So you might live to delight in the smell of petrichor... So you might live to dance in the pouring rain without worrying about the chill... So you might live to walk giddy beneath the gathering storm, as the rumbling thunder gives its warning... So you might love, in spite of the certainty of loss, and at peace with the certainty of Death...
Once, he was naught but a seed, planted in the core of another prideful Prince. In that Prince, he had germinated; he had torn his host apart from within, and swallowed the traces that remained into an endless spiraling network of roots.
This time, things are different. This time, he is not a parasite, but a graft.
Through the blade forms a taproot, growing strong and deep until it rips through the lingering fibers that hold Bhaal to what could never be his, not really. But simply severing that connection is not enough to finish the job- he must be torn out, and that's where the truest miracle comes in. The taproot does not overwhelm Fever, but instead, it binds itself to her own stubborn branches, kept green by the promise of what could be. It binds itself to all the fresh growth that she formed by her own resolve, her own self-determination. And when a burst of sudden divine growth breaks out, terrible and beautiful, it is Fever's own form that is bolstered, branching and growing hardier than even before. It is Fever who takes root explosively, swallowing and overwhelming the presence that would not have suspected for a moment that he would be undone by something so small.
It is Fever that ultimately tears out what she commands leave her.
Sheo holds fast to the Figment Blade in quiet awe, even as he can feel it dissolving in his hand, to slowly appear in hers. How humbling it is, to be reminded that he is merely a god. How splendid it is, to see undeniable proof of one great and mind-boggling truth: that he, that Madness, has always belonged to her.
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So you might live to dance in the pouring rain without worrying about the chill...
So you might live to walk giddy beneath the gathering storm, as the rumbling thunder gives its warning...
So you might love, in spite of the certainty of loss, and at peace with the certainty of Death...
Once, he was naught but a seed, planted in the core of another prideful Prince. In that Prince, he had germinated; he had torn his host apart from within, and swallowed the traces that remained into an endless spiraling network of roots.
This time, things are different. This time, he is not a parasite, but a graft.
Through the blade forms a taproot, growing strong and deep until it rips through the lingering fibers that hold Bhaal to what could never be his, not really. But simply severing that connection is not enough to finish the job- he must be torn out, and that's where the truest miracle comes in. The taproot does not overwhelm Fever, but instead, it binds itself to her own stubborn branches, kept green by the promise of what could be. It binds itself to all the fresh growth that she formed by her own resolve, her own self-determination. And when a burst of sudden divine growth breaks out, terrible and beautiful, it is Fever's own form that is bolstered, branching and growing hardier than even before. It is Fever who takes root explosively, swallowing and overwhelming the presence that would not have suspected for a moment that he would be undone by something so small.
It is Fever that ultimately tears out what she commands leave her.
Sheo holds fast to the Figment Blade in quiet awe, even as he can feel it dissolving in his hand, to slowly appear in hers. How humbling it is, to be reminded that he is merely a god. How splendid it is, to see undeniable proof of one great and mind-boggling truth: that he, that Madness, has always belonged to her.