[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/mL4rEJm.png[/img]
[sub][@Asuras][@Psyker Landshark][@Rune_Alchemist][/sub][/center]
Where was the blood, to grant her her mind?

Where was the shadow, to grant her her flesh?

Where was the goddess, to grant her her succour?

Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere.

[i]Her[/i] ichor leaked freely from her gargantuan body, a hundred maws heaving with bloody spittle as the air itself was replaced by the searing of her flesh. Whatever sorceries she wove could not compare to the sacrifices of the Silver Saints in invoking the presence of their God, and the purified metal that this mountain had become bore down on her with the weight of a meteor forever in descent. Crushing, pulverizing, offering no respite. Long gone was any thought of escape, any strategy to deliver her from her end, the monster reverting to infantile memories as the demons that sustained her thoughts blinked out one by one, contracts revoked before the brilliance of that mercurial flame.

So she crawled, like a beast. Shadows sloughing off, a snake molting with no hope of renewal. Deeper and deeper, seeking the blood of mortals to stave off agony. Praying, that within dark depths, she could outrace the silver veins. But the hundred maws screamed for a hunger unsated, and the hundred limbs were scorched, reduced to miserable stubs. In caverns, her lament became a newborn’s wail, clawing at its mother’s womb.

But the womb was a prison. And the mother had expired.

…

How long had it been, since shadow was shadow?

Within the embrace of the sarcophagus, Ilena struggled, naught more than a palm-sized bundle of flesh and bone. Memories bloated within her undeveloped brain, and she pulled at thoughts as if they were clouds, pudgy hands opening and closing onto skyborne dew. She remembered her death, and she remembered her life, but most importantly, she remembered her Goddess. Of Vermin and of Blood, the Patron of the Sanguine Cohort. Was this how her prayers had been answered, the last utterances she made before she devolved into a wretched abomination?

What did it matter.

Thoughts became strings, teasing at the material around her, pulling in the darkness that hid her pathetic form. Contracts were re-established, eldritch beings of wit and intellect pulled out from the aether to fill her mind once more. And from a shadow as viscous as mud, she forged her body anew.

And yet, there was resistance there. Limitations unnatural and unbecoming. The [i]child[/i] frowned, feeling the putrid blood of her veins struggle, the might of her spirit wane. It was lacking. Her resurrection, by means unknown, had not restored the entirety of her capability, the arcane might she had forged to make up for the weakness of her natural flesh. To push further than this current state would be to gradually exhaust her vigour. So this undeveloped form then, would be what she would have to settle with.

Disappointing. But the Goddess’s will must be done, no matter the current state of her capabilities. So the remnants of shadow wove itself around her vernal form, devoid yet of the monstrosities that once dwelled within, and Ilena pulled herself out of the sarcophagus slowly, testing still the new range of her body.

The two that awaited her was the Death Knight, Dragan Meszaros, the Deathraising Conqueror and the Stain of the Paladins. His visage was noble despite his barbaric armor, though Ilena herself had no right to judge barbarism, especially when that songstress was there to put both of them to shame. Even freshly resurrected, weakened, perhaps, like the rest of them, the charisma of Luna Emeraltide clung as thickly to her as honey would leak from a smashed hive. And as a being of artifice herself, forged once by the buzzing flesh of craven insectoids, Ilena too could recall a time where she was fascinated by this woman.

The memories of her youth disgusted her now, even if her current form was many ‘years’ more immature than when she had ever truly encountered them.

[b]“It appears the Goddess does provide,”[/b] Ilena remarked, her gaze turning towards the cries of pests and vermin. [b]“And so, it will do well to oblige indeed. But as for our lesser kin on the path to Her cathedral, will you two slake your thirst or await finer meals?”[/b]