[hr] Battle Brother Yiftakh stood on a low hill with the goats, watching the thing that had found its way into the sacred meadows of Chronos. A shadowless glow illuminated the scene, though it was night; For since the thievery of the Jvanic Entity, Chronos had no moon, nor any sun, and it was the many-folded walls of that world that brightened and dimmed according to the passage of Time, as the Timeless One had ordained. Yiftakh sat down on a rock. He reached under a nanny-goat's chin and ran a finger through her beard. The thing before him, which he supposed was some kind of animal, was most plainly a work of that same Jvanic Entity. Yet though his sword shone brilliant at his side, the Victor was patient and by no means keen to fall into the Pride of his fallen brothers and sisters. If it was Fated, then so it should be. Let the creature live until its Time. And so the Scribe struggled on its way over the earth, as no humble goat had ever done. For Chronos has its own means of testing the worth of an interloper, and each step the skeletal quadruped took was a pitfall, each stone a spike, and the air chill and harsh. But Chronos is not cruel and an animal mustn't be punished for the sins of its owner. In time the Scribe found its way, and the faint blue light of its framework body came closer and closer to Yiftakh. He raised his hand to the animal. It bolted. Sleek as a greyhound and light as a dove it fled back over the stones, and keeping a gentle pace, Yiftakh followed. And followed. And followed. For he was patient. In time it grew comfortable with his presence, and the faint rents that trailed after the Scribe's pointed snout and from mantid-like arms upon its chest were put into use. He watched as, little by little, those rents were stretched, bent and woven into a familiar shape upon the ground. And when the Scribe departed, that shape stood. Yiftakh gazed upon his own face. [center][hider=And he gazed back.] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/b9/3e/fe/b93efe13174c6721e4e94a044adf0a72.jpg[/img] [/hider][/center] Yiftakh slid his sword from his scabbard. His Invert gazed into its own twisted hands and inclined its head, feet still yet knees shaking. "That's enough," said Yiftakh, and cut himself in two.