Awash in stillness, the mountains seemed lonely with the absence of the
Logos, and Maya looked off toward the twin peaks of Mount Sinope and
Mount Callisto, Her eyes sombre but filled with wisdom and clarity.

"Truly, the Logos has an arduous task set before him. But he is not
alone, and the gods labour to defeat the threat to our world." Maya
turned to face the assembled mortals. "So, too, must you. You must
travel to Nishnatoba, where you will stand with the gods against
Bal'met."

More than a few were prepared to rapidly descend the mountain and race
toward the great icons which stood as gateways to the legendary
battleground. But before any could depart, Maya held up one finger in
caution. Forcefully gesturing with both hands to the ground at her feet,
Maya spread wide her arms and a pool of swirling water bubbled up in the
centre of the plateau. Tongues of primal fire licked over its surface,
burning improbably above the churning basin.

"Many are the ways to reach the distant battle," she said, "but heed me
now. Enter this pool, hold fast to the strength found within yourself,
and emerge upon Nishnatoba not as a mortal... but as a mighty demigod."

None could believe the words uttered by the Great Mother. Ascension of
this kind was unthinkable. Impossible!

Trusting in the Great Mother, the warrior Rangor Corten bravely stepped
forward, steeled his nerves, and stepped into the pool. Slowly he sank
beneath the surface and was enveloped by an invigorating sense of
strength and vitality.

Always moving forward, Rangor was spun and woven through the fabric of
reality, a tempestuous journey that seemed to last for eons before all
was suddenly calm. The sentinel found himself standing in a small
cavern; at its centre stood the grey-cloaked figure of Sarapis. Solemn
and consumed in thought, he faced a column of primal fire, pondering its
innate existence as it burned endlessly across time and space. Opposite
the Creator stood Aeyr, God of Magic, his gentle, grey eyes locked in
concentration upon the enigmatic flames.

With slow, deliberate movements the Logos moved his hands, drawing
filaments of the Weave from the ether and shaping them carefully, adding
them to the Fire Behind the Flame and releasing them to burn in glorious
union with reality.

Suddenly, without warning, a spark leapt out from the Fire Behind the
Flame, making contact with Rangor's chest and throwing him backward with
a forceful discharge of energy. Rather than landing on the ground,
however, he found himself once again tumbling through the ether within
the maelstrom of Creation.

For another eternity, Rangor was tossed about, but slowly the spinning
subsided, leaving him standing alone within a quiet grotto.

Softly the voice of the Great Mother whispered to him, "Since your first
cries I have watched over you, my child, as I have done for all
mortalkind across the planes. You have grown much, and achieved even
more. And yet... your time is only just beginning."

Rangor's heart raced as he swelled with tremendous power, and his mind
expanded, a burgeoning source of willpower and endurance welling up deep
inside him.

Again came the whisper of the Great Mother: "Long have I enjoyed
immortality, but the time draws near for me to seek a mortal end. With
my final blessings I grant unto you a portion of my own godhood."

Divine fire flared about Rangor, and he was overcome with wonder as he
felt the capacity to tap into the Weave itself, bringing forth a torrent
of power so vast it could instantly vaporise any mortal being.

Maya's whisper continued: "Take this gift and fulfil your destiny. The
streams of time must once again flow freely. But be warned that this
newfound immortality will not last forever."

An enormous fount of power surged within Rangor, and he felt as if all
possibilities had opened to him. The whole of time and space and the
planes spread out before his eyes, and he know that with only a thought
he could be anywhere he wished.

The final words of the Great Mother echoed to him once more. "Your
transformation is complete. Go, Rangor, and do what must be done."

Drifting among the eddies and whirls of spectral clouds, Rangor's eyes
closed. Seeking out the plane of Nishnatoba in his mind's eye, he willed
himself to be there, and as reality conformed to his purpose, he found
himself standing upon the barren soil of that forsaken plane.

Rangor was not alone for long. His courageous first step had inspired
others to follow closely behind. One after another the newborn demigods
began to appear, their eyes shining brightly with the spark of divinity:
an army of immortals raised to defend the existence of all.

Penned by My hand on the 19th of Glacian, in the year 613 AF.