[i]"Must even this be sharp?"[/i]

The Goddess of Death turns on her heel and sucks the slender line of blood from her cut thumb. Down below, on the warped continent of Australia, clear spaces are visibly forming; cities and communities defended by the sublime work of blades, holding back crashing tides. 
[i]
"When I reach for this world it throws such thorns at me,"[/i] something was different about the way she spoke now. It wasn't any more suited for your ears than the earlier hypno-pulse of the crabform, but something about the growing Fox Wish put you on the same level as it. [i]"I seek to give it gifts. I seek to give you gifts. But everything here is sharp. Your hearts are sharp. Your mathematics are sharp. Even your softness is sharp. You find weapons everywhere and you use them against each other without hesitation. The machine was wrong when it said this world lacked for growth; this is the most militarized society imaginable."[/i]

She turns her head and coughs. A single elegant, demur cough that somehow spits out an entire saliva-covered steel hammer into her gloved hand. A craftsman's tool, heavy and weighted, designed for when a design does not fit neatly in the garbage disposal.

[i]"It is to be dismantled."[/i]

Not a negotiation, barely even a conversation. Just the shape of thoughts, a decision made in the clear knowledge that nobody and nothing can question it. One strike to break the world.