Dawn broke upon the fateful day wherein Haskor, the Self-Made would surpass his Fate. The Hero garbed himself in the regalia provided him by Cyrene and the Great Bard. His Trials behind him, triumph waiting ahead, with the fanfare due him did his glorious chariot become a meteor destined for but one locale: the shrine of Ascension.

Adventurers far and wide flocked to Haskor's side, and it was not long before the assembly was elevated by the Divinities which Haskor knew he would join. From song and splendour came Scarlatti, the Great Bard. There was the Mad God, a knowing smile upon His lips and the Iron Crown upon His brow. The Earthmother cloaked Herself in winter and mantled Herself with spite. His every footfall marked by the crimson fog of His dominion, the Malevolent Lord walked. Then there was the Dark Father, unknowable beneath His robes of ever-shade. The five Divine declared Their Trials complete, Haskor's measure taken for true.

But there were Others who would gainsay Haskor and Their Brethren both. Rallied by the Jade Empress, Lorielan, They voiced Their displeasure. They had not been consulted. They did not approve. Scarlatti, They spoke, should have left the succession to itself. On the argument went, mortals watching entranced until Sartan grew vexed whether by constant observation from the onlookers, a foolish decision of Mhaldor's Champion, or the bickering voices of His Siblings. Declaring the debates of the Pantheon beyond mortal ears, all perception was shuttered, Time ground to a stop, and mortality left without the knowing of the barbs that would flow.

When mortality's senses returned, a consensus was made. Haskor must face one final Trial, the Pantheon decreed. He must cast aside mortal soul to annihilation and rise to the Gods, or be hurled into the abyss with the failed and the failures. Enjoined by Ourania's petition, the Skylord thrust His once-staff of Ayar into the ground, a fraction of unimaginable power calling forth a great pillar: an anchor to bind the would-be God.

From the entire Pantheon came splintered Deus incarnate, the shards warred over by adventurers in battle now called forth for collection within the anchor that Haskor might rise. That column of cosmic energy grew with every fragment of Divine infinity within, until Haskor stood before a bar of liquid fire brighter than the brightest of stars.

Into that radiance he delved.

The world held its breath.

None attuned to death's sight could have failed to sense the passing of the soul known as Haskor Elaand, in youth named the Champion of Ythhag River. Hearts plummeted and admirers lamented at the cold laughter of the Finality, for Haskor hung crucified, the very energy which had burned his soul away to ash far from finished its scouring assault.

And thus did it occur.

Into Haskor poured the essence once wielded by Matsuhama, and a Realm dreamed by Ayar before Creation's first dawn. After only a few short centuries - thanks to the Great Bard's meddling - the mechanisms of Battle encouraged to haste now claimed a new vessel honed to purpose. A successor. As His feet once more touched the earth, it was no longer Haskor, the Self-Made who stood before the assembly. It was Haskor, Eternal Warrior, God of Combat, and Patron of Heroes, who raised His Divine countenance and smiled.

Penned by My hand on the 5th of Daedalan, in the year 972 AF.