Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26517142-20160724171730/@comment-28358106-20160726222904

The portals wither, then fade.

The ground shakes. There is a shrieking,  tearing sound,  the sound of a thousand types of pain, the sound of an infinite thunderstorm, the sound of the splitting of the shadows of the moon upon the scythe of Death itself. The walls shake with fear, resounding. The Void ruptures the air, cutting it, splitting it, rending the unending planes, their wills forced aside. Corruption spreads its fingers from the gash in the air as the rift opens. A form, vile and absolute, steps from its wound, the very ground writhing in pain under His step. Those watching turn away, the light pulled from their eyes, the song of existence driven from their minds. The darkness congeals. Aching silence settles over the chaos. Mortals cover their ears. Gods briefly turn away from Him.

Victivius. Lord of the Old Days. []

The Infinite Lich regards Circe, the Shade. He speaks, His voice resounding across the pits.

'''"You have broken your pact with me, Circe.  I have come to reclaim what is mine, and mine alone." '''