Story of the deities in the world I DM

There's nothing more beautiful than the leaves in autumn. In all of existence, never is change more perfectly represented than the green of youth bursting into vibrant red and orange, and then quickly fading, and falling to the ground; birth, growth, and death -- a poetic display of change that connects us all. A newborn's cry, a spring rain, and a river wearing canyons into the face of the Earth all cry out that change is everywhere. A universal truth that every creature, every object in the world must accept: This, too, shall pass. There is nothing more beautiful than the leaves in autumn.
The spirit of Change loved this time. He revealed in the electric feeling of uncertainty and impermanence. It was this frailty, this haunting certainty, which gave existence itself value. The beauty and splendour of the world seemed, to his understanding, directly proportional to the ease with which it could be erased. Wildfires raged through the forest, and yet new growth began. Floods wiped out plains, and new grass shot up. Great storms and earthquakes brought all living things to their knees, and yet life continued in the face of such great adversity. He cherished these moments, and watched in awe as all of the wonders of the Maker flourished in the face of their unwavering fate. The leaves must fall, and yet for now they grew as if they never would – a triumph of spirit, and a picture of life itself.
Progress, his most beloved virtue, was undeniable in these times. The spirit occupied himself with the business of observing and meditating on the state of all things as process, and there were no spirits that took to their task more readily than he. He began to see the world not as it seemed around him, but both as it had been previously, and –- more importantly -- how it might yet be. He began to see not only the state of things, but the potential changes that could occur. He gazed in increasingly frightful awe at the world around him, and each day brought with it an increased realization of two fantastic truths: first, that progress seemed to march unerringly toward chaos and disarray with innumerable possibilities, and secondly that, even in spite of this seemingly erratic pattern, the end was certain -- everything ends. Everything that is made, becomes unmade. Sooner or later, everything is not. Appropriately enough, the spirit of progress found that this deepening understanding began to change him. There was beauty in pain. He was pleased with destruction. He took comfort in chaos. And soon, he found he even revelled in death.
And yet still, the spirit only observed the world around him. He was content only to see the world, and in this way he had not yet experienced change as an act of will, only an observation of natural process. It wasn't until the Maker's creation of the mortal plane that the spirit was able to observe the process of choice -- the idea that one could willingly bring about change. He watched as the humans fought each other -- sometimes for reasons similar to those he saw in nature, but then other times for reasons he couldn't fathom. This intrigued the spirit, and he focused his efforts on observing the process of humanity. He watched them love, hate, defend, betray, create, and destroy -- and he was dumbfounded. He was struck suddenly by a singular idea: I can change. The enormity of that concept nearly blinded the spirit, and he found himself looking at a beautiful, perfect rose.
The graceful, delicate flower managed to work its way through the undergrowth of the forest, struggling through the dead leaves and frosted decay of Autumn's doing and stretching triumphantly toward the sky. It was late for roses, and the cold wind had torn savagely until all the other plants had succumbed to the sleep of winter, but this single rose, an impossibly picturesque blossom, a crimson, victorious shout in the bleak, cold world around it had persevered and found the light of day against all odds. The petals stretched defiantly in a celebration of life, a calling to the insects that had long since taken to the ground for the season. The rose stood laughing in the face of its fate, challenging nature itself.
The trembling spirit ached with its beauty, a single tear sliding down his face. Without a conscious thought, he found himself reaching toward the bloom. He took the flower tenderly in his hand - he felt the velvet of the petals, the crispness of the leaves, the sharpness of the thorns, and the strength and resolve in the will of this life to continue. He took a deep, nervous breath -- and crushed the flower in his hand, thorns piercing deep into him palm as he ground the vibrant warrior into pulp, turning it into filth with a lustful abandon. A rapturous smile spread across his face, and he began to weep with joy. He gazed at the awful, bloody stain that remained of the flower that moments ago had been a living testament to life's triumph over the inevitability of change. He smelled the broken petals, closing his eyes and breathing deeply of the aroma of death's unstoppable march, and he knew what it was to affect the world around him. And he knew that all change is death, from one form to another. He opened his eyes, and found himself filled with a new and terrible purpose. He was now an unfailing agent of destruction, a herald of Progress, a champion of Change. Death was now his lover, and Chaos their dance. And oh, how they would dance.
The fateful spirit knew there would be others who would not understand the beauty in what he had planned. The stinging of the rose‘s thorns in his hands sounded a warning that the stubborn beings he planned on Changing would do everything they could to stop him. If he was going to become an agent of Progress, he would need a plan, he would need resources, and he would need allies. He relished the thought of Changing those around him, rallying them to his vision of a world in the throes of Chaos and Upheaval, and to bring about the final Change, even to the Maker himself. He needed to find spirits like himself, those who cherished similar virtues above all else. He soon found lieutenants among the ranks of the spirits.
Perfection was an easy first choice. As one of the first among the spirits in the Maker’s realm, Perfection held to the virtue that improving oneself was the greatest goal. He strove to be the greatest of the spirits, and he outshone all around him. His beauty and grace was without equal, and he carried himself as one above question or reproach. He was a companion in whom nothing could be found wanting, and that is why it came as such a shock to him when the Maker, dissatisfied with his spirit realm, turned his focus to the mortal plane, and created humanity. The dirty, foul, base creatures were so clearly flawed, so utterly useless, and yet the Maker held them up as his true work of passion. This initially dumbfounded Perfection, and after a time, he began to resent first the humans, and eventually even the Maker. His rage built, but he took no action. He clung to the idea that if he could only reach a higher level of greatness, a previously unknown degree of beauty and wisdom, he could bring his Maker’s attentions back. He craved it at the very core of his being, and was willing to take any action needed to once again become the standard by which all creation is measured. In his effort to Progress, he drew the attention of the spirit of Change.
“Surely”, Change thought, “there can be no greater ally than Perfection. There are none stronger, none wiser than he. With an ally such as him, surely I can Change the world. After all, Perfection is simply changing in pursuit of a goal. I simply have to present a new goal.”
Change began to talk with Perfection, and afforded him the sympathy, attention, and adoration that Perfection had been seeking ever since the Maker’s turn to the moral plane. Change began to discuss with Perfection what it means to be Perfect. He wondered aloud whether Perfection is some ethereal level, or simply a relative point above all other contenders. In fact, if the other contenders were to be struck down in some way, would that not, in turn, make those greater spirits even more Perfect? Would striking down the unworthy pretenders reclaim the love and affection of the Maker for his greatest creation?
Over time, these ideas began to fill Perfection’s mind. He began to dwell on them, and started to steel himself as to the path he must take to Perfect himself. Of course, to his mind he had arrived at such a conclusion of his own accord, and he extended an offer to the spirit who had become his closest friend in his time of despair. He graciously asked Change if he’d like to be a part of his grand conquest, and Change humbly accepted, grateful that one such as Perfection would allow a lesser spirit to accompany him in his quest – a testament to the magnanimity of the Greatest Spirit. He began recruiting other great spirits, with the assistance of Change.
Justice was appalled by the disgusting behavior of humanity, and she thought it unacceptable that they were even allowed to exist, let alone placed in a favored position by the Maker. She quickly rallied to the cause when approached by Perfection, and began to marshal her forces. Few forces in Creation could stand against the ferocity of Justice in combat, even more when she was clad in the armor crafted by the master smith, Strength. His artisanship was infused with Power’s very nature, unbending and unbreakable through resolve and force of will alone. He began to outfit the other spirits who marched with the forces of Change. Ambition felt that accompanying Perfection into a battle of legend would be sure to win him glory and accolades, and so was quick to join. Ambition’s mind for strategy and tenacity in pursuit of his goal was unrivaled. Beauty was struck by the ugliness of the human race, and felt that the course Perfection was taking may help to improve the world by removing their hideous appearance. Her love for Perfection was unshakable, as he was the only thing in all of Creation that compared to her own appearance. The mere sight of the two of them in battle would level mountains out of joy at their unspeakable glory.
These spirits and many others came together with a shared goal: a frontal assault on the seat of Creation to destroy the mortal plane, in hopes that they might show the Maker the error of his ways and return his attentions to the great spirits who were more deserving. As they came together and set off to their dread purpose, there began a subtle, sinister, and dark Change in each of them. Justice, her anger unbound, began to project Vengeance. Strength, furious at the Maker’s seeming betrayal, yearned for an outlet for his power, and found it in Rage. Ambition, in seeing his Maker’s attention given to others, became an avatar of Hunger, and he yearned only for his master’s voice. Beauty was so focused on the greatness of Perfection and his unrivaled form, that she became Desire incarnate. And Perfection was not above this Change. Perfection, scorned and yet unwilling to accept it, became Pride. Change, focused on the destruction of everything he could see, became the Unmaker.
Those spirits still loyal to the Maker were granted mantles of power according to their virtues. Wisdom was endowed with a gift of strong elemental magic. Loyalty was granted fortitude, and clad in living armor which eased the pain and weariness of his nearby allies. Valor was granted swiftness, and a magical sword that leapt to attack her foes. Harmony was given a longbow half again as tall as a man, and it responded to her very voice, for no being possessed the strength to draw the enormous weapon. Armed with the gifts and blessings of the Maker, these spirits and more went to face the oncoming hoard of tainted angels. The dark army had marched across the entirety of the Fade, wreaking havoc and leaving naught but pain and ruin in their wake. The corrupting presence had turned them to willing servants to their master. Pride, of course, assumed he was the master, as the fallen emblems obeyed his commands without question. He failed to understand that it was the Unmaker who held their will. The foul changes continued to mar them, and they had long since cast off their dedication to their ideals. They took on new identities, befitting their new enlightened nature. Vengeance was called Sorath, and her armormaster of Rage was called Mastema. Hunger was known as Asmodeus, and the beautiful spirit of Desire was called Lilith. Pride chose Samael, and the humble spirit of Change took the name Samhainn. In naming themselves, they defied the Maker, challenging the idea that he would define their natures any longer.
As the dark forces of Pride crossed the Fade, they engaged the loyalist forces on many separate occasions. Many of the rebel forces were cut down by enemy champions, and none were more devastating to their ranks than Valor. With no care for her own safety, the winged champion of bravery and arrogance dove into combat again and again, often wounding even the great spirits themselves. Samhainn came to a conclusion: if she could be turned, he could find no greater tool in his quest for destruction. Samhainn sent couriers along dangerous routes with information regarding a meeting of the rebel leaders, ensuring that they would be taken and their information found out. He carefully laid out a trap, and a test. The spirit may be afraid of danger, in which case Samhainn had no use for her. She may rise to the challenge and be cut down in battle, showing that his current disciples were superior. However, if this reckless spirit were a worthy companion, they would take the bait and overcome the obvious trap, not knowing the cost.
As planned, Valor rushed to the place where the dark lords had gathered their combined strength. Samael stood tall in the center, his greatsword Malevolence held in a high guard as the guardian of Bravery flew at them in a blur. Samhainn, clad in the armor of shifting fog and moonlight and holding his weapons Strife and Despair, stood just out of battle. He opened himself to the young spirit, and began to offer her Change. As he allowed his power to flow into the good knight, he used the distraction afforded to begin the destruction of her will. The other dark lords threw themselves into the fray, and began to fall under the living sword that the Maker had entrusted to the bright guardian. Asmodeus pressed too far in his attacks, and his head was cleaved down the center. Mastema was thrown off-balance by the power of his own attacks, and Valor used the opening to slide her swift blade between the plates of his armor. Sorath engaged her for hours, her fury growing, and upon an incredible strike from the blade of creation, the dark spirit’s blade was shattered. Valor held the dread creature close as she ran the blade through her heart, and the malice and hatred in the eyes of Vengeance didn’t fade until long after her body had turned cold.
With each kill, Valor felt her power growing. She felt an energy she couldn’t explain, and used it to rush into battle with the terrible beauty of Pride and Desire. What she failed to realize was that Samhainn, the spirit of Change, was being fueled by this struggle of life and death. Samhainn had never encountered such an incredible source of destruction, even through the countless battles prior to this. The great spirits’ dying breaths flowed into the heart of the dark warrior, who in turn fueled his unwitting thrall in her pursuit of greater destruction.
Valor aimed a spinning deathblow at Samael’s head, and was only stopped short when Lilith threw herself in front of the blade. The piercing cry of the avatar of Beauty made the whole of creation quake in sorrow. Valor herself was rocked into her heels, and Samael seized the moment to press the attack. They were locked in combat through the night – Valor fueled by the life of creation in her blade, and Samael unable to even acknowledge the possibility of his defeat. Finally, in the grey mist before dawn, Valor began to doubt. She feared for her life, and began to fight more defensively. Samael pressed even harder, sure of his own eventual victory. Samhainn sensed that his time to strike was now.
With the fog of night still lingering over the blood-soaked ground, Samhainn stepped forward and focused his will through his dark shield, Despair. He extended to the beleaguered knight one final chance at victory. His power would be hers, and her will would be his. He channeled energy to her, and watched intently as she considered her fate. He saw as her choices passed through her mind, her eyes darting from the dark, silent watcher to the fearsome warrior who would not relent. She closed her eyes for only an instant – and he felt her close the gap to his power. She suddenly pulsed a wave of power that pushed Samael back a full pace. Her eyes opened, full of dark fire and burning with Zealotry. She threw herself at the great father of Pride, and her attacks were faster than his eyes could follow. As the sun began to rise on this new day, Samael’s blood began to fall. A thousand times this strange valkyrie pierced the lord of Arrogance, and yet he did not turn from battle. It wasn’t until she drove him to a knee that his eyes began to dart, as if searching for some escape from this frightful reckoning. His panicked gaze eventually fell on his friend, Change.
Samhainn was watching him intently, with what could only be described as a look of… curiosity. Laughter played at the corners of his mouth, but there was no laughter in his eyes. They were hard, disdainful, and cruel. Samael didn’t yet realize, but it was pride he saw in the eyes of Samhainn. He’d never seen that look in another being’s eyes. When he did, he began to tremble, in rage and in fear. Samhainn looked into Samael’s bloodstained face, and his head tilted to the side as his eyes glanced up, and he chuckled softly as if remembering something clever.
“Cadivus”, Samhainn said softly, “look at him.”
The dark sprite responded, for she knew now that was her name. She lowered her sword slightly and stared into the bruised features of the greatest spirit.
“He’s afraid of you Cadivus,” he said. “He’s never been afraid before. He’s never known uncertainty.”
The tainted spirit knelt close to the wounded lord, and looked unwaveringly into his eyes as he said, “He is unworthy, Cadivus. He does not deserve his power.” He turned slightly to gaze approvingly at the fierce spirit of Zealotry. “Take it from him,” he said, and smiled.
Samael reached out a hand toward Samhainn, struggling to form the words on his lips to beg for mercy, but he found that he was unfamiliar with the act, and as he stuttered erratically Cadivus the Zealot brought her sword down, taking his head cleanly from his body. The head rolled to lay at Samhainn’s feet, the death of the greatest spirit rushing to fill him with a power unrivaled in all of creation. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and the scent of crushed rose petals filled him with wanton joy. When he opened them again, he turned to face the winged harbinger of Zeal, who stood sword in hand before him. He began to walk towards her, and in a flash of wings and steel she flew at him, but he was unafraid. Her sword struck off of the air near his chest as if she had attacked Mastema’s anvil. Samhainn laughed, pleased at the strength of spirit his new champion had shown. He focused his will on the courageous spirit, and calmed her anxiety, assuring her safety and expressing his pleasure with her.
“Where, now, are your challengers, Cadivus? My enemies lay in pieces at your feet. Their power is mine to bestow on another, and there can be no other but you, my Zealot.” Cadivus kneeled instinctively before her new lord, and Samhainn placed his hand on her shoulder. “You will become the greatest of my lieutenants, and together we will destroy all who are unworthy.”
Cadivus raised her eyes to meet his, and a dark fire smoldered in them as she quickly nodded her head.
Samhainn bid the fledgling demon rise, and as she did his eyes fell to the sword. It had fallen to the ground, the tip blunted from its failed attempt to pierce his evil aura. The force of Life still pulsed within the blade, struggling in vain to prevail against the inevitable. The light of Creation coursed through the full length of the ruined weapon, reflecting off of the pool of blood that had begun to congeal around it. The filth had worked its way into the hilt, staining the grip red with the lives it had taken. The pommel stone had shattered upon the last fateful impact, and the crimson rivulets had worked quickly to cake over the entirety. The arm of Creation had been laid low, and it could not have been more beautiful to the dark lord of Death.
The demon knight bent to retrieve the faded gift of the Maker, and as he wrapped his hand around the slimy hilt, he felt the force of Good burn against his hand. He gritted his teeth and forced the Will of Evil into the weapon, suppressing its essence.
“A warrior deserves a weapon of Strength, not this weak offering,” Samhainn growled. He turned and surveyed the corpses of the other spirits, slain by the blade and beginning to stiffen. The power of Life pulsed in the blade, fighting the confines of the sanguine prison, and begging for release. The foe of Creation considered the forms arrayed around him and smiled slightly as he held the sword firmly with both hands, and then in a devastating strike, drove the point deep into the ground, spraying bloody earth in a shower that covered the bodies in defiled mud. He gripped the hilt tightly, and forced his Will upon the living essence of the sword, torturing it into submission and bending it to his awful desires. The tainted power flowed out from the blade in red veins through the mud and filth, and when they reached the sleeping shapes of the fallen, they caused trembling Unlife to spring forth.
Silent, bruised flesh began to shake with jerking, unnatural movements like tangled marionettes. Glazed eyes stretched wide in perpetual horror, seeming to search for something they could never find. Mouths agape, they made no sound but a strained, whispered scream, as a hard winter wind causing an old house to shudder and creak in the night. Like rag dolls in reverse, they began to disentangle themselves from the indignity in which death had posed them. One by one, the stiffened joints of the deceased righted themselves, collecting their displaced appendages, and stood rigidly before the master of Death. He smiled, surveying his small army. His gaze found the hulking shape of what was once his master armorsmith.
“Mastema, do your bones yet know the rage of the scorned?” he jeered. He pulled the marred weapon from the ground, its light dimmed in submission. “See what your hatred can work in this,” he called, as he tossed the blade to the ground before the hulking abomination. The impact caused a spray of death and dirt to further soil the giant, who knelt to retrieve the weapon. His eyes filled with pain as the life essence began to burn him, and they quickly turned to hate. He grasped the blade by point and hilt, uttering a ghastly groan. The lights in the blade began to race faster and faster as the artisan of malice tested its limits, and then with a mighty heave, he shattered the blade, causing a flash of light and pain. The lights in the blade slowed down and dimmed -- the forces of Creation clearly subdued and broken.
“Can you do something useful, then? Or do you just plan on breaking things?” asked Samhainn.
Mastema gathered the shards of the weapon carefully. The dread smith raised his eyes, a foul joy present in his face, and he nodded. Filling himself with new purpose, he busied himself with the task of gathering what he needed for his craft. He began firing his forge and preparing iron to be turned to steel, filling his furnace with wood and corpses. When the flames began to stretch out and peel the flesh off of the lumbering craftsman, he began smelting the ore, burning all of the impurity of element from the blade, while instilling an impurity of purpose. With a demonic glee, he cast the shattered pieces of the Living sword into the forge, cackling as the lights began to frantically search for escape, and then melted into the unclean ore, the dim gleam of Creation fading into a flat, lifeless gray. When the foul steel had been wrought, the smith began the work of forging a blade fit for a bringer of Death. He turned the steel again and again, folding his hatred into the metal itself as he brought his hammer down, and then returning the shard to his forge, feeding it with flames and his Rage. For days he continued, relentlessly working the metal into a form of nightmare, slowly breaking the resolve of the steel and torturing it into a vicious, curved scythe. He quenched the blade in rotting blood, and continued tempering it in the poison fire of his furnace, instilling in the tool spite and contempt for any living thing. When the raw form was completed, the master flayed the flesh from fallen spirits, using their tanned hides to wrap the haft of the blade with their pain. The demon lord of Anger worked a razor edge into the blade, grinding the dark metal until it could cleave a skull without making a sound. The pommel was detailed in bones, and into the blade itself the great smith etched the outline of a wilted, broken rose. The weapon of legend, Corruption, was complete.
Samhainn set the remaining ghouls to their tasks leading contingents of the evil forces, their undead strength brought to bear on the legions of spirit loyalists. As Samhainn cut through the lines of the enemy forces, smiting them with ease, he began to turn the forces of life to his ends, raising the slain spirits to fight against their compatriots. These enslaved husks had no will but that of the Unmaker, their spirits caged inside a prison of death and decay. Samhainn cut through the Fade, building a wave of Undead to crash against the Golden City. The spirits of creation were pushed back by the relentless onslaught of Death.
Not all of the undead were fit for combat, though. Many spirits had their appendages pulverized or crushed, and could no longer fight. Those bodies that could be scavenged to create whole beings were used to form unholy Constructs, their stitched, hulking bodies set to the task of destruction and disease. The first of the constructs was Pride, whose headless body became a junction of disfigured carcasses and limbs, his once glorious form now an ugly, shapeless mass of flesh and filth. Fallen combatants’ ruined forms were stitched, tacked, strapped, and bolted onto his own until he was a forest of rotten bones and flesh, animated by the hellish magic of the Unmaker. In battles with the enemy forces, his mangled corpse was hacked at viciously, strewn about the battlefield, and reconstructed nightly. His hideousness grew until he became unrecognizable, his spirit forced to endure pain that no creature had ever known. Bent to the will of Samhainn, he shambled into war without hesitation, a reeking pustule of undeath upon the plane of existence, a weapon of shame and fear.
Samhainn’s forces continued their slow crawl across the Fade, clashing with the minions of Light in countless battles. Though Samhainn’s ranks were thinned, they were always replenished by the dead loyalists, or reconstructed into foul monsters of blight. Over time, the taint of Chaos and Evil began to seep into the soil itself, and as the forces of Life were forced to retreat to the safety of the Golden City, the outlying Fade began to change, mirroring the beings to which it had been ceded. The landscape, once bright and vibrant, became harsh and bleak. A ruddy tint began to spread through the land, and the soil began to seem like burnt blood, and the sky appeared tinged with ash. Trees stood as petrified memorials to the land that used to be, and no life took forth to greet the sun in the morning. What had once been the seat of all Creation had become a scorched, haunted shell, inhabited by the dead and the deathbringers.
After lifetimes of unending battle, Samhainn could finally see the piercing glare of the Golden City over the horizon. The cleansing light of the Maker’s capitol burned his skin and blinded his eyes, and his stomach turned as he beheld the pristine walls and graceful towers. Averting his eyes from the glorious fortress, he searched his ranks for his favored lieutenant. Swooping low over the ground, Cadivus touched down before him, responding to his very will. She held the scythe Corruption upright before her, taller than she by several hands and still crusted with the dried combatants from the previous day’s battle. She winced as she beheld the great stronghold, but she said nothing. Her eyes turned to meet Samhainn’s, and he could sense her doubt.
“If the spirit of Valor is cowed by this sight,” thought Samhainn, “then what is the resolve of my armies? How can I expect them to charge where Courage flees?”
The dark spirit strode to the top of the hill, the light of Life baking his body, engulfing him in the swell of Creation. He steeled himself against the onslaught of holiness, and turned to see his forces arrayed before him. The eyes of his demon army filled him with arrogance, and then contempt for any who might stand in the way of such ruthless and powerful creatures. He began to laugh, first a chuckle, building slowly until he released an unbridled roar of derisive cackles, challenging the heat on his back. He turned his face into the light, throwing his arms wide and aiming his greatsword Strife at the battlements. He cried out his taunt to the sky mockingly, his will lending a power to his voice that made it heard by all the forces arrayed behind him, and those in the beaming city.
“Burn brightly while you may, little Light, for the night has come to lay you to rest; to cover your lands with shadow and silence, and turn your merriment into fear. Seize this day to shine, for your time has grown short, and soon the dark will drown your laughter in tears. Take solace in your freedom, for it is fleeting, and soon the music of your joy will be overpowered by the lamentation of your innocence, stripped bare and ravaged before your eyes.”
As the paragon of Chaos bellowed his tirade at the amassed armies of Creation, the legions of undeath and plague began to move forward. Swelled by their hatred and bolstered by their pride, they began to feed on their master’s hunger for Death. Samhainn continued his rallying call.
“Do not flee, Champions of Good - stand tall! - for when the sun sets you will stand no more, and your broken bones will afford you no pride, your rent flesh no dignity in your eternal slumber. When your haunted dreams torture your damned souls, you will know you cherished your beloved city to the end, until it was turned out into the dark night like the bruised corpse of a well-used whore: broken, ruined, and useless - never to know the warmth of life again. Your proud battlements will be laid low, your great towers toppled to the bloodied streets below.”
The forces of evil, now sensing their lord’s will, began to charge, closing on the Great Spirit’s hilltop, where he had not yet ceased his challenge to the Maker’s heart.
“Waste not these moments, and use them wisely, knowing they will not come again. Bold flame of life, you cannot escape -- Change has come to make you his own. Your death has been a certainty since the day you first saw the light, and it has arrived.”
The demon forces drew even with their dread Unmaker, seething hatred rolling off of their ranks like a red mist. The light of the city did not hinder their progress any longer. Where the minions of Death tread, now only shadows fell, as Samhainn drew in his power for one final cry.
“Burn! Throw caution to the wind and burn, little light, for this day is your last! On this day, Death has come for you!”