The Otherworld trembles with every step he takes, thunder all about him, as if the sky itself wants to strike him down. Here, the fiends bow to him. There is a solemn reverence in the way they flock to his side, knowing that if he so wills it, he will reduce them to nothing.
They follow him in cowardice to save themselves; Adrammelech has promised that fate for the gods.
-
For his entire life he has been thought of as a failure, and the Makers consider him a mistake. Even amongst the scions of darkness he is looked down upon, half-man and more monster than anything else. They do not give him purpose, no role to fulfill, and eternity is empty.
Belias cracks his claws. He will fight along side the other Espers, and should they fail – well, he will find another master.
-
Chaos is nothing.
He can no longer count how many times he has died (if he has even lived at all).
He will rage against the gods, and break the cycle – it matters not to him if he is never reborn.
Chaos is nothing.
-
Too happy to care whether this a good idea, a bad idea (neither or both) Cúchulainn prepares himself for the fight. The world is dark, too dark even for his stomach – and it aches now, and he just wants to break free, to stop the back of his throat from tasting dank and sullen.
The mood does not hold him for long.
Bearing his teeth, and thinking of nothing but the gods, Cúchulainn is hungry once more.
-
War does not interest him, and he cares little about the gods.
The world has been turning without him, life blooming without his judgment. It sickens him, frightens him.
Exodus will not fade away; when the world is nothing, he'll be at the centre of it all.
-
The rain falls the night they make their stand, dark clouds suffocating the sky like that armour that binds him. The ground trembles under the force, rhythmic and harsh like a drum-skin pulled too tight, and light will not be let through; not even to throw a shadow.
There is no light where he is – broken, sewn together tactlessly inside cerulean-gold armor. Famfrit the Hideous does not know if this battle will fix him, and has a sneaking suspicion it no longer matters.
-
Order, order! Hashmal calls for, righteous in his ways and never-blinking. He does not like to fight like this, because there is a certain line of command that ought never be severed, and yet – his Masters, his Makers; they let this world fall to ruin.
His body means nothing, when it comes to the ends; he will happily throw it away for the war, to face the gods, because in the end there will be order, order.
Hashmal roars into the night, and makes ready to lead the dark armies.
-
Mateus's fingers are bloody where the goddess bites down on them, cold tongue lashing for freedom, choking on the tiny little wounds the worm their way into the back of her throat. Her entire body is coated in ice, the shards digging into him and flat sides of crystals cooling him, and he only holds tighter as she writhes, screams, kicks – anything to get away.
Perhaps before he would have felt something – guilt, frustration, excitement, anything. Now there is just a grin on his face and nothing inside.
He binds her arms together, and pins them high above her head. With a goddess as he shield, he cannot falter.
-
The thunder of her hooves against the cracked earth is a new sound that splits Ivalice in two. Her voice, like a snake, has already curled in Ultimia's ear and spread its poison – screams of weaknesses, oh so secret, and things she will teach the Humes.
Shemhazai has seen how the gods have treated them thus far, pale in comparison to any other race to grace the world – for their lives are short and limbs weak, and there is nothing striking in their intelligence to place them above others.
Here, her voice bounds throughout the rain, takes flight on the slicing winds, I shall teach you of evils, and destruction will be yours.
-
Ultima's heart is already without light. She cannot lose.
-
Clutching to the shamaness, Zalera feeds upon her screams as if it is the air he breathes. It is no matter what they think of him – the gods, Espers or mortals – because he knows himself tainted, and knows that no one is blessed with the ability to judge souls but him.
There's something gnawing inside him, even now, and he thinks he might be bleeding black inks from inside his gut. With a cutting smile he closes his eyes softly, listens to the shamanesses' screams-turned-lullaby.
When the gods have fallen, and there is nothing else to stop him, he will not have to worry about his own rotting soul. Won't have to feel like this anymore.
The shamaness only falls silent when another white soul has dissolved between his teeth.
-
Law and condemnation, condemnation and law.
It does matter which way around it happens, and Zeromus's hatred has already seeped out as a living, breathing thing – a darkness that would poison him, were he guilty. Gravity bends about him as the drums or war beat in his ears, and even Hashmal agrees with him in this:
The gods must be condemned. There is nothing else for it.
-
Zodiark wakes, and even the gods tremble.