Ethereal fog swirled in the rifts to Memory, bequeathing visions of distant worlds perhaps unbeknownst to those under watch.

-

In Miraman 922 AF, Divinity gathered on the precipice of Memory. A strategy was made, one that would guide both means and method in Their war against the Prince of Woe. Yet as They spoke, the Pantheon was clear: Pazuzu was a threat that None could take lightly. Though They had once quelled the Infernal Legions in the days of Ayar, what had gone before was no promise of victory in the Modern Age.

Not only did Pazuzu command his Legions as in times past, all the Inferno rising in Woe's glory, but so too were the Protean relics borne under and upon his horror-wrought wings. Tools, built with purpose and power beyond the knowledge of later, lesser eons. Pazuzu's cult tipped Creation into chaos and havoc, the blood-drenched Vigil striking out after years of lurking like snakes as they humbled empires and shattered armies.

The Gods were sparse of soldier and tool. This time there would be no Proteus to bring Their armies to war. Nothing from Arn, no Qui'anar, and no unicorns. The Genesis and His Tsol'teth inheritors chose to defend only their own realm. And then there was Memory.

In a place where all past, present, and future is shaped by the subjective, the Divine Will rises up like a craftsman's hand. What They think Is, and Memory would assail Them with it.

Though the horizon was bleak, Divinity rallied and marched.

War looms.

-

Cloaked by the fog of anamnesis, the Prince of Woe coalesced upon a throne of his own make beneath a dome of shining gold. His fell wings loomed wide, casting their grim shadow over the soldiers gathered before him: commanders of the Infernal Legions, the Undead, and the Vigil amassed at last as one.

Rising from his dark seat, Black Pazuzu descended into the crowd, whispering honeyed words of comfort and praise in the ears of the Inferno's risen Princes, stirring them to war as he assured them their place in his New Order. The saccharine lilt of his voice soothed hither and yon, save one: the pestilent Prince Eth'liss, and his speaking against Khalas.

Rage had fully subsumed the Elder God before the scathing remark even completed its exodus from the mouth of the rotting Prince. Khalas struck, wielding all the untrammelled might of His Divinity. First ash, then naught, the ancient Demon was annihilated. Only a silent fear lingered in his wake, hanging heavy upon crowd and chamber.

Pazuzu smiled, peeling thin lips wide as he placed a comforting, clawed hand upon the shoulder of the Wanderer. From within his wings he revealed the Protean relic once wielded by Thoth, the Soulfinder, and placed it in Khalas' hands.

The Black Army of Pazuzu rallied with hope and hunger in their eyes.

War looms.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: Through rifts to the depths of Memory, the mortals of Sapience witnessed both the rallying of the Divine and the gathering of Pazuzu's Generals.

Penned by My hand on the 23rd of Scarlatan, in the year 922 AF.