As dusk uncoiled across the land upon the eve of the 24th of Ero, 632 years after the fall, the darkness brought with it the wrath of two Divine. Lightning cracked downwards and sent blazing streaks of fire into the air as Their huge figures shifted through the rolling clouds and Their voices rang with scorn and fury.

"Hashan, Suffering slithers within your walls with venomous fangs. Forsaking the Moon, you invite My seed to take root and infiltrate your soil. Mhaldor harvests what it sows." With a mere flick of His hand, the Evil God Sartan gestured at the city far below Them.

Bristling, Ourania, Goddess of the Moon concentrated only upon His figure, one hand moving to Her bow. "The Night ever endures, Sartan. Your isle still continues to bear the scars of Our battle, lest You forget Yourself."

With His own blade in Hand, He sneered at Her Divine form. "I will deliver Oppression unto You personally, Ourania. Hashan no longer interests Me."

"Then spare Me your words. I will be waiting."

With that, the explosive tension in the air relaxed as the red and silver forms parted, the promise of enmity held in each God's glare.


Penned by My hand on the 25th of Ero, in the year 632 AF.