Was the Stalker angry? Was he upset? Had he been driven mad with rage? Certainly. During his time within the third circle of Hell, the Herald had been battered by Gluttony’s pelting rain and hail in a relentless assault. Each chunk of ice that smashed against his face chipped away at his soul. Each revolting wail emitted from the mouth of a tormented slob, slothing around, crawling around, and rolling around in a sea of putrefaction disgusted him to his core. A simple [i]touch[/i] from those freaks bothered him in a way that was beyond his ability to handle, not because they did something fiendish to him, but because of the simple absence of [i]warmth[/i]. 

Above all things, what Thane - not the Stalker - craved most was family, communion, and loyalty. Narcissus defecated on his feelings through the crimes he committed against family. Idea’s death… though Thane knew it came from an act of self-sacrifice for the sake of His children, He had ultimately shattered the communion by inadvertently destroying the very foundation of Unity: Himself. Isaak, Caitlyn, Hellion, Carnus, the Chrysaor, and their leader - Azaroth trampled upon the face of Colossus, and severed their last bonds of loyalty by dividing the Cataclysm.

Still, the Stalker was not without his fair share of blame. Somehow, Singar had provided him with a way out of Hell, an escape from the harshness of Gluttony, and a chance to aid his family. Instead of controlling himself, instead of formulating a plan through which to punish those treacherous bastards, who dared to desecrate the last surviving home of the Val’gara... instead of owning up to his title as the ultimate [i][b]predator[/b][/i], he allowed fear to flood his perception. The fear led to the resurrection of those things - which for the longest time - remained dormant within his bloodstream, beyond the reach of the vesuvian virus... the nanomachines awakened and the ley-lines were brought back [b]on[/b]line…

For the second time, he had used them to aid himself, and for the first time he had done so subconsciously. Perhaps that lack of conscious utilization was what led to the opening of that portal, to the traversal of that tunnel, the cosmic sewer where other worlds, other times, other places that he and the Val’gara had yet to see overlapped. Or was it the ley-lines forcing them to overlap? The Stalker did not know which, but what he did know was that the experience had been chaotic, that it had been confusing, that it had been jarring and perplexing, that the Shadow he encountered, the Dragon who had spoken its words of grating motivation. 

He remembered it referring to him as a Predator of The Night.

He recalled it questioning his will to fight.

He felt the uneasy ebb of death fading away into obscurity, the blight-stained soul screaming of how it was going to enter a realm of perfect security, and then he took the message without scrutiny, and slammed that fucking worldship right down ontop of Colossus’ head with a rage that had been with naught but impunity.

The Stalker [i]had[/i] to make things right.

The self-proclaimed Will of Idea berated the Stalker for its "failure" to apprehend Hellion, a mission he hadn't even begun to contemplate, let alone start to plan out. In the Herald’s mind, capturing a wayward soldier paled in the face of a more demanding mission. Thane’s [b]immediate[/b] agenda was the replenishment of Val'gara numbers, the restoration of the Cataclysm, and reclamation of their title as the dominant species of the universe. Already, he had established dominion over a substantial portion of Liaita; in his fight with Ceasar Kong, the Stalker took that which festered within the mountain range and expanded it via a network of flesh-made rivers, all of which flowed out from the Lake of Flesh itself. Those who stood in the way, but were deemed worthy of assimilation became infected with the vesuvian virus, and those who weren’t got smothered and absorbed into the growth, their bodies providing nourishment for the next generation. The rivers branched eastward, through soil, rock and root, uplifting the very terrain with their tumorous growth before finally bursting out of the oceanside bluffs. 

No apology, no explanation, no pleas for mercy would be given out to this impostor, to this fake authority. The Stalker was bent - [i]hell[/i]bent on rectifying his mistake, and this was but the first of many steps on his path to redemption, and no authority, fake or not could deter him from seeing the task through to the end. 

And so it was that not the Stalker, not Thane, not even the HERALD, but the LAKE OF FLESH and all who had been born from it growled, snarled, seethed, and bled with hunger that could not be abated. All of the fibrous strands of flesh composing the lakes, rivers, and flesh-falls pouring into the ocean flexed with tension, slowly undulated, and violently spasmed, releasing a pulsating wave which traveled underground, back toward the rock in the center. Gradually, the remonstrations escalated in loudness and pitch, rose in tempo, and commenced a cacophonous assault of psychic fury that was not muffled due to the psionic waves traveling beneath the Midnight Fog, and whose physical counter-part ravaged Liaita’s face if such a thing was even possible at this point given the ruthless beating she endured, courtesy of her own child.

“Truly a lamb of Idea… Letting you be consumed by that Dreadnaught was certainly worth my while, Thane…” The words came out of the Corruptor’s mouth in a rather matter-of-fact tone, making no reservations to who or what heard them across the aether. 

Then, he turned his attention to the Will of Idea, who he had most certainly heard, for no one screams that loud at such close proximity to a being who had been designed - not assimilated, not retrofitted with Vesuvian might, and not blindly bamboozled by self-delusions of grandeur - but created from scratch to live and breathe as a being meant to guide and influence others. Staring at the hand of his Father sinking into the Lake of Flesh, he wondered just how true his design function was, but quickly cast the thought out of his mind in favor of a much grander thought, and with that casting, he cast his own psychic line out, though this time he made sure to erect a barrier of crimson text through which his voice navigated out through. He had felt something try to shove against his mental faculties, apparently its will was strong enough to resist the Midnight Fog, and one could never be too careful around those sorts of things. The barrier he had erected was visible on both the physical and psychic planes, broadcasting a clear warning to any who would seek to dominate or otherwise try to assault him.

“A child is ill-suited to scolding other children, and is nothing more than a childish attempt at puffing out one’s chest, in a poor attempt to don the disguise of the superior adult.”

Blood is thicker than water, flesh composes blood, and so it can be assumed through simple observation that flesh is thicker than both. Still, flesh felt water’s icy touch, and flesh shivered at the unpleasant sensation, its thickness not sufficient enough to prevent its cold touch from reaching through, instilling a futile attempt at maintaining stillness so as to retain heat. Blood pumped faster through a vast network of hearts, but flesh bled profusely due to wounds sustained on the jags and crags of rocks hidden underwater, attracting the ocean’s countless predators who sought to feed on flesh after smelling blood.

Creatures fed, blood bled, a virus was passed through the blood, and into new flesh, flesh that stopped feeding on flesh, and whose collective conscious began to collectively coalesce around a corpse of flesh recently flung into the flesh-infested waters. Like the others who came before it, this creature whose face resembled that of a seahorse, whose shoulders resembled those of a cephalopod beak, and whose tentacles lined with bristles resembling that of a squid pierced and synchronized with the Cataclysm once more as it had done before. 

Its authority, his authority, the Colossal authority, the OFFICIAL authority who had been chosen not by vote, or by declaration, but by virtue of BIRTH, a birth preordained by the Husband of Colossus, by the [i]Will[/i] of Idea.

“The Voice of Colossus, of Mother, of Wife to Idea, of Love of the Father whose will was not written, and whose disappointing son has forged words in his name, but not of his will, making the will a lie, committer of a crime, and a fool meant to die…

[i]RISE, DISCIPLE![/i]”

And it was so, that Disciple rose out of the ocean, not as a puny, squirming microphone that had been tossed, flipped, kicked, and bitchslapped around, but as something that fed on flesh, on Thane’s flesh, on the flesh of an angry, upset, pissed off predator. Roughly the size of the boulder Singar stood on, which was easily the size of a small mountain given that it was a literal cave system carved out of Hell and plopped down atop the Lake of Flesh, Disciple hovered across the rising and falling waves, traversing over the cliffs, through the forest where his tentacles dragged through soil, hooked on bark, and uprooted yet more trees as he approached the epicenter of the unfolding chaos.

Finally, it neared the boulder, and began to speak, looking Singar directly in the eye, its bugle expanding and contracting though projecting no actual sound, but rather served as a visual indicator of psychic speech.

“Stalker.” Came its first word, calm, controlled, and quite peaceful. “Given your state of… temporary insanity, and subsequent attempt at atoning for your sins by creating a new army, and using your very own flesh as a medium to revive me, I offer you heartfelt forgiveness.”

The growling, snarling, seething, and bleeding flesh slowly ceased its movements, at last reaching a state of ease. 

“Know, however, that while forgiveness is earned, it can just as easily be blundered, so hold your mind close to your heart, and do not allow yourself to fall from grace again.”

A brief pulse resonated throughout the Lake of Flesh, and it once again ceased movement.

Disciple then turned its attention to Megalodon and Amphriprioninae, its tentacles straightening out into a shape resembling sharply angled wings. “You came following the orders of Coarthannach. Her authority is false, her wisdom is misguided, and if she is allowed further sanction to operate her devices, she will bring even greater ruin to the Val’gara.

"No matter how angry you are with me, you know for a fact, that I was not the one who crashed that ship into Colossus. It was the Stalker who did that, and I will make absolutely sure that he is not only reprimanded in full for his actions, but works until his very soul can work no more to restore our flock to its former greatness.”

Turning again, its tentacles became rather droopy, demonstrating its clear vexation, though when it looked this…[b]abomination[/b] in the eye, rather than assuming a state of contempt, Disciple instead nodded with a rather unexpected look of approval.

“Congratulations. You snapped the neck of a Herald who had already been fatigued by a mental struggle with the heretic called Coarthannach.” Disciple spread his tentacles wide, “You have so much potential, and you waste it by acting a self-endorser to your own desire for power, and instead seek to demonstrate your might through physical force.

Know that it is my job not to fight, but to convince, to speak to the Herald’s and other Sons of Idea’s senses of reason. A powerful psychic I am, and for a moment I thought I felt Val’garans from other worlds scattered across the cosmos re-awaken, reforge their bonds, and preach the great mantra that is convert, consume, control…

Yet, standing before you now, all of those voices, all of those thoughts, all those desires, have once again fizzled out, for while you possess great power, it is as I said to the Collective back on Colossus.

“You tried to convert your lowly position as an unknown Herald into that of the voice of [i]IDEA![/i]

“From the moment of your birth, you have been consumed in your lust for power, and seek to command the same military respect as [i]BROBDINGNAG![/i]

“Lastly, the only person you can control is [u][i]yourself[/i][/u], and know that I cannot control anyone, merely convince, guide, and offer heartfelt aid to our beloved brothers and sisters.”

Nearly finished, he turned his attention down to the true perpetrator of all this chaos, the one who had consumed the hand of a god, and with but a single word of pure, utter disappointment, summed up the entirety of his emotions.

“...Narcissus…”

At long last, he brought his attention back to Singar, and without saying a word, made his message crystal clear.

Corruptor smiled a genuine, graceful, amicable smile as if he were looking upon the face of an old friend, and for a moment the Runic Strings composing his barrier loosened, then quickly resealed.

“The being who dwells inside this rock is Satan, Chief Sinner of Treachery, Brother to myself, and Brother to Magnus, who is the Val’gara’s creator. I am here to offer you an alliance. This universe is full of fools, idiots, races who do not deserve to live. The Val’gara claim to maintain cosmic consonance by pruning the tree of life in the form of harvesting mother nature’s most delectable crops. Your race has clearly seen better days, and it is my desire that those days be seen again.

I offer you Satan, who is arguably far stronger, and far greater than myself and Magnus combined, as he would make not only a valuable power-asset to the Val’gara but a rare and valuable strategic commodity. As a show of good faith, I have taken the liberty of safeguarding the soul of Colossus inside a duplicate sword and scabbard of mine and stored her someplace safe. 

“That [i]safe[/i] place” Singar restated for reassurance, “is located on a planet called Itan, and once the Sword of Colossus is found, it will be used to convert the world. I would have given you the Sword myself, but while it is my goal to aid the Val’gara it is not my goal to become one. Cosmic consonance will be maintained, but I cannot do so as a full-fledged Herald, given that the Vesuvian Virus has a habit of...ridding oneself of their independence, to which had I not possessed, I would surely have never made it this far in the first place.”

“[i]A strange offer, indeed,[/i]” Disciple thought, “no one has ever wished to help the Val’gara and not become one at the same time…”

Unfortunately for Disciple, he wasn’t the only one thinking, nor was he the only thing listening. The nanomachines had been listening too, through the ley-lines that had been spreading down to the core of Soran to meet the thing which threatened to convert, consume, and control the planet until there was nothing left but an empty husk. Metal Mayhem heard the threat, Metal Mayhem had been delivered to the beast through the nanoscopic metal warriors that couldn’t be seen, even as a plume, for their color was crimson, just like flesh, just like blood, just like that which tore through the mud, spilled into the ocean, and provided fresh nutrients for all of its inhabitants.

Metal Mayhem didn’t like this, and so it would inflict Metal Mayhem upon the beings who threatened its world, just as Agron and Sarach had not yet given up on fighting. Agron’s blue aura waned, dissipated, and sank back into its own body, where it was then replaced by a different aura which rapidly surged throughout the soil, smashing directly against the Stalker’s conscience in a direct spiritual assault. Like flesh, Agron bled a red aura, and this aura existed on a half-physical half-ethereal plane, meaning it could touch objects, be they corporeal or incorporeal, and was precisely what Sarach had launched at Megalodon and his partner Amphriprioninae at the start of their fight, thus they would not simply be able to swim through and escape as easily as they had just done not a few minutes ago. 

Presently, Agron was busy spreading the aura as far and as wide as possible, melting the terrain into a sea of molten rock that was lifted, heaved, and hurled forward as a literal seismic toss, resulting in a massive tidal wave of red-aura empowered lava that would wreak not only physical devastation but mental trauma on any living beings it impacted. This was not the only threat, for in ripping apart its adversary Sarach, it had activated one of its natural processes as a living organism, and would soon be reaping rewards for its violent tendencies. 

Similar to its cousin Agron who reproduced by shattering its own conscience into multiple shards, that would - in time accumulate their own sentience, sapience, and independence, thus - allowing them to spread those shards across the multiverse and continue to propagate its existence. Sarach was a different matter however, for where Agron could break its body apart, and fight through lesser, weaker proxy versions of itself that could eventually recombine - hence why it was able to surround the serpent as a form of dust particulates not needing a single, solid body to maintain its existence and attack Megalodon, the Rock Serpent of Soran could not perform such a feat. To break apart Sarach's body was to trigger its reproductive process, to divide itself into lesser, weaker, newborn Sarachi. 

In other words, Agron reproduced by fracturing its spirit and regenerating those fragments over time like an amobea, allowing them to grow, and Sarach took it a step further by fracturing its physical body and allowing that to grow into a stronger, mightier beast. Ripping apart their bodies was not enough, to kill something like Agron or Sarach, one had to annihilate the spirits, for the bodies were just that: bodies, vessels, shells used to interact with the physical plane.

It was as such that within that molten wave, fresh offspring of Sarach had been born, ripped apart by the Sharkborg itself, and now writhed violently within the molten wave. Though smaller than their predecessor, these Sarachi were by no means slouches, though due to their lack of capacity toward independent thought, they instead relied on their older, more experienced cousin Agron to direct their attacks. Like massive slug rounds, their rocky exterior compacted upon itself, condensed, and spawned serrated edges along their sides, each charged with the Red Aura, compressing it into a blade that would allow it to slice and peel away at Amph and Megalodon's spirit, should they meet the charge head-on, proving that it could do more than simply slam, smash, and pummel.

It was a dual-edged attack on the part of both cousins who were determined to see this battle through to the end. 

The tidal wave was fast approaching, and yet there was something even faster moving, ripping its way through the rivers of flesh, the saw which lined its thirty-eight foot tail buzzing loudly, angrily, as it coursed with lightning which pulsed throughout the flesh, delivering one jolting shock after the next, eliciting an enraged roar of fury from the Stalker. Currently, only the horns of the monster could be seen protruding out through the fleshy rivers as it sped toward its destination, a constant stream of red particulates coming out of its horns.

[b]Acquiring Targets:

4 Val’gara Heralds Present.
1 hypothesized to be of Soranian, and specifically Niraan descent. 
1 of Terran descent, though lacks typical signs of Val’gara brainwave functions.
1 Full fledged Val’gara emanating considerable psychoelectric frequency.
1 Full fledged Val’gara emitting brain-wave patterns associated with schizophrenia.

2 Divine beings, 1 currently in a state of dormant slumber.

2 Creatures Indigenous to Soran, not baring Val’garan psychic signature, though emitting strong spiritual energy in line with those emitted by combatants of a similar ethereal nature.

Suggested Action: Activate Protomagenetic Cannon...
[/b]