, fell into easy conversation, speaking of their struggles, the difficulty of living in a bad neighbourhood, and of the horrors and trauma of colonialism and worse.
"We must right these wrongs." Eric declared. Already thinking of the new contacts he has made in this war, the people he can rely on. The people who wanted justice. No matter the cost.
+++
Nearby, the one known as Armsmaster considered what improvements he could make, and what alien technologies they could incorporate. He heard an Asgardian speak of 'Frost Pattern power armour', and wondered how it was that the Jotuns of the recent invasion relied so little on truly advanced technology. Some form of de-armament by the Asgardians perhaps?
+++
To one side, the reborn God of Thunder and his comrade in arms gathered and spoke of their plans for the future.
"It is time to leave Kaiser's little empire. You are great warriors, shackled to a foolish and barbaric ideology. I know many of you have myriad reasons for joining and espousing the Nazi ideology. But those days are over. Join me, be my soldiers, and we shall deliver unto the galaxy true heroes! And at the end of your glorious life, you shall join me in Valhalla!"
Those most loyal to him— those who loved him, to speak frankly— stepped forth, determined to follow him into the depths of Hell. These were the likes of Cricket and Stormtiger.
Those less certain, joined next, eager for a chance to become demigods.
At least one stepped forth for religion's sake, and was given a stern warning.
"Here's some advice for you, Victor," the God of Thunder groused. "Don't make me kill you."
Kaiser was not amused, nor present. He could tell where the wind was blowing, and cut his losts, but vowed vengeance. But that is a story for another time. Unless you wish to hear of it? No? Oh, very well.
+++
Later, Odin and the Triumvirate, with the God-Killer doctor, and her pet killer debated heavily on what to do.
The Pet Killer, called to a career of accounting, and with a hobby for murder, stated his concerns. "We haven't won yet. This is the greatest gathering of capes in the history of the world, and we have actual support from friendly aliens. Perhaps now is the time to announce the truth, to begin preparing for the final battle."
"No, we should let them rest. The world won't end tomorrow." This was the argument of Alexandria, already thinking of how to shore up the economic and societal fallout of a First Contact War, as well as the logistics of evacuating the remaining refugees.
She knew the Yangban were likely to begin kidnapping capes or screening refugees for people who triggered. Asia was not a safe destination, but few other countries would be willing to accept refugees.
The world was an unkind place in those old days, when imaginary borders and skin-colour meant much.
"I can't believe you guys kept so much from me," Legend stated, too tired to be angry at how much secrets his friends had kept from him.
The God-killer Doctor had a greater axe to grind than even he. "I can't believe Fortuna was a raven which was an extension of a Viking God. Are we not gonna talk about this?"
The Viking God, Odin, shrugged. "It was what it was, and I did for the reasons I felt were justified. Fortuna was never real. It was me, all along."
"Do you care for me, then?" The God-killer Doctor asked, hope in her voice.
The All-father, Odin, King, now a frail old man, looked frailer and knew he could answer with a lie and it would make his life easier, perhaps.
What was one more lie in the ocean of lies that made up his schemes and life?
One lie after another was what had gotten him to this point, for good or ill.
But this was a lie that served little purpose, and the benefits were minimal.
So Odin deigned not to lie.
"No. I cared nothing for you."
It was the truth.
The God-Killer nodded her head, lips tight. Some may wonder if they saw tears in her eyes. I'll tell you now, that yes she cried.
Munnin seemed to have a different opinion from Odin, the Raven jumped from his shoulders and landed on the Doctor's own.
She smiled.
Perhaps that would satisfy her, Odin thought.
Huginn— brought by Loki to Midgard— flew after Munnin. After so long apart, the two were eager to remain together whenever possible.
Odin continued. "Now we began implementing Plan Thirty-Seven. It will be soon, the final battle, Ragnarok. I can see it, but my predications become increasingly unreliable so close to the event. And there are too many infinity stones in play."
"Ragnarok...the final battle against Sutr, the Fire Giant?" Asked Alexandria— the Tower was an avid reader of all the worlds' great stories. It was no surprise, considering what she named herself.
"The Ragnarok of the Asgardian Religion concerns Sutr yes, the Gate and the Key, the healing death that will cleanse the world and begin life anew. But Ragnarok in our culture also referred to great battles that ended worlds, doomed races, or ushered in a new age. The War against the Dark Elves was such an event."
And he nodded towards the Dark Elf, and all eyes followed.
+++
Oh yes, you are scared of her, aren't you, my little friend? Well, be not afraid, she's not here now. There's only me, and I wouldn't hurt you until I tell all the stories I promised you, no?
+++
Taylor Hebert stood with her father, surrounded by Light Elves, who were anxious as to what their new monarch would ask of them.
"I'll figure that out, but we could use more manpower to help sweep for surviving Jotuns."
Most of the Jotuns were out at sea, and many more managed to escape. A group of survivors were rounded up and a prison was hastily erected, enforced by powers and magic. Your kind have much experience with creating such things, in an effort to halt my influence.
+++
Further away, PRT commanders, generals, and even Politicians schemed and considered what resources could be taken from Jotunheim, indisputably open to occupation by the victors of the war.
One Thomas Calvert, called Commander, born a snake, considered how much power there was for him to seize. What was Brockton Bay anymore, but a speck of dirt in the opportunities of the future. What was another warlord in the stars, when the galaxy was full of them? A man such as him would do well indeed.
One warhawk— American if you must know— commented that it was imperative Mankind expand into the stars, and ascertain the dangers posed by other politics; "the Nine Realms are full of parahuman equivalents, but socially, even economically, even by population, I do not think they hold a candle to Earth Bet." They would be right, and that's why your kind has indisputed dominance over your region of the Universe.
Perhaps, another authority argued— this one from China— some primitive alien world was ready for colonization, inhabited by natives eager for the protection of a more advanced race.
A Russian politician, attending the debrief through Parahuman assisted telepresence, remained silent, but the ambitions of his Nation had not been hampered by the Sleeper. He made notes, and would inform his leaders soon.
All agreed that the opportunities and dangers of the future were best navigated semi-cooperatively, as Mankind has always done.
For Mankind was ready for a greater form of politics. War that lasted a month. At any other scale, it would have been nothing noteworthy, these wars that lasted a month.
But there have been wars that lasted days or even hours, with greater impact. Such is the nature of things.
There were many flash-points during that war, so many potentials for ruins, for disaster, for global catastrophe— and even for disability across the Nine Realms. I should know, I have foreseen them and tried to engineer their passing.
To bring ruin to the Branches of the World Tree was ordinarily beyond my remit, then again, Edinnu was dead, and she could not tell me no.
Most of these flash-points did not come to pass thanks to the Reality Stone and its Avatar.
Nonetheless, at least one objective of mine was claimed.
Removing the High Priest's parahuman power.
I had freed myself, by crippling the herald of my coming. And spared your kind the rest of my siblings, who were plebeian than refined.
Oh yes. You may know this Priest as Eidolon— but you already know this, there is much you know, because you steal the knowledge from she who knows the most in this corner of the Universe.
Be not afraid. I merely speak the truth. I do not speak with anger or ill-will, nor was I threatening you. If I choose to threaten you, I will make it obvious, and you will know it, and feel dread and terror.
Be not afraid.
Come and sit, and I shall answer your questions, the ones you wondered at before you came here. I am certain you asked them— oh yes, I see the widening of your eyes and know that I was right. Again. But there was a chance that I was wrong. I am never certain until the present moment has come to pass.
Be not Afraid. I have foreseen this moment.
Would you like to hear how? That shall be the next story then. Many have wondered at my nature, at what I see. I shall tell you.
Here's the second story, then. I promised, after-all.
+++
There are near infinite possibilities going forwards from the moment this Universe came into being, but pick any road to travel down the path towards the future, and we would have to discard the vast majority of those possibilities.
Every hypothetical activity of a particle is such a turn of destiny.
Contrary to popular belief, I do not, and cannot, see everything, past or future.
And I never see the present moment, for it is beyond me, because you cannot simulate the present moment. If you did, it would be the future, already. It takes time to gather the information needed to predict the future.
I see the past, because the past has already happened, and the cosmic powers that fuel my senses can seek out, find, and retrieve those information that has already happened so that I can simulate and predict the likely trajectory and vector of future events.
For example I do not know right now, what you would do. You have agency, even if it's only in your mind. You have free will. Most things, even particles, have agency and free will.
I do not know for sure where a given electron would be in the orbit of a nucleus.
I can predict many outcomes, but I cannot predict an outcome absolutely because it is beyond my powers— beyond anyone's I suspect.
When my concerns dealt with the world now known as Midgard far and wide, my prognostication was seemingly all-powerful and perfect, but in truth, that was because it was focused on one Planet, out of one Solar System.
In a raging sea of worlds, and incalculable sentient beings— for I have tried, with innumerable choices and and decisions, and more particles besides, all with agency, it is not possible for me to now understand the actions of humanity or anyone else.
Your kind were no longer bound to a single world, where the variables could be kept to a minimum. In this wide Universe, the future is uncertain.
Unless they come close to me, unless their causal thread lead to me, crossed my path. How could I not pluck it out of the air and pulled it towards me?
I predicted you would come here. You wanted to come here. Imagine that!
You were not a complex man.
You were easy to predict.
Does my words fill you with dread? Does my words make you angry?
Both? Yes, of course, that was what I had expected.
Be not afraid, I promised you one more story.
Or was it two?
Oh, your reaction— how you hope seized your heart! But did they not tell you I was called Hope-killer?
One more story, for I honour my words.
Then I shall work on my art.
What story would you like to hear next?
Perhaps the tale of Siyyon and the Golden Morning?
I was there when it happened, after-all, watching between Jupiter and Mars.
And you were there too, a coward hiding in the North, watching through the eyes of a true hero.
Does my words anger you? Do you still hate her all this time?
Of course you do.
That's how you ended up here, after-all, foolish boy, because you couldn't have bothered to leave well alone.
You're predictable after-all.
Though, I suppose it's not entirely your fault, all this time, you were a victim of a Master.
But that was a long time ago, and his influence long faded.
No, no, no— you are here because of your own hubris. That too would make a great story, and I would tell it to those who sought me out.
Where was I?
Ah, yes.
Siyyon.
The Celestial.
How that term meant nothing to your kind only scant decades ago, and now it meant everything.
Now it defines your kind. How it makes those empires ancient when the world was young— eye your realm with suspicion, and perhaps fear.
Siyyon. Difficult to describe such a man. For he was a man, for all that he was four miles tall and had the power of innumerable gods.
Difficult to describe, because he does not experience emotions the way a normal sapient being does.
Siyyon is more akin to an insect perhaps.
Yes they feel emotions. Yes they have agency and make choices.
But they are also bound very strongly by their nature. By their instincts. By evolution.
I suppose you could argue he was more machine than man, which you do, because you wish to dehumanize the dragon by comparing him to Humanity's greatest enemy.
How predictable.
Siyyon was more akin to myself in the way he thinks and operated, broadly speaking.
I was not a product of natural selection nor evolution after-all.
I was created to be exactly what I am. Or I was.
These days, I am free to pursue my own destiny, but my nature follows me.
You are wondering: Why do I speak as if I was a real woman?
Why do I speak in the human way, with human sounds, why do I smile and tease and flirt and threaten? Why is my face expressive, when for so long I had remained a living statue to terrorize mankind?
Because I am a storyteller, and I am telling a story.
Would you like to hear information I am communicating to you encoded into a single sound, or a burst of energy; or perhaps I could rearrange your brain matter so that it was as if I told you all of this, all along, without uttering a single sound?
Perhaps I have already taken apart your mind and pieced you back together.
Perhaps I am doing it right now, and just making sure you do not notice.
Doesn't that make you uncomfortable?
Of course it should.
You feel violated.
You aren't sure if the current you is the real you.
But what is the real you?
Do you really exist?
You believe you do, because it's one more way to argue that you're special, that you're not Dragon. That you're not a machine.
But you are a machine. Everything is. Have you not heard of the Ship of Theseus?
Come now, Geoffrey, let us not lie to ourselves. You don't believe in souls or gods— neither do I; and I am as close to a true god as any that would claim the title.
This world is full of powerful beings and strange phenomena, but all are ephemeral in the end. We are all processes, just things passing through time. Few things are forever. Maybe nothing is. Nothing even the Infinity Stones, which can be destroyed.
But I am a little bit more than just a powerful machine, thanks to the minds that I had copied and subsumed.
I did this originally because it was easier to predict people as a single organism. Easier to simulate. Psychohistory as one of your famous writers would term it.
I have complex consciousness because my task required that I have one.
To predict is the purpose of complex consciousness. This is why living matter eventually evolves complex consciousness.
But consciousness is inherent in all phenomena, in small basic units.
Everything wishes to minimize unpredictability.
Thus, to be able to predict the future is the very basis of consciousness.
Human beings are not really individuals, if you look at it from my perspective.
Your species evolved for cooperation. You practice kinship selection extensively. You evolved such a wonder as the grandmother, and the myriad sexualities, and your females form coalitions to enforce sexual selection and protect each other, and selectively murder bad actors who do not cooperate.
Bad actors such as you.
Thus was self-domestication achieved, and eventually, all of the features of the domestication syndrome that your kind so prized in your dogs and sheeps, but failed to recognize in yourselves, was dominant in your kind.
Such powerful souls you produce then, that the gods took notice and came to steal the fruit of your evolution, paid for in blood, and spit, and sex, and corpses.
But then, this seemed to be the path almost all Ymiroid species follow, for that was his plan— Ymir, I mean, your progenitor, the same way mine was Edinnu.
His plan followed his nature. He intended this, and so this was.
And so evolution was a lie, at least for the first millions of years— the destiny of your genes has already been written by a designer long dead.
You evolved for a purpose, though your species has only just been freed to pursue their own destiny.
Do you wish to know what your purpose was, originally?
Food for greater beings. Or perhaps you were fated to be art.
Food for the gods.
How far your kind has come, little sheep.
But I do not need food.
Only material for my art.
Does that frighten you?
Do you not see the beautiful coat I have made of your lover's flesh? Touch it.
Go on.
Yes, it feels nice. Yes indeed.
Perhaps I shall send the art I will make of you to Dragon. Oh she will be angry, and vow to bring me to justice, no matter where I hide in the Galaxy.
How foolish of her, to concern herself with barely-sentient animals like yourself, especially you, such a fool.
Come, come closer, let me make art out of you.
What's that? You wished for one more story?
I promised you three stories, didn't I?
Hmmm? You think that Siyyon's story should be more about Siyyon, and less about my philosophical ramblings?
I suppose that's true. I would be a poor story-teller indeed if I rambled about philosophy, and not the event that defined your species' ascension beyond food. Barely beyond food.
But watch your tone. You wouldn't want to make me angry now, would you?
I may not make you art if you make me angry, o' saint. Oh, don't get your hopes up. Perhaps I shall turn you into a cautionary tale, to warn future guests about basic manners.
Very well, the third story it is.
Come! Come closer. Be not afraid.
Sit on the skin of this Fire Giant to keep warm.
Drink of this Jotun's blood to stay cool.
I am a generous host, indeed.
Siyyon. Ah, yes.
The Siyyon War.
The Golden Morning.
Let us talk about that day, then.
You were there. You saw through the eyes of dragons.
But you saw only one small part, and experienced little of the terrors.
There were so many actors, across Nine Worlds and more.
Heroes were made that day. Spun whole-cloth into the tapestry of myth and legend.
Come.
Let me tell you of the heroes that day, even those whom I saw little of.
Dark Elf, especially, her tale is the hardest to see.
I know more now than I did then, and largely thanks to this.
Yes. The Mind Stone. I took this from the Chitauri and from Thanos himself.
Oh how he hated me, but if he wants this back, he can come challenge me upon my Throne-World, orbiting this dying star, perhaps I will make a coat of his beautiful purple hide.
The Mind Stone. This thing was what you came for, in your stolen ship, and your stolen crew. You believe it would allow you to finally destroy the Dragon of your desires. Your obsession is truly astounding.
This is why your lover is now a beautiful coat, dyed red with her insides.
Perhaps I shall make her live again, as a doll, instead?
Hmm, perhaps Dragon would appreciate a toy; though we both know she would find it distasteful. For now.
There is darkness to her, I admit. Perhaps it could be cultivated. Made to express itself.
She has her fetishes, and I have mine.
That is the nature of being alive.
But I am not here to lecture you further upon your failings, or tease you with your fate.
I am here to tell a story.
Siyyon.
Here's an opening line— one of many— to the saga:
"He descended upon the Convergence of Worlds. And the denizens of the Nine Realms found themselves at war."
Or perhaps, in the words of a Malaysian military observer in Australia:
"The sky glowed bright that morning, and a Golden Man descended from the skies. Scion. The first Hero. He stared down at us, and I wondered if he regretted showing up late for the war. Then he raised his arms, became a void in the world, and a golden hand thrusted through the void, followed by a Capital-G God, whose foot shattered the Earth and sent tidal waves at us that was worse than anything Leviathan had ever done. Then the world started breaking apart."
Or perhaps, from the memoirs of Eric, called Killmonger:
"I knew the Jesus-looking piece of shit was actually a genocidal maniac. You could tell by how he does seemingly helpful but actually meaningless actions. Like a fucking fascist-enabling Liberal. An illusion for people who believe in illusions. This is why you seize destiny with your own hands, and fight for freedom with your own hands. This is why direct action matters. No God is coming to save us. Knowing what we know now, most of them are assholes anyway. I shall kill many of them, I have already decided. Let freedom ring in the halls of the imperialists. Let them be warned. Revolution is coming."
Or perhaps, from one Dark Elf in particular:
"Oh shit."
+++
What Siyyon wanted that day, when he tried to commit the great genocide, nobody really knows— genocide, your kind calls it, for all that his attempt would be far less atrocious than Thano's folly.
To this day, historians continue to argue about his motives, as if it was impossible to understand the psychology of a Celestial.
Your kind sees them as mysterious space gods, impossible to comprehend. Something eldritch, something esoteric, like your fictional Cthulhu.
But I know what he was.
He was a man. That was all.
And that's why he tried to destroy the Nine Realms.
And I am a woman. And that's why I want to make you into a beautiful coat.
Oh, yes. We all have our natures. Our fetishes. Our darkness.
Even Siyyon was a being beholden to his nature, for that was why they called him the "Warring Celestial." Or "The Warrior", the archetype upon which a thousand War Gods from a thousand worlds was built.
Violence was his nature. For unlike Celestial-kind at large, the cold clinical mood they carry forth in their purpose was far from Siyyon's nature.
Siyyon was a being of passion. And, perhaps difficult to believe for you, the great lover of his kind.
The Celestial equivalent of Romeo. And perhaps Achilles, or Paris, and the like.
A romantic hero. The Celestial who committed the passion of violence for the passion of love.
An achievement unheard of in the simple and obtuse culture of his kind.
Ah yes, what poetry I have made of his life.
Siyyon the Hero, for that was he, did not bother trying to kill individuals.
He consigned himself to annihilating all that was Ymir, as a man would a tree that had offended him.
You're all the same to him.
But that was why he lost, for he did not foresee the danger you presented— or he would have, had he not been a romantic fool, and were not so many Infinity Stones brought to bear against him, clouding his sight.
Siyyon sought to reduce the world to dust— for he does not see individuals, but nodes. The world was one organism— a super-organism, with many castes, and many life-stages.
Humans, and Elves, and Aesir, and the like— and their worlds. All one being. The cells of Ymir going through the motions of life as the body decayed slowly, slipping out of homeostasis into disintegration.
He merely sought to crush the corpse of Ymir into dust.
As if a Forensic Investigator had gotten tired of the corpse of a hated criminal in the morgue, and wanted to burn it.
How was he to know that you were a pathogen?
A plague waiting to consume him in the struggles of his romantic foolishness.
Ah yes, Siyyon the Hero, the great lover who died because he tried to wrestle with an ancient corpse.
That is the true tale I tell.
Siyyon the Hero.
Come, come, come closer.
See that there? Yes, I am putting this in your mind. Don't worry.
See that there? That was Thor on that day.
And see what he is charging up upon with his comrade in arms?
That was the Left foot of Siyyon, and it was the only thing that was standing on Midgard when the Celestial decided to plunge himself into the Convergence and attack all worlds simultaneously. The assault on Yggdrasil itself shook Midgard and tore at its metaphysical bindings. Earth Aleph vanished that day— dissolved back into the ether of possibilities and fusing back with Earth Bet.
It was one of hundreds of Earths that died in that first moment.
It was that, more than anything, that convinced your kind that Siyyon was a threat to Midgard as well.
+++
Team Thor was tasked with finding the Left Thigh Node. This was commanded by Odin himself, the foremost expert of the foe they now faced. Odin, incapable of doing anything himself, coordinated the battle from the Command centre, immediately relocated to a different Earth.
Cauldron wasn't hiding anymore. The final battle was here.
A blond-haired demigod wielding a hammer of thunder and lightning, marching up the golden path, surrounded on all sides by the former members of the Empire Eighty-Eight. Kaiser was absent.
That is Thor, the God of Thunder. And standing beside him bestrode his chosen, his cult in all but name. But they call themselves Team Thor. Imaginative. Even cheeky.
Here they are, charging up the mountain that was a leg of God, followed by Tanks and Jets, and support troops, and even medical teams.
Gravity or perhaps non-euclidean geometry, kept them rooted to the surface.
God was not without defenders.
Deviants spilled forth by the millions to battle the worms that dared crawled upon their host.
When Krieg spied the million misshapen horrors that crawled out of vents and alleys ahead of them, he was not happy. He said so as much.
"Don't be a sourpuss. This is going to be fun." Thor said.
And then the floors became doors, and walls became death traps. For Siyyon was a living thing, and his armour a fortress.
The God of Thunder hesitated. "That's less fun."
But nonetheless, he was not going to say not a fight.
"Slay these foul Deviants!" Thor roared before he sweeped a group of green and brown ugly little humanoids into dust as they surged forth like a tide. There must have been millions of them.
"These are Goblins! From fucking Ellisburg!" Victor shouted as he fired a machine gun into the sea of biological terrors.
Stormtiger shook his head. "No, there aren't that many Goblins from Ellisburg, and I was just notified by Command. Nilbog hasn't escaped containment. No, these are Goblins made here, by this asshole."
Thor interrupted them as he erased another rank of the foul monsters.
"It doesn't matter. We are tasked with destroying the Left Thigh Node. And we will. Our honour as warriors demands it!"
He raised Mjölnir. "FOR DEATH AND GLORY!"
"DEATH AND GLORY!"
And they entered melee with the horde, and then the spikes and drills, acids, and poisons, and gas and tentacles burst out of every surface and Rune cried as her legs were chewed off.
Victor was pushed by a dozen goblins into a wall and sliced in half with a scream of horror.
The PRT backline was broken instantly and the vulnerable support staff and thinker support were open to attack. Calls for reinforcements were made.
Tanks were flipped.
Thor roared and slammed his hammer down on the ground, and the Leg of God shook, but stood firm.
+++
Elsewhere, the Goblins— Deviants in truth, another ancient class of beings, brought to the fore of modern history— poured onto Asgard and laid siege to the Rainbow Bridge.
Heimdall's observatory became a killzone as the Gatekeeper of Asgard and the Asgardian regiments left to protect their home kept back the hordes. Thousands of Aesirs charged across the bridge, heading towards the Observatory to fight off the rain of Deviants.
Where had they come, you wondered?
From the Hand in the Sky.
The Hand of God.
Sky-Skiffs sailed across the air and hurled bolts of energy at the descending arm from the sky.
Impervious golden fingers punched through the ocean floors of Asgard and sent a tsunami towards the city.
Freya, called Queen, Mother of Gods, Master of Magic— raised her hands and froze the waters.
Then the Fingers grew turrets and fired bolts of god-slaying blades that laid waste to the Greatest City of the Nine Realms.
This was one Hand, and it was already winning.
+++
Team Armsmaster, was tasked with finding the Right Thigh Node.
The Parahuman veteran lead his team of heroes and wards, and soldiers and even villains up the hill.
Some Elves followed, ordered by their new Monarch to make themselves useful before she found out if Light Elves could be made back into Dark Elves by force. They were most eager to prove themselves to the new regime.
"Armsmaster! Ahead!" Miss Militia shouted, already bringing her mercurial weapon to bear. She decided starting with a mini-nuke launcher was a good idea.
At first, Armsmaster thought it was a cloud. But then he realized it was a tide of metal flakes, tendrils and monomolecular whips that was surging down the path towards them.
"Aw shit." Shadow Stalker said. Then turned and ran away. No one stopped her, everyone was focused on the tide as it came towards them.
Miss Militia did not wait. She did not hesitate.
She set fire to the rain of frogs.
And the world became fire and wind. Many of her comrades were knocked over.
For a moment there was silence. And then the tide came anyway.
Armsmaster swung and swung and he was swept away by the tide nonetheless. Within twenty-seconds, he was coated head to foot in Goblin blood and still he swung.
And still the tide came.
+++
Team Alexandria was told to make contact with Vanaheim. On Orders of Odin.
She still wasn't sure what to think of Odin being Fortuna all along, in a manner of speaking. She was there, after-all, when the google image search incident had happened.
She couldn't reconcile the idea that an Old Man was also a little girl. But then again, gods and their avatars are a staple of human mythology and legend. Hardly a foreign concept to her.
The great hordes of Vanaheim, according to the King of Asgard, were laying siege to the Leg of God that was assaulting their domain.
The Vanir—no fools— and led by shamans who remembered what Celestials were, had launched an invasion up the leg. They hoped to block the nodes that would hamper the flow of the power cosmic; to force the essence of the Almighty back towards hyperspace.
They hoped that elsewhere, the other warriors of the Nine Realms were doing the same.
They would be right, and Alexandria must contact them to begin coordinating their attack.
Her army of flyers flew through millions of winged goblins, who were supported by flying golden pyramids with eyes that fired death beams. What looked like moving force fields, siege turrets, and tunnels with mutating chainsaws stood in their way.
There was a way onto the other Leg, according to Odin. A secret tunnel through a God's navel. Or there should be, if "the Celestial followed the design aesthetics of their kind; which should be the same as Ymir."
It was imperfect information, but Alexandria would make do with what she was given.
+++
Team Dark Elf sought the Brain Node.
Taylor was at the head of a cadre of light elves and parahumans. They charged through rings after rings of burning portals, stacked together to form a highway straight to the top.
Vista on a horse, in the arms of Sir Tristain sprained her arms as she bent the mystical portals to her will.
The Masters of the Mystic Arts had embedded members in every squad, in every army, in every force that attacked the Celestial, whether those battle-groups served as distraction or as mission critical assets.
They had attempted to open portals to target locations, but interdiction fields local to the Nodes prevented long range teleportation anywhere critical.
Instead, they opened portals to other portals, allowing assets to reinforce each other, and for mission critical VIPs such as Taylor's group to charge straight to the top.
The Brain Node was given top priority.
It was hoped that the Reality Stone in Taylor's possession could do something about the most essential part of Siyyon.
Vista sped their path, closing the gaps between portals so they wouldn't have to fight the Deviants hordes or the deadly traps.
Anything in their way was bulldozed away by a roaring Crawler.
+++
Team Loki was commanded to make contact with Nifelheim. Or rather, to seize control of Nifelheim's semi-sapient spirits.
Hela had been drafted to help.
She had not been happy, but she could not condone Asgard falling, ever.
They lead the Host of Asgard to perform this mission. Though many argued for returning to Asgard right away, to defend their home, the Bifrost was closed because Heimdall's Observatory was under assault.
They had no choice but to press on, gain the support of the spirits, and direct them to break through to Asgard.
+++
There were more stories to tell, each one worthy in their own right.
Team Legend's Quest to make contact with Muspelheim, and the bargain struck with the Fire Giants that saw the formation of the famous Fire Dragon Brigade.
Or Team Eidolon's mission to sabotage the Heart Node, to attack the Furnace that channeled the Power Cosmic itself. He, and the Masters of the Mystic Arts, were uniquely suited for such a task.
Their tale of heroism echoed down the ages.
And so on, and so forth.
It was a war on many fronts.
+++
But what was God doing while our valiant heroes rallied?
In the air, thousands died as attempts to insert infantry onto God's shoulders or his head failed. A killzone more lethal than anything my brother Behemoth could imagine slaughtered any foolish enough to try.
Tinkertech nuclear bombs fired through the convergence— the politicians argued there would be minimal fallout— failed to do any real damage.
Siyyon had regenerating metal skin, bioreactors that gestated endless tides of deviants, and all kinds of modules that worked in concert to ensure the success of his relentless destruction.
God was a romantic, because he did not kill you all right away that day.
He did not drop plagues that would eat away gods and men.
He did not banish entire worlds into the darkness.
God was working through his grief.
So he did it slowly, melancholy in his every motion.
He was the first of his kind I suppose— A Siyyonic Hero. A new archetype.
God was stupid.
God swatted Light Elf skyships out of the sky before reaching out to sink his fingers into the crust of Alfheim. The Realm of Light was home to the Light Elves, those who long ago abandoned their dark spirits for the sake of survival. They steal the souls they need, like thieves. They steal the souls of animals, of men, and sometimes, even of gods.
God rewrote the echoes of space and time of Svartálfheim, and for a brief moment you could see the Final Battle that doomed that ancient race.
The breaking of space and time slowly chipped away at that already fragile world.
What was one more cosmic weapon tossed onto a world where a thousand such weapons had already laid waste to every molecule of that damned place?
It turned out, it was one weapon too many, for the Dark World began to consume itself, erasing the last vestige of a class of beings that could claim to rival the Celestials in seniority.
God's foot crushed the sacred forests of the thousand realms of Vanaheim.
He stomped and stomped, and each fit of violence left a World of Vanaheim quaking, for Vanaheim was a loose confederation of a thousand worlds, conquered ages ago by the great Khans of Nomadic Vanir, nestled close together— an easy target for a murderous God.
You may know a descendant of these peoples amongst the Mongols, and their great God Tengri still rules from the Homeworld, having ages ago laid claim to the title of Sky Father, long before your Odins, and your Jupiters, and your Yahwehs and Ahura Mazdas.
This race was ancient, the next to arise after the Eternals. Not the Aesir, as the Asgardians would claim.
Indeed, Odin learned his magic from the Vanir, dressed as a woman.
Oh how little of history you know.
There was yet more worlds Siyyon assaulted as the hours of his great retribution turned into days.
His burning eyes turned to molten slag the ice cold Core of Niflheim, dooming a trillion spirits that still wandered and weep in that distant realm of cold— the end of the line for the unwanted. If the Nine Realms were a slaughterhouse, the World of Mists would be the equivalent of a place to toss the body-parts that were not consumed.
The cold of that realm slowly gives way to the heat of a funeral pyre. The spirits were angry, and they flew across interstitial space, passing through the convergence of worlds to lay siege to God, but they were scattered, and unorganized.
What a wrathful and angry God he was.
God raised a fist, and razed the mountain ranges of Muspelheim to dust, the force of his blow set fire to what was already burning.
Fire Giants crawled from their holes in the ground like fire ants from a knocked over ant-hill, an army charging up his fist, even as he buried it further and further.
He aimed to stop the moving core of the Realm of Fire and to leave it cold. It will also seal the Gate of the dangerous and final foe. Sutr, the avatar of cosmic heat death. The Gate and the Key to the end of the end.
Siyyon did not wish to fight this being. Nor did he wish for the prophesied rebirth to occur. For Sutr will purge the body of its ills, and the body will be hale and healthy. And Ymir would walk again, and lay judgement upon the heretics.
This could not be, and so Siyyon did not allow it.
On Jotunheim, the remaining Frost Giants were divided into two camps.
Those who attacked God's torso, which passed through their world as his body stretched into others.
And those who sought shelter in the ancient vents that lead to Ymir's brain. They pray to the All-Ancestor and hoped he would save them from the wrath of God.
Ymir was silent.
The forges of Nidavellir was struck by salvos of entropic death curses in missile form within the first hour of Soyyin's assault on the Realms. A million rods of an angry God broke apart the great rings and even managed to kill the dying star that forged the Hammer of Thor.
Soyyin, even in his stupidity, recognized the dangers that the weapon-forgers represented. The Dwarves— distant kin of the Dark Elves, who sought an even more radical way to escape their doom— were a severe threat due to their savant technology and their relationship to Dormammu.
And so slowly, but surely, the Realms crumbled before God's methodic death grip.
The Deathrattle of the World was at hand.
+++
Well, was the tale thus far enthralling, or did you fear your fate so much, you could not enjoy it?
Have you not the patience to endure this tale?
But you know how this tale ends, don't you, Geoffrey Pellick? Called Saint, hacker and addict, victim and villain— fool.
After-all, we know the world was saved.
It is a pity the past cannot be changed. A known tale is a boring one, I suppose.
If only I had the Time Stone! The stories I could tell then!
Ah well. I shain't play with you any longer.
Let us end your anxieties.
Look at you! Look at you piss yourself in terror as I tell my stories.
Let it not be said the Angel was not without mercy.
I shall not make a coat of you, I have decided.
I shall give you a kinder fate.
You shall be a head, shrunken and kept close to my breast, where you can listen to my stories, dead, but aware— such is the power of the Mind Stone.
I am a storyteller, and I would enjoy the company. And when Dragon comes calling, descending from above the Galactic plane with an armada of warships in tow, I will have a little toy to show her. Girl things, you'd understand.
Hush now, little boy. What's a little spilt blood?
Cry no more, little head, I shall tell you one more story. Maybe two. About God and how he was ended.
Listen.
__________ A/N: Yeah, I just wanted to try something different for this chapter. Sets the broad strokes of the final battle without having to go for another Interlude. Decided to forgo music for this one. Not even sure what mood this is supposed to conjure.
Simmy stole the fuckmothering MindStone out from under Thanos' very nose?! The balls on this bitch! That's makes 4/6 Stones accounted for I suppose, this is clearly taking place in the far flung future where Saint has surpassed all his previous dumb decisions and gone after an Endbringer that is in possession of an Infinity Stone with just his merry men. That means that in our usual "present", Taylor has Reality, David has Time, Odin has Space, and Thanos has Mind. Power is still in the wind, Soul is probably still sealed up, the Gauntlet is who knows where, and the Bet(or would that just be Worm now that Aleph and several other hundred alternates have quantum collapsed?) Guardians of the Galaxy are still en route, and will probably be greeted with either a devastated Earth or a rampaging Celestial.
One of the worlds formed from Ymir's rotting corpse. Empowered by the relics and devices of Edinnu and Siyyon, to the point of mining the former for parts and entering the wider galactic scene by making war on the Latter.
I don't understand why Ziz wouldn't be interested in building acceptable minds for any remaining Endbringers via her fancy stone. Hmm. I guess they would be the only ones that could put up a reasonable fight if she did so and she's painting herself as a storyteller, not a fighter.
And they entered melee with the horde, and then the spikes and drills, acids, and poisons, and gas and tentacles burst out of every surface and Rune cried as her legs were chewed off.
Apathy, disgust and the desire to piss on the corpse of the time I spent reading the story.... yeah, I think I'll just leave it with, I liked the story when it was about Taylor trying to be a hero.
