The other side of insanity was not immune from the torments of a galaxy inimical to any sort of kindness, just as the realm of mortality was not untouched by their own turmoil.

Where did the Great Game change? It could not be attributed to a single occurrence across a galaxy in turmoil.

Colourful beings in glittering gracefulness appeared to an old, old king who knew his realm was destined to die. In exchange for his sword of Dawn his kingdom would be spared the swarm of locusts that devoured all. His realm was overlooked, a morsel falling between fingers of the ravenous to dwell in mournful solitude amongst the ashes of a trillion dead.

Theft of a corpse from those who called the stars their home, but the carcass was not whole. Those who paid it homage and listened to its whispers knew it was never truly dead for it had never truly lived for all that it had boasted.

Death's visage was devoured a moment before incarnation as Her sorrows fell like soft raindrops upon hearts of cold bone where the dead hid in fear. Grey and cold but better than the Hell their ancestors had damned them to, Heaven was empty with its gates rusted shut.

Beast did look upon ancient nobility and found it wanting and abhorrent. It was a forgotten memory that found forgotten children and indifferent deities shrugged of the sleep of eons to carry from where they were interrupted. It was revelry for the fallen disciples of the mirror image god but also a time to wait.

Wandering the wastes and gardens a polished chrome Knight has only the whispers of the monochrome Outcast for company. They both were poisonous in their own way to each other and themselves but more to those around them in places where places could not be. One was Horror to one who could not feel it and the other was purpose to something that neither desired nor required it. For all that they were not they were more alike than either could ever imagine, united in antipathy and mutual loathing.

A Joker and a Trickster faceless in tatters and rags and a young girl's dress but which was the dog and which of them was guiding the other is anyone's guess. Riddles that turned upon themselves like knotted string in a maze of muddled meanings and twisted impossible madness but still less winding than the archives in the library once called home. For all his weakness and grief he could not be caught for he was a nimble dancer to clumsy giants who was considered beneath notice until one of four lay dead and dismembered. By then it was far too late for their rule to remain undisputed as more worthy denizens contested Hell.

A cat's-paw in a cruel city of stolen suns and crueller dreams finds that puppets can pull the strings of their masters and usurp the seats of presumptuous tyrants. A doorway opened by a broken-hearted heartless marionette for things that had no reason being in such a place. All the while impossible children of impossible unions were opening doors for things that had no place in any place. Even the most debased of those old sinners would recoil from the things the other side of that barrier for they were ņ̶̬̞̲̟͎͓̦͙̗͚͓̦̹̳͍̀̓̅̐͒ͮ̑͊ͥͧ́͊͘a̵̧̡͉̯͚̘ͮ̈ͥ̿̿ṁ̴̵̠̮̙͛̏̓̔̎ͫ̐ͦ͝ͅe̴͍͉̪̫͚̰̙͇͕̬̪̻̪̤͚̥̜̩̣͗͋̇͛͠ļ̵̒̒ͦ͒ͮͥ͊ͮ͏̸̧̝̞͈̟͕̝̫͙̤͉͇̲̪ę̧̦̭̬̯̱͔̺̤ͣ̅͒ͧ̌̎̿̓ͣͤ̿̈͘ͅs̛̱̭̰̤̳̬̳̼̯̙͔̭̘͚̗͎̪̯ͫͩͨͯͫ̂̀̅̿́ͥ̀̊ͤͤͦ̃̚͘͟͠͡s̺̞̝̦̩̬̩̙͍͍̥͕͈̤͔̩͙̙̪͂̓̑̆́̌͑͆͑͒̈̓͒ͯͥ͆͡͠͞ ͗ͭ̇ͤ̇̊̐̊͋̔ͥ͗͐҉̢̖̞̘̖̭̣̭̝̻͙̫̘̰̤̩̯̜͝tͤ̅̔̒̏͠͏̡̜̙̫̞͍̱̼͕̦̭̪͍͞͡h̵ͯͭ͛ͬ̈́̋ͦ̅͗ͦͣͤ҉͜҉̴̖̲̜̬̟̰̭̗̹̤͚͙͙̩ȋ̶̷͆́ͨͬ̔ͫͮ͢҉͎͙͕̥͇̻̥n̶̵͓͉͙̭͙̞̙̬͇̱͎̭̤̠̱̘͆͋͌̿̑̏̅̉͊̋́̉̂̀̈̚͜͝g̛̭̺͙̯̠̙͖̮̖̱͉̼̖̉̑ͬ̓̍͋ͩ̀̚ͅš̴̶̓̋ͬ̿ͥ̽̍͗ͩ̍҉̝̗̜̠̼̠͓̝͓̞͕͢ ̷̸̟̲͖̮͔͇̐͛ͤ͊̈̐̚͢͝ the gods of old shut fast beyond the doors of the Blacksmith. Yngir was not what was remembered, not what was associated with that word in latter times by other inheritors. N̩͇͖͎̺̑͑ͮ̇̓͝ā̇҉̞m̯̺̳̻̞̬͢e̐͌͞s̙̊ ̛ͩͧ͌̎ͦ͛̒o̞̝͐ͧ͋̂ͨ̂̓f ̮̯͉͈͉͖͐̑̓ͬṱ̥̞͖̱̮ͨ̀̋̈́ͪh͉̝̰̯̎͊͠i̥̠̣̎ͯ̒n̄ͭĝ̟̗̺͎ͯ̀s͈͖͕̓̌͂̾ͫ̐ ̻̫͔̞̟͕̅͜t̳͔̬͓̰͌ͥ͞ͅh͎̔̏̊̄̚a̖̬̦̹ͬ̏ͦͣtͨ͋͛̐ͥͪ ̠̻͙̮͂̈́̆̋̄̅ḛ̯̒͐v̢ͦͦͯ̓̀̀̍e̍ͩ̌n̠̂̄̀ͫ̏ͣ ̒͋̒t͍ͨͯ͡h̨̩̹̳̘̲̒̎̐ͯ́ͤe͚͓̠̖̗̜̖͊͂̎͒ ͎ͪ̒̎ͨn͖̼ͪ̍̄e̗̹̜̖ͫ̃ͫvͤ̀͌̿̅ȩ̼̰͖̝̱̠ͅr̶̓̔̾-͎̦̥͇̾ͣ̃͌̉b̠̳͈̋͡o̩̪̹̭̤ͦ͘r̼̺͐ͬͩͫn̶̩͂̌̋̇ ̬͉̻͇͈͍͐ͥ̂̃̈́w̲͑̈́͆̾ͫ́͠oͧṵ̻̼͍̼̄̈́͌̾̇͑̀̕l̤̲͚ͦd̲̻̜̼͇̂͒̓̊̈̌̔ͅ ̷̠̮͔̃̀ͤ̃n̩̩ͩͥeͪ̀ͦ̎v͉͇̣̬̞̺͖̓̍̓͞ẹ͚͓͎̮͓̈́͠r̂̄̿ͧ̐҉̣ ̸̙̝̜̼͎̩͐̈̅̂ͪ̒̽s̹̣̪̮͚̦̄ͧ͞p͋͏̼ẽ͊̎͒͏͉a̪̪̬̖̮̪̞͐̀ͬ̓̽̏́͢k̻̦͍͕̰͍ͤ̏ͣͧ͐̕.͕̖͖̲̫͌

N̵̨̳͍̠͗͑̽͑̚ơ̦͎̩ͥ̽̓̽͛̏̚͘ͅñ͈͇͖̮̙͖̩͍̀̓ͫ̃͝e̐̇̉͋̿̄̚҉̞̻͉̗͎̱̞͎̀ ̨̮̤̭̊̀̏̋̔̍̾ͧ͞c̷̢͖̣͓̬͙͔ͦ̉̚o̴̙̺͉̪̦͋̾̾́̾̈ͯ̊u̥̗͕̖͚͍̾͒͊̐̑͗̚̚̕͡l̰̰̻̱̙ͣͩͫͯ͒͝ḑ̶̤̻̟ͧͯͩ́̄̓̚͘ ̴͓͇͊̓ͭ̊̑̔h̸̨̡̜̱͕̦̫͇ͯa̶̶̱̝͗̌͊͛͌ͅͅv̛͖͔̍ͩ͑̒̾̊ͧe̹̗̠̼̅ͅ ̨̨͚̫̦̄ͯ̿̂͛̽̌k͓͉̖̩ͦͫͨ͗ͤ̾ͩ͑n̻̫͙̻ͭ͐̕ǒ̫̱͍͚̯̳̬ͪ̐̀͐͋̑̚͟w̒̀͏̥͔̞̻̼ͅñ̢̥͒͘͘,̘͚̤̘̠͉̫ͭ͢ ̧̬͓̖̝̮̦̳̲̀n͖̬͍̖̞̳̲͈̆̒̉ỏ̶̘̖͚̆̊͆ͣ̈̀t̵ͫ̅͌͋ͣ̒̐͢҉͙̹̥͇͍͎̜̦ ̨͙̓̆ͭ͆̏͆͟i͚̪͇̖͖̖̣ͤ̑͊̕n̖̮̯̙̭͍̅̑̒̿͆ͣ̀ ̤͔͎̃ͤ͐͋ͤ̅̌͘t̢̢͙͓̉̐ͫ̈́͑ͨ̕h̡̛̦̰͚̤̖̪̣̔̒̑o̼̮̖̦̺̤̎̈͞s̥͈̣̲͉̖̹͐̾͋̾͛̈́̌̾̎e̼̠͈̺̗̻͓͛̑̇̊ͤ̌̾͞ ̤̘̙̆̓̇ͫ̓̿̽t̡͇̯̗̳̺͖̞̻͗̋̓̓͊̽̄͂ͬ͘i͌̑͛͂̌̒͋͏̦̝̖̘̰̪͙̕m̘͓̻͕͚͑͌͑̉͐̀̅͜͡ͅe̷̡̘͇̖͎͔̯̤͛̌̃͂͜s̷̨̱͚̯͔͚̎ͩͭ̀,̧̤̤͖̭̤̩͎̣͇͊̿̀͟ ̻̤̾̎͂ͮ͛́ͪ͜n͓͍͕̣͒͋̏̓̈ͤ̍͠ȯ̶͎̬̝̙̥̀͋̀t̫̞̦͚͓͚͔̯̟ͮ͗̎̓͌̔̀ͨ̿ ͈͇̯̪̣̩̦ͣ͒ͥ͐̈́͜f̵͇̣̣̓̓̈̀̿͘̕ǫ̶̙̼͕͉̠̪̻͉̆̿r͎̳̯ͪ̃̈́ͧ̈́̍ͪͣ ̄̈ͯͧ͒͏̠̰̪ä̹̳̖̰̺̝̭͚́͛̄͐̽ͫͅn̼͚̞̪͔̣͓ͬ͆̍̉ͯ̚ ̤͍̋ͤ̽aͬͪ̊ͧ͂ͥ҉̙̞̟͖̲͕̹͢ͅg̵̞̞̫̻̊ͩ̅͘͞ė̶̮̜̬̝͍̣͇͓̐ͤͬͯͫ̓́̕,̦̣͍͕̜͖̎̚ ̼͖̪̻̥̰͚̲ͭ͒͞w̩͓̥͙̞̬̣͂͊͒ͥ̃ͨḧ̢͓̱̘́ͣa̞͈̪̝̔t̷̻̪̲͖͍̖̝͂ͣͯͯ̃ͨ̆ͣ́ ̡̠̖̘̌͊̓͢tͭ́̂̋̌ͦͭ҉͈̘̰̜h̨͍̦̳̪͉̭̭̬̀ͮͯͨ̋̎͂̏e̛͉͛̾ͩ̏͑͟͡ḯ̧͙̤̘͇̖͔͑͘͟r̭̖͕͖̝̖̜̭͗͞ͅ ̶͉̳̀̇̎ͤͩd̛͔̤͈ͤ́r͌̎͛ͨͪ̊̍͑҉̞eͮ́͋ͩ͒̋҉̙̭a̻̩̼̤͋̈́̀ͅm̨͔̣̳̪̱̳͖̖̆͂͗̍̑ͥ̄̄s̻͈͓̮̰̺̟͒̏̏̓̉̓͆ͯ͠ ̷̯̪̖͉ͦ̓́͌ͪͨͨ̚̕͜o̴̳̙͖̰̻͙͚ͯ̀ͬͬ͋̈́̚ͅf̴̯̞̥͎̱̞͛̋ͪ̽̔ͣ̊͜ ̰̺̮̘ͩ̓͌͊̍ s͇̙̮͎̹̗̳̋u͖̣̻̟͍͌͑̒s̺͚̟ͪͧ͑ͦͩ̑t͚̩̋̍̊̈́à͕͚̙͎̿͑̓̓͐i͎͎͈̻̋n̖̦͉̻̲̘ͦ̎̐ͮ͂͒ȇͥͪḓ̯͓̳͙̗̳ ̞͚̅̔̑̽a̿̉̈͂̃͗n̬͍͕̱̮̆d̈́̔͊ͪͩ ̤̓̄̿͒u̥͔̣͚̾ͮͫ͊ñ̪̃͆̃ͯ̎ṛ͉̝̪̊ͥ̈́ẽ̌͒ͩ̌m̮̳͕̦͚̫i͕̮͛ͮ̒̎̿t̪̬̘̰͇̃͛t͕î͊̇͑̚n̯̟ͪ͂͛͗̊g͈͙͕̪͍͕͐ ̥̟͓̗̬̌ͯ͒̌͗ͦͣc̤͓̥͔̬̝͕̅ͯͤ͌ͣͤṙ͚̜̥͖͍͕̫ͨ̋ű̹̘̙̼͔͊̋e̬͚͓͕̠̮̱͆̎͊l̼̝̗̗̑̂̄̂̚t̬͍̘͋ͪͅy̼̟̖̘̖͆ ̺͔͔̞͎̹̝͛̍͒ͤh̥̦̺̮ͧ͋ȃ̠̯̟͍̭͍̻͌͗ͤ̿̓ď͉̥̌̐͒ͮ̏ ̪̗̞͖͔̖̈́͒͛ͪͥ͐b͔̹̬͍̪͎o͈͉͎̣̤̝r̫̞̔͛ͮ̅̚n̖̹͙̫͉ͭ̐̅.̓̆ͪ̄͋͗ͅ ̦͇̖̖̻͛ͮͦͨ̅ͪN͎̯ͦ͑o͈͍̟̰̫̤̊n̠̠̏̅ͭ̽ͯͪ̓e͖̲͉̭̱͕ ̘̫̲̯̙ͣ͂̆̅̎k͈̠̗̦͚̥̹ͬñ͓̲̣̊ͨ͂ͤͭͯe͎̮̮͓ͦ̔̑̇̈́̅ͫͅw̜͇̥̪͕̒͌ ̬̱̟̣͇ͮͭ͊b͈͓̩̬̞͓̐̌͊́ͣu͕͖̮̖͔̍̉t̩̞̹ͣ̔ͬ͂̽͌ ̜̲͐̽̇ͮt͍̤̤͈͎̲͖ͭo̝̥͚̭̠͎̣ ̼̲̠̣͇̲̮͒͐͂ͯ͂a̞͇̅͑n̽̿ ͭ̉ͭe̟͆͛͛̊x̜̗̝͈̮ͨ͐͂ṭ̦̯̟͚̊͊ë̘̹̭́͗͐ͫͬn͎̲̻̝͍̱͕ͣ̋̈́ͮ͒ͤ̆t̳̠͉̪͈̭͎ͥͦ͋̑ͫ ̯̳̈̍̀ȧ͖͔͇͎̦̯̿ͪͨ̚ͅl̬̲̩͚̝̫͖ͮ͊l̩̗͚̤̟̫͉͐ ̤͙̣̦̙̬f͔̪͔̜̠̺̲̿̌̌ͮ́̐e̜̘̼̦̮ͦ̿ͨḷ̼ͥ͊͗͆͌ͥṫ̥͍̌ ̰͇̥̙̌̅ R̵̸̲͇̠̣͙̱̬͓͔̳̘͎̭͎͇͓͂̉̽̾ͭ̓̽̔ͅĥ̶͙̞̻͙̺̭͕̼͎̺̠̮͔̮̓̓ͪ̈́̆̋̑͂̉̒ͨ̋͛̀̚̕͘͢a̡̯̫̙̹̯̗͚̖͛̈́͌̇͋ͧ̋̐ͩ̃̇ͬ̽ͨ͆͂̔͝͞n̓ͯͮ̈́ͭͪͫ̅ͩ͒̔̇̚̚҉̨̻̲̮̼̤ḁ̵̢͙͈͕̩͓̣̱̳̰̟̱ͪ̈̅ͤͧ̌̄̀͡ ͉̻̳̻̙̱̹̩̱͉̲̰͇̗ͬ͒ͪͤ͐̈́̓͌́̅ͨ̅͗͟͡D͔̱̤̺͖̩̙̤̮̓͛̒̓͆͋̄̾ͨ͒̽̓̎̏̀͢a̞̻͕̮̪̥͖̘͉̽ͤ̋̎͌̌ͥ̈̓̈́̇̋̚͢͠͝n̵̛̼͚͉̠̯̠͂̃̑̃̒ͣͪ̑ͦ̏͋̚͜d̈́̆ͩͨ̒̆̓̈́ͬ̚҉̶̨̮̤̲̩̟̻̠̳̼̯̩̺ͅr͙̟͕̙̜̞̤̩͙̤̹̟̦̖̤͉̙̖̅ͣ̋̓ͪ̏ͣͬ̔̈́̈̌̑͋̓͘͡ą̴̷̡̯̝̼̣̣̮̙͎͇̘̠̘̈́͊̿̂ͩ d͕̦͈̩̘̺r̫̬̼a̠̬̲̟̟̥w̩̰i̩̪̮̬̦̻ń͖̪̻͔̻̝̹ģ͖̙͎ ͈̖̤i̛t͉͓̺͉̹̤̜́s̭̟̝̯ͅ ̙̠̝͖̻͇̣͟b̬̯̪͙͕̦r̛̭̻͎͙̖̜e̛͙̘a̲͖̼̳͓̪̭͞th̻̬̘͖̺,̱̞͖͔̙ ̼̤͓̥̬t͟ḩ͓̪ȩ̘ ̵e̡̫͙̫̠n̰͝d̠͇ ҉̟̟t̬̪i̺̯̯me͈͎̥̭̺͎͙ś͈̱̥̞͙.̙̪͠ ͎̙ͅA̙ ̧s̠͇͠p͏̻̬͉͕̫̮l̨̤̯a͈͔̲̜̺t̷̹̬̗͕̮t̗͓̥̯ͅe̺̙r҉̞ ̬̬̠̤͎̝̤̀o͉̺̳̩f͍͍͈̫͜ ̶̪̪͔̟̗b̞͢l̪̦̭͕̮o͚o͎̯ͅḑ͔̤̗̩ ̶ǫ̺͙̥̰̺̜n̶̼̜̪̗ ͉̱t̰̣h̖̫͚͖̞̀e̪͓̜̮ ̤̠̤̕t͙h͙̪͇͕̤̙̜͢r̦̻̤͖̺̦̕ͅe̴͍a̪̮͉̟͓̪̟͢d͇͙̘̰̝̖ ̴̹̮̪̠̬̰̖ó̻f̴̬ ̀t̫̯̳̙̱͔i̛͇̱̗m̩̦͚͍̀e͇͇̼̦̞ ̣̹̝ ḻ͙͌̋ͮ̽ͯe̹̬̙ͪ̀͠a̛̦̞̣͖ͥͣ̊̓ǩ̮̅̽͜i̲͎̒ͯ̉̇͋ń̪͕̜̬͇̹͖ǵ̯͈͖̻̖͉ͥ͐̐ͮͬ ̞͘b͙͊̈́͐̇̎̿̽ā̊̄̇͑ͪc̲̝̪̓̚k̜̜̿̎̂́ͥ̀w̺͓̥̰̙͑̄̓̚̚a̵͚̅̌̀̐r̓͂̋͛̚͘d̝̱̹̱͙͌̄ͨ̉ͦ́s͍͈̜̣͕̲͇ͭ͆̅ͤͫ̅ ͧ̈̽ͯ̇̈́a̐n̙̺̠ͮͧd͍̰͓ ͚͇̬̯̜͕̲͆͜c̡̾̂̆̌͗ͮ̓ȁ̟̗̤̥͊ͨͥ̎͌ͪr͉̺̠̲̭̔̉̓r̗̘ͧ͠yͬͭi̼̣̮̬̟̒͂̋̔̈́̅̋n͈͑ͤ̈g̚҉͕̬̠̲̳ͅ ̡̦̫ͣͮn̟̗͎̘͙̈́ͬͥͫ̌̒͂ͅȉ̪̻̓͜g̜̖̔ͦ̔̑ͣh̰̰̝̘ͮͭ͂͒͒̆ͨt͎͉̀̿̈́ͧ̎̄m̢̘͍̟͇͆ͬ̆̎̃aͫ̉r̥͖̜̩̞̟̉ͯ̀͘eͧ̉ͣ̆s̨̯̮̠ͪ͛ͭ̐ͨ̈́̓ ̝͇͚͉̙̰̘o̥̲̞͕̫̠̝̽ͨ͑ͣ̉ͯ̈f̯̞̈̈́̎ ǐ̼̼̻͚̙̫̄͗t̶͙̘̞͚̥̃̃́̀̑s̗͔̒e̡̖̐̿̈̏̓̉̚l̸͇̖̼̮̝̱̻͑̍̿̀f̨̲͂̅̉̒̔̄ͯ ͈̼̰̺̼̗̄̔̿̌̂ͮ͗̕i̟̯͌͌n͓̖̹͈͖ͥ̀ͯ͗͗ ͉͒ͦ̎w̜̳̃̔ͫ̆ạ͕ͧ͒ͣr̷̭̺̖̜n̸̗ͦͯͣ̋iͬ́ͧ͒̃̚n̟̪͖̿ͭ͢g̢̗̈ͩ ̳̹͍͈̪̣̅̔̆͐̊̐̏t̟̍͂̽͆͜o̰̤͔̻̿̆ͭ ͎̬̪̫̏͂ͩ̈ͬ̿̓͟ṱ̜̊ͥ̋̚͜h͖̥̾o̸͖̞̘ͣ̃ͫ̎s̻͔̿̓e̳̐͂ ̡̻̦̀ͬ̓̓w̴̖̝̠̪̹̳̏ͦ̅̈́̒h̲̠̲͚͓̜͑ͮ̂̒̚͘ọͩͯ̊̄͌͐ͮ͢ ̥̯̙͎̦͙ͨ̓c̷̜̠͓̯̥̤a̞̰̠͆ͫ͒ͩ̚m̵͖̂͛̾̓́e̸̲͍ͬ̅͗ͥ ̧͖͎ͭ̍̿ b̹͕̱̥̲̭͖͙͍̪͖̦e̯͚͕̙f̲̠̰̝o̲̰͖̣̱̺͔̬̩̥̩͕̜̮̲̩̤̤r̺̲̠͍̟̪̯͓̙̭̳̥̩̭e̩̰̫̺̭̞̼̯̹̜̤̟̟̩͇ͅ.̻̯̖̯̦̪̭ ͖͕̙͇͍̖̼͚͇͇̰̭̥͙I̻̱͕̦͚̬͖͈̹̰̣̳̫̯ͅn͍̜̜͎̬̰̠̳̯̣̟͎̖̟̤̰ͅ ͉̬̥͔a̺̬͇͎̱̭̱̺̻͈̱̞͈ ̯͖̱̘̩̖͍u͇̯̳̪̗̺̱̠̬͕͍̱͓̟̤̻̙n̘͔̬̦͇̤̻̮̜i͔̩̤͕͎̜̻̥͚̙̞̱̳̯͉̣ͅv̜͎̗̯͖̙̼͖̦̘ͅͅe̱̯̻̼̱̯̺̦͓̻̟̱͇̪̯ͅr̳͉̱̠̭̜̠̟̭͕̖̣͈̪̱̮̫s̮͚̟̰e̤͉̟̣̹ ̤̜̩̞̝̤͖̙͖͉͕̮f̹̟̝u̱̼̭̲͕̜͈͕͙̘̤̖l̲̤̙̭͉͕͙͖̳̦̭̰͕͉͙̘̥l͙̫̦̬̺͔͖̞̘͍̜̺͇̫̠͎ͅ ̳̮̼̮̻̪̱̭̦̺̰͓̹̜̯̘̱̲̥a͇͔̥̻̟̱͎̦̟̤l͉̦̟͙̻͚͖͇r̹̤̦͖̜̻͕̪͎e͈̗̰̝͕̫͕̪̤̞̭̤͔̩ͅạ͚̠̟̝̭̝̺͔̼͖͖͎͚̯̥ͅd̟͓̪̲̪̗̜̟̖̯̞̳̳͎̜̙y͎͎̮̮̖͕̥̟͕̦͕̝͓̝ ̝͎̪͓͓̥̼̦̠̱̞͔o̥͍̹̮̤̙͚͎̲͈̪͉͍̰̟ͅf̪̯̜͖͚ ̳͓̲̬͓͚̮̗͎̻ͅn̟̰͕̱̺͈̹͕̗̣̘̹͍̗̪i̙̜̣̰̘g̣̬̮̳̥̙̯̗̭̜͙̟͚͖̘͕͖̲̩h͉̥͕̳̭̖̱̣̯̰̗͇t͚̺̭̼̘͍͚͎ͅm̮̙̹̭͓̲͖a͉̤̬̮̳r͈̱̟̟͇̯̠̮̭̝̼͇̣͕̳̘e̫̥͕̥̺̻͇͍͔s̝͍̦̙͇͍̬̳̦͔̗̫̼ ̰̬̣͓̗͕̜̩̝̗̮͔̫̮̤͚a̲̬̲̥͈̱̝͙͈͔̪͉̲̞͕̻̦͇p̥̞̖͚͎̻̫̥̹͖̹̠ͅl͎̳͙̝̳̗̺e̳̼̤̫ṇ̞͕̘̯̱̪̰̼̻̜̜̥̪̭̭t̼̬͖̞͙̹y͔̝͓͕̙̤̻͓ ̜̳̯͇n̤̫̠͔͓͍̺̠͙̤̯̭̗̠o̗͔̼͙̳͍̘̪̣͙̘̙̯̘ͅn̗̺̲̱̤̰̝̫̩̬͍͙̭ͅe̠͈̲̮͇͉̱̥̟͈̫̘̮̝͉̻̟ ̬͔̤̪̫̩͕h̼̰̖͈͙͔̠̤̹̖̬͎e̥̮̩ḛ͓̣̮̫̜̙d͖̣̞̼̱̬̙̮̮̞̗͇̮̣̤ͅe͓̮̫̜ͅd̳̣̤̙̲̗̼͙̤̳̯̖͕̘̺̩͓̱̱ ̝̠͇͓̹̘̰̪̜t̜̰̯͖̺̝͎̠͚h̫̝̫̘̗̱̦̲̫͖̭̯̣̟̜͖e̙̩͙͕͙̮͙͖͙̪̖̣̳̝̺ͅs̫͍̙̝̻̖̠̦̰̱̖̻̟e̩̥̱̘̞̪ ̦͇̜̞̗̦̪̣̞͈͇̘̠̹͙͎̱͚ͅd͚̘̤̦̼͉̦̬̟̳̬̟̜̺͖ͅi̜̱͈͎̝̯̰̫̗͈͚ͅr̥̲̘̹̯͙̮̘̤̻̳͙̥͙̜e̘̙̘̦̟͉̼̜̥̦̪̣̥̫̳͎͎ͅ ̪̼͖̗͓̯̮̙̼͍͈̠̦̩̫o̦͔̠̝̣̹̩͈͍̝̯̺͎̲͕̞ͅm̙̰̥̝̲͙̯̪̘ͅe̻̤̺͓͎̫͙̥n̘̭̹̺̘͈̗̥̬̹̳̪̰̝͚͕̯̲s͇̝̠̰ͅ.̟̖͈̼

The hammers day and night with out either sun or stars struck the anvil to shape the things of inventive pain and constructed torment as souls eternally burned in furnace fires as tribute to a sacrifice for personal gain. Those petty and hateful twisters of the Machine-gods aspects never knew that their anvil had once belonged to more skilled and maimed hands. They never knew where he hid or who had become his new priesthood and disciples and what name he adopted.

The gods are not infallible and genocide was left incomplete.

The godless ones left orphan found gods of their own but it was from the suffering of the godless people that the gods were created. Bleeding heart and soul and hope and hate and sorrow as they and their false gods waged war upon a race of near immortals in the time before.

Three there were in the opening acts of the Great Game and three and a fourth who in exile dwelt. Serpents on thrones in a blasphemous Eden whose fangs dripped poison into the well at its heart. Sad little things in those days with so few to offer up in sacrifice. But they poisoned the Eldest and the First from their war they created others weaned on blood and strife and the flames of a hate to foreshadow and overshadow all hate to come. It was glorious.

As the false god perished and his birthworld was swallowed into a sinkhole of his own shattered ego older creatures in service to an older fraudster found in his death rattle all that they needed.

Across the craftworlds a dead god cried out in frustration, his hands were idle and stained in blood that was not from the victim he truly desired. He of mischief, perhaps in hope or perhaps in gratitude or perhaps for no other reason than he could, heeded this long held bitter rage. At his behest the servants whose minds dwelt in the past were shown the future how it should not be and were told how best to dance around it. Can it really be called grave robbing if the corpses march so willingly from their sepulchres?

A world descended down a hole in the sky aptly named the Bottomless Pit. It was a garden, once, long since dead from neglect and negligence by its keepers and utterly brought to ruin by the hubris and vanity of the mortal who would try to walk with those infinitely greater.

Welded together in the fires of hate the composite and broken god staggered and stumbled from the stolen doorway flanked on all sides by the legions of dark mirth. Things beyond number or reason flocked to them like moths to flame and were cut down with ease. Things from further a field closer to the places that never-were, the could-have-been and the things that dwelt in the places that the gods can't see were drawn to them as the planet eternally plummeted further from reality. Though they cut bloody swathes through the ranks of things that should not be but it was like fighting the tide. Their numbers were finite; their foes were innumerable and immortal.

As the giant of blood rusted iron collapsed onto that impossibly tarnished golden throne he looked up to the stars and into his own labouring heart, the heart shared by all of his people.

But he was Kaela Mensha Khaine he did not look to them in kindness. His hands dripped with their blood and they deserved it. He hated them, hated them for making him too weak, for pitting him against Kaelis Ra and allowing him to suffer infection, for their ill-timed defiance, for creating a new and more devastating creature than he ever was but most of all he hated them for killing his siblings. But he needed them as much as they needed him.

Reaching out he felt a great and writhing sea of hate that mirrored his own. The Eldar, in their presumption, had thought to craft a surrogate god to replace their slaughtered pantheon. A god of the dead, born of all the shared suffering and sorrow they had endured across the breadth of time. A great amalgamation of the restless dead and they called it Ynnead. But the dead did not lay quiet. They wanted to hurt as they had been hurt, they wanted to stand tall over their tormentor and when begged for mercy have none to give. They wanted to humble and disgrace a god before proving just one more time that the gods, regardless of their own opinion on the matter, are mortal.

Sitting upon that stolen throne on a world plummeting into the depthless abyss his roars of rage acted as an ethereal lightning rod as Ynnead was bled from the Infinity Circuit. All of the hate and sorrow and loss and the shear need to inflict retribution channelled down to that one iron colossus.

White hot and wrathful he blazed in the spectrum of loathing and violence. The harlequins fled at the sight of him, giggling and sniggering as they cut and slashed and danced their way back towards the pilfered gate. Thousands of them lay dead in the service of their god, but millions were victorious.

With the honour guard gone the deamons of the Deep Warp descended upon the resplendent god of murder. They were brief entertainment. He strode through the battle like he did in ancient days, merriment in blood-drenched delirium.

By his will the planet finally broke its arrested fall and plunged into the warp proper. Khine the Bloody Handed was home.

The Great Game was eternal, but now it had new contestants. As the Orks looked upon their ancient foes they began to remember what they had been. The knowledge was bone deep and flowed through their very veins and having remembered it could not imagine how they had ever forgotten. As one the orks the galaxy over awoke form the waking slumber.

The brawling of Gork and Mork across the formless wastes was a thing to behold. Slaanesh tried to distract one or both of them with unimaginable sensations and unholy pleasures from the hidden sanctums of her garden. She was ignored. Tzeentch tried to manipulate them with cunning ploys and barbed bribes. He was ignored. Nurgle sent forth fevers and plagues to torment them and show them the futility of their existence. He was ignored.

Khorne could not, would not, be ignored and sent a great horde of blood dripping maniacs into the wastelands to hunt down these presumptuous, half forgotten, relics. Sadly the deamon that, almost certainly by accident, ended up at the head of the horde was the perpetually ill-fated Skarbrand.

The mirrored gods towered above the horde like brawling mountains beneath a burning broken sky. As the unending roar issued from the maw of Skarbrand he became aware that his foot was caught in something.

The last memories of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka were those of glorious combat on the world of Armageddon locked in mortal combat with a most worthy of foes. Now he was somewhere different. But there was a battle going on and so it was still home.

Skarbrand pried the metal claw from around his foot and held up the creature for hateful inspection. The creature then promptly surprised him by head butting him and yelling "Wat da zog iz dat?!". All round the formless wastes in the footsteps of the slaughterer's army terrible and unholy green thing were rising from death into glorious and eternal war. The orks had invaded the Realm of Chaos.

For the first time in eternity Khorne rose from his brass and bone throne and the ork pantheon became a warrior's trinity as Khorne joined the eternal brawl.

All was not well in the labyrinths of Tzeentch. A hundred ploys played out in every heartbeat of his vast and insanely complex realm. A thousand schemes hatched and million plans to usurp his throne and a hundred times that to ensure that it remained most assuredly his.

And yet something was not as it should be. Something was moving through his realms. Something unaccountable. Tzeentch and his heralds were creatures of scheme and strategy where the ability to account for and control all knowable variables was incalculable power and power was the means to more. But something was not right. Like a great tapestry with one too many loose threads all of the schemes of internal struggle were unravelling into discord. His rule was being disrupted, his authority challenged. Another god was abroad in his glittering crystalline realm.

Although the cards can be stacked and fixed in any game the Joker always grins and the Jester was no fool. For all that The Great Sorcerer represented a transition of states and relentless ambition his opposite in all to many was The Great Harlequin who existed only to see such ambition humbled and the schemes of others fail for no reason beyond simple amusement.

With intellect beyond any possible human understanding the Sorcerer divined patterns in the actions of the Harlequin and elaborate traps were placed. Each and everyone of them was avoided by the most simple of means; usually by being absent or tricking one of Tzeentch's own minions into being ensnared in his place.

Slaanesh smelt a morsel, a most exclusive delicacy, that had been denied her for far too long. With all the self-restraint that had earned the god of excess his title she launched a full-scale attack on the crystal labyrinth. The Joker was already gone.

Through the blasted wastes and the places of the damned the dancer danced his little dance and left a pretty trail. Across seas of fire and skies of frost could be found his footsteps. Blood drenched he capered across the hellscapes of Khorne's killing grounds around the Brass Citadel and staged false attacks and misdirected insults that ignited internecine civil wars and mutually detrimental battles. The carefully contained gladiatorial wars being fought to earn the prize of regency to Khorns throne were thrown into utter disarray and from this bedlam arose Doombreed for his sheer tenacity and the cunning only a mortal was capable of. Across the Formless Wastes he stirred up great flocks of furies a billion strong that blotted out the unlight of impossible suns. He danced before the gates of the Soul Forge and mocked the artificers and weapons smiths that dwelt within as he waltzed between the cumbersome legs of Defilers and Soul Grinders and less nameable things. As the weapon smiths of that infernal workshop whipped themselves into a frenzy an old acquaintance of the dancer looked out from his hiding place and smiled. Through the burning streets of the Impossible City of he capered around the butchery of the Outcast and the Lost.

Always he was hounded by the hordes of She Who Thirsts. But he was the Cegorach, the Laughter and the Spite, and he was too nimble to catch.

Until his insane wanderings led him to the Forests of Nurgle. The forest floor was thick with the cloying muck of decay and all actions became sluggish and listless. Spores and the stench of death sapped the life out of everything and the dance slowed to a stagger. For the first time She Who Thirsts had left her throne to pursue this errant morsel for the death of a rival god demanded it.

The deranged hordes of slathering deamons fell to infighting and strife amongst themselves in those foetid swamps and with every savage wound inflicted the noisome waters caused infection.

Half exhausted and drenched in malodorous stagnant filth the Laughing God staggered and clawed his way onwards towards the crumbling mansion of Nurgle. As he crawled up the entropy slope he knew his task was futile as the laws of exponential decline made his efforts quickly ineffectual. And something was following him with surer strides.

A cloying stench of some unholy perfume and the mocking laughter that had heralded the fall of his kin. Slaanesh had caught up to him. A clawed hand reached forth to pluck that most sought after morsel from the wormy earth to feed a dreadful appetite. The hand stopped, Cegorach was grinning.

"I am the Joker and the Dancer and the Spiteful Laughter. Who do you think is going to have the last laugh here you upstart little harlot?" The cruel sneer of derision drained from the hermaphrodite deities face as heavy footfalls began to get closer.

Khine could not be stopped by the filth of the boggy forest and the putrid orchards. Courtesy of Kaelis Ra only molten metal now flowed through his white-hot veins under burning iron skin. His was a furnace heat powered by the cold hate of trillions of the near dead. Deamons, the brighter ones at least, backed off from him and the terminally stupid were cut down in very short order. The ground burned and baked in his footsteps and all about him was the stillness of death.

"I have waited long for this day, slayer of Eldanesh." Screamed the Prince of Excess as she lunged at the murder god. Slaanesh was slapped aside mid-flight with a burning cold handprint scar to blemish her once perfect face.

Khine was not impressed and did not stop. He drew the Blade of Dawn and tore a ragged wound in Slaanesh's throat in a spray of garish blood. As the lifeblood of an unwanted deity flowed away Cegorach rose back to his feet. He looked into the eyes of Kaela Mensha Khaine and for the first time in eternity the bloody handed god felt happy and both of them knew that they had a lot more in common than they would ever admit.

Cegorach bowed and exited the stage.

One dance was over and another stage was opening elsewhere. Such was the nature of the Harlequin.

Looking down at the prone god Khine felt only disgust. A lot of it was at himself for being weak enough to have ever fallen victim to such a travesty but mostly he saw the fall of his old realm and what it had become and that disgusted him further. With a jackals grin upon his iron face he began to methodically slice and cut the god of excess into small pieces. Those pieces seeped into the soft earth and, like corpse filth from the bottom of a coffin, dripped into the mortal world in a past age. Where those drops fell the Dark Muses were born.

Isha, like almost every being both mortal and immortal, felt the death of Slaanesh. She no longer had to hide. When Nurgle next came to visit her he found the cage empty and became all the more sorrowful for it. His garden bordered the Gardens of Isha that were grown in the rubble of Slaanesh's kingdom of debauchery.

Thankfully for Nurgle Khine had business elsewhere. A presumptuous bastard had set a throne of brass and bone in his desolate kingdom.

Great swathes of the Khorne's killing grounds were annexed as an older god began to take back what was stolen from him as he lay dead. Doombreed, most ancient and belligerent of Khonrn's human deamon princes, stood as slaughterer regent and to say that Khine was displeased at so insignificant a being sitting on his throne is truly insufficient.

Khine called to his side all the bitter and resentful and those whose hearts were full of hate. Furies and stalkers and other things cast out into the Formless Wastes. Many of the older and more cunning servants of Khorne decided where their passions truly lay and it was with hate more than it was with wroth.

The Outcast and the Lost wandered into the gathering storm and it was there that they parted ways with only token efforts to kill each other. The Outcast God looked upon the war that was to be and saw it for what it was, an opportunity to strike a blow at his own kind with borrowed strength. The Lost Knight wandered a different and less sure path. Malal made that warring pantheon of hate a triumvirate of loathing to contest the trinity of bloodlust.

Kaldor Draigo wandered onwards, his armour was in tatters and his sword was broken but he was unbowed. Soon his footsteps vanished from the ash of the wastes.

With sickening inevitability the Great Game ground on. It had a few new players and a few new pieces on the board but ultimately it was same game. The only certainty is change but that is certainty never the less. And Chaos; Chaos never changes.