It had been weeks, or maybe even months, since Vatarr retreated behind his recently erected walls and trenches. Griffith had screened the border with “men” and deliberated an assault. Reports had come in about the emergence of new fauna that seemed suspiciously effective against the offspring in a manner he’d not encountered in any other realm — surely Vatarr’s doing. Talia and her group gathered a variety of these plants and herbs for the magi to study. Nea was still tied up in stabilizing the leaderless 22nd realm, Dorian and Duncan hadn’t been heard from since they left, and now Grym had a [i]real[/i] army knocking on their door. 

Gryf couldn’t afford a drawn out engagement, even one where he’d win, so he hatched a plan. He staged a retreat during the night with his entire force, an act so obvious that it couldn’t be missed or ignored, all the while Talia’s numbers would disperse throughout the 26th realm starting a number of fires throughout the realm to create chaos. Gryf pushed up to the 27th realm’s Northwestern border and feigned an assault, hopefully prompting Vatarr to act as rashly as he’d done when he invaded the 23rd realm and draw him out. And there amid the northern foothills of the 27th realm, Gryf got his answer. 

The wind was particularly ragged that morning, with a freezing chill coming in from the East, a chill that brought a smile to Garravar’s face as he walked alongside Gryf, a smile that set everyone on edge. 

“The winds of change are upon us,” was all Garravar said when prompted about his mood, settling the matter as quickly as it came up. The pair of gods turned from one another and looked back over the hills, where smoke was rising here and there from their screening forces and in areas the atmosphere cleared, a sickly yellow haze of spores hung. For a fake assault, it was quite convincing. 

“And it’s about dam time. I’ve been idling on Vatarr’s border for weeks.” Gryf scoffed. “Once we kill Vatarr, we should speak — the north has begun to move.”

All at once the air behind Garravar shimmered and a resounding bang exploded. The heavy ball of Vatarr’s weapon, Death, slammed against the winter god’s head, shattering it into a cloud of crystal flakes. The antlered god smiled, his face visible for just a moment. “Kill who?”

With a flush, Garravar’s body shattered and drifted into the wind only to reform next to Gryf, an unamused glare stuck on his face. “Some things are just beyond coincidence.” But as Garravar’s quip left his mouth, Vatarr was already invisible again.

Gryf's vision shifted from side to side looking for any sign of movement, one hand firmly clenched around the grip of his blade. As he drew the hefty blade from its sheathed, he turned directly toward Vatarr's current position with a boisterous smirk. 

"Vatarr." The name slipped out just above a whisper. A faint vermillion glow appeared around the blade, one that also outlined and revealed Vatarr to him as well. The name became etched into the base of the blade itself and Gryf charged a bewildered Vatarr, swiping at him through the chaotic mist with reckless abandon. Perhaps he'd be fast enough to enter and leave before its effects took their toll, but Gryf was fully prepared to lose an arm if it meant cutting off that smug bastard's head.

The blade tugged on rotting flesh and just as Gryf’s right hand began to melt, he passed through the cloud. Turning back he could see the magical outline of Vatarr stumble for a moment. A surprised “...How?” fell from the deer god’s mouth — the arm that held healing had been severed, his weapon on the ground. He reached for it, but a frosty hand —simmering endlessly in the chaotic cloud— picked it up first.

An evil smile stretched across Garavar’s face as he backed away from the fight. “This will be interesting.”

Not giving Garravar more than a growl, Vatarr spun around, Death swinging wide at Gryf. 

“Ow ow ow, fuckin’ son of a- nnnngh!” Gryf whined. Unlike his predecessor, Gryf’s body had warm flesh and live nerve endings with which to feel the excruciating pain of his arm nearly being dismantled. It remained mostly in tact, though somewhat deformed from the chaotic decomposition and fungal spores sprouted in various spots. Not much time was left for him to whine however, as Vatarr reacted. Afraid of being caught in the cloud again, Gryf threw himself horizontally away from Death’s aura. This hasty reaction put him in a rough tumble through dust and rubble, allowing him to avoid the worst of Death’s effects, but further inhibiting his misshapen appendage. Gryf’s silhouette slowly appeared to stand in the billow of dust that had kicked up, only now the blade was in his left hand as his right was clearly of no use now.

“At least when you die, it won’t be nearly this painful. Maybe that’s what I’ll put on your headstone, “Vatarr died painlessly; a courtesy he never bestowed on others.” Gryf slurred through his partially melted face, wincing toward the end of his quip.

“You’re right, you won’t find that courtesy from me!” Vatarr hissed before swinging again, goopy gore spilling from his open wound from the movement. Garravar’s voice called from behind Vatarr.

“Finish this.”

Gryf charged directly toward Vatarr once more. It looked, at first, as if he were going to repeat the traded blow to rend Vatarr’s remaining arm but his eyes were fixed on Death. He purposely plunged into Vatarr’s range and waited for him to lunge forward to counter before reversing his grip on the hilt of his blade and propelling himself off the ground into a high arcing leap over the dangerous mist. No sooner did Gryf’s feet touch the ground behind Vatarr did he pivot and drive the claymore like a javelin toward Vatarr’s skull. Vatarr had reacted quickly, whipping around with Death in hand, but did not expect to see the pointy end of a claymore mere inches from his face. There was the beginnings of a visceral shriek that abruptly ended once the weapon perforated a gorish hole all the way through Vatarr’s head. An expression of disbelief remained memorialized on his now lifeless face. 

The mists of Death slowly began to dissipate as a cold breeze came wafting in. A red pulse formed in the sky, but something was different.

“Strange,” Garravar announced as the reddened sky stayed red. “Another dead north of us, what coincidental timing…” Before Garravar could finish the thought, a shattering sound rocked the battlefield and a blackened crack wedged itself in the sky, splitting the bloody atmosphere in half.

“We have to move quicker than we have been.” Garravar was staring upwards at the sky, no sign of fading from either the black or red.

“We’re in the end game then, eh? Where are you headed off to then, G-money?” Gryf rends the blade from Vatarr’s skull, its aura fading and the engraved lettering gone. He took Death for himself while motioning for the Offspring to ‘re-enlist’ Vatarr. In doing so the revivified Vatarr grew a new arm from the spores, several root-like features emerging and intertwining from the gash to resemble a limb. The rupture as well as his frozen expression remained, presenting a creature that can only be described as blasphemous. 

“The same place as you,” Garravar answered. “We have to head north, there is one final battle to be had before the crucible can be decided. You control the 18th node, yes? Change the climate to one of winter, we will make our stand there.”

"Yes, I'm aware. Those northerners have been very rude guests for some time. No time left for pretense then." Gryf ordered most of the offspring under his command to begin indiscriminately infect the mortals of Vatarr's realms now that chaos from the wildfires had thrown them into disarray. He would return north with just the mages, while the offspring here would multiply and form an auxiliary hive as a backup plan. Gryf did not need to win the northern war if he made it impossible for the North to conquer the South in their weakened state, though he was trying to win the war all the same. This was more of a backup plan, anything to prevent the ascension of a singular God.

[hider=Summary]
Gryf got bored of watching Vatarr play Civ IV in his little cities and making plants that harmed the flood, blablabla. He retreated to draw Vatarr out and had his warriors set various fires in the realm to destroy the corrosive fauna and inflict general chaos. Vatarr took the bait, fought with Gryf and Garravar, and Vatarr died. Garravar has Life, Gryf has Death, Vatarr is flood Vatarr now and the party’s headed north after a long rest/level uuuuuuup.
[/hider]

[hider=Might] -4 Might
Nameless Blade: When drawn, the wielder of this claymore gives it a name. The name given to the sword is who it’s bound to kill. The one named is unable to hide or conceal themselves from the wielder (i.e. invisibility or other methods of hiding ones presence/disguising appearance are null). The blade can pierce any armor or barrier created by its namesake and can inflict damage/kill its namesake in whatever form they take. The blade is not guaranteed to kill in a single blow and its injuries can be healed normally, however, barring a fatal blow of course. While the blades namesake cannot hide from the wielder, this effect only extends up to about 100ft. so it isn't as if they can be tracked at all times. The blade emits a faint aura within this radius of its namesake and the same aura can be seen emanating from the named individual, revealing them. This aura is only visible to the blade's wielder. Anyone can wield or name the blade. The blade can only have a single name at a time and that name cannot be changed until the blade has killed its namesake. It is also incapable of harming any individual aside from its namesake. If its namesake dies by means other than the blade then its power is lost. A divine may empower the blade again should this happen, using a measure of divine might equal to what was needed to create it in the first place. Once its namesake is killed by the blade it becomes Nameless once again. [/hider]