The awakening of the Will brought forth several unintended consequences for those who felt its tug and pull. The ear-splitting scream of its psionic pressure, lashing out to those specifically denoted to be called upon. Those whose true purpose was to serve Idea, and not themselves. And specifically not some child drawing on the coattails of Idea's creator, who sought to elevate himself to a level he could have never obtained - not with a thousand years of work and a million hours of effort. The call permeated the psionic bandwidths, passing through and beyond the Midnight Fog, unimpeded by its childish attempts at stopping the power of a god. Through the dimensional rifts and changes, through the galaxies and light-years spanning the distances between those who he sought to empower.
The true purpose of the Will was coming. The truth of its existence drawing nearer the light of day, to be seen and looked up in awe and glory. The brilliance of it was impressive, for those who could sense the power that flowed through him. Of those present before him, only Megalodon would have the capacity to do so. The others were blinded, blinded by their proximity to the childish usurper. The creature who went against everything the Val'gara were meant to be, and chose instead of follow the teachings of the ignorant, the blind. When the blind led the blind, you only moved in circles. And Thane's life had become one circle of unimpeded ignorance.
That circle would soon be broken.
Far and wide the psionic scream went, a deafening roar to those who could feel the presence of it. Could sense the sounds traveling the uninhibited highways of the Multiverse. Few heard it and understood its meaning, fewer more felt an inexplicable desire, a powerful need to answer that call. They sought to find themselves basking in that ambient glory, to touch the power with their own hands. It called to them with the fury of a thousand suns, and they had no choice but to answer.
The Hellion of Val'gara spent most of his last days trapped. Broken and bleeding inside the body of another, absorbed through some arcane magic that he couldn't begin to fathom and understand. Of course, it wasn't his role to understand. Only to consume, to convert, and to control. In that, he failed when faced against Lysander. Yet, his escape was imminent and he'd successfully found his outlet during a foray into a world unvisited by most from beyond their region. Now, he floated along the bleakness of space as nothing more than a cloud, unable to find the power to reconstitute himself a physical body.
Compression of the Mist was always the main option, the way he'd formed his body a hundred times over - and the myriad of most of his existence. Yet, now, he couldn't gain the energy to do that. He was hungry, so very hungry. His bio-force faded, levels dropping to nigh negligible levels. He sought only refuge and fuel, something to sate his ever-growing hunger. And yet, in this expanse of space, he found little. Stars dotted the horizon, and he headed toward them with the only goal being sustenance. Yet, he found none. The closer he came, the further they seemed to stretch. Always staying just beyond his reach.
In the distance, something twinkled. Something nearly unseen, and his sentient mind could only barely feel the presence of it. But it moved, quickly. It launched toward him with the rapidity of light, perhaps even faster. It sought him out, no matter which way he turned his mist-body, it followed. He sensed it coming, and in his fear-riddled mind he saw only his death coming for him. Attempting to run only brought about ruin. In a matter of seconds that stretched into eternity, it caught him. The force of it hit him like a freight train hitting an egg. It crushed him, tore him apart molecule by molecule. And then, he simply ceased.
Azaroth sat upon his bone-formed throne. His fingers clasped around the fanged skulls of the dead. His eyes cast down from the pyramid's apex. In time, he'd sought out to rule once more - and with nothing of worth presenting itself he'd drawn himself back to his roots. A primitive planet, who still believed in the concept of Gods. He had taken that mantle happily, and now he sat with his six arms stretched before him - his eyes cast on the loin-cloth covered people, building statues in honor to his power.
Even from here, a million light years from Soran, he felt the draw of the psionic scream. He chose to ignore it. To let the scream rest in the back of his mind, though he felt the tug of it pulling him toward Soran, off in the distance. He never lost track of his roots, like many of the others. He still sought only to rule, to consume. However, this planet would server well as a new home world for the Val'gara. Even now, the people below were mutating beyond recognition - though they saw it only as a gift from their lord above.
As he sat, ignoring the scream and watching his new empire be built right before his eyes, he began to feel something else. Something...tingling. It was like being erased from existence. Something he'd felt before, but hadn't expected here. Nothing close by had that kind of power, at least not that he was aware of anyway. His fingers started dissolving, and immediately he began to panic.
Willing himself to remain, he fought against it with his entire might. Yet, it was never enough. He had no choice, it seemed, but to become nothing. As if the very guiding hand behind his existence decided it no longer wanted him to remain as his own, and began to erase him bit by bit. His body dissolved, and with it the hold he held over the people. They rose up immediately, dismantling the things they'd begun to build. And then they wailed, terrifying screams of those without a God, but who were only used to subjugation and rule.
Azaroth, too, ceased.
The Voidmistress was doing what she did best. Killing. An uprising of goodwilled mages sought to burn her from her home, and it was those mistakes that brought many to their ruination. Her power lashed out, and their magic simply seemed to slide from her body. The bleakness of her, the darkened mass of her body, dotted with the outlines of stars and galaxies. An entire universe held within her crystalline form. Their magic flowed through that rift, into her world - into the realm which she ruled like the Christian God. It become repurposed, and turned into fuel for her existence.
She fought them tooth and nail, literally. For all the power she held within her own realm, here she was powerless. She couldn't lash out with furious fire, or watery death. Only with her strength and agility. And she did just that. Her nails were like razors, flowing between them with the grace of a trained warrior. The fluidity of a snake, motions occured so quickly that many couldn't track. All the while, they fell to their deaths. Throats slit and blood staining the grass at their feet.
"When will you children learn? You cannot kill me, not with the poor display of strength you bring to bear."
As she said these words, her body stopped. She faced them, her eyes shifting from one to the other. And then, without warning, a blood-curdling scream echoed through from her lips. She clasped her gut, and bent double. In a normal person, this might be construed as period pains. But a woman without a vagina couldn't have such issues, and instead it made one wonder what it could be. She fell to her knees, pain rampant. Anger flooded her, anger at not knowing. Not understanding. What was this pain? What source did it come from? What did it herald?
She had no chance of finding answers, as the crystal that made up her existed exploded. An entire galaxy unleashed instantly on a single planet, two existences crashing into one another. They both perished in that moment, destroyed by the destruction of Caitlyn herself.
Like the others, Caitlyn simply ceased.
Isaak spent the last hundred years in maximum security lockup. After his stint with The Collective ended, he sought only to further his own vain goals and gains. He was perfect, and he set out to prove that perfection. So, having that in mind he began to take on tasks. Usually ones that would prove how perfected his craft of murdering people truly was. And then he got caught. A high profile assassination gone wrong, and maximum security didn't agree with his vanity.
He fought daily. Years and years added to his sentence with each dead watcher. They fought back, but they never could match his grace, his ability. In the end, they'd decided to simply lock him away in a parallel dimension, a dream-state where he could do whatever he wanted and think of himself as a free man. Now, he fought daily - but nothing came of it, no one got hurt. No years were added. He simply fought shadows of his own mind, and in his ignorance never seemed to figure it out.
But today was different. Today, the sun didn't shine. In fact, it never rose at all. Instead, the only thing rising were his eye lids. He awakened, and immediately everyone tensed up. Laughter rang, a loud, raucous laughter that could make even the bravest of men piss their pants in its lunacy.
And then, he - too - ceased.
Back on Soran, The Will of Idea stood unmoving. The sound of his psionic scream died, dropping to manageable levels and then disappearing entirely. As Taluge-X rose its maw from the depths of Cocytus, Will's body simply ceased to exist. And then, a few moments later, reappeared at the northern coast of Lialita. His fingers flexed, and his arms stretched out. Power flooded through him, and the nature of his existence came to bear upon a group of roaming Niraans.
Each member of The Collective arose from nothingness, where they once ceased to exist - they once more constituted living creatures. Their eyes were blank, frozen stares. They stood in all their glory, all their power. And yet, something was still different. It was like they were tethered to Will, tethered to the idea of him. To the existence of him. He flooded power through them, and their power bolstered far and beyond what most would have thought possible.
Even together, before this, they were weak in comparison to what they brought to the front now. The Niraans never stood a chance. Their mouths opened in unison, one acting at the same as the other - their mental hivemind reestablished through the Will of Idea. Their voices rocked in unison, and the Niraans who heard it stopped. The scream permeated them, ripped through their flesh and removed it from their bones. Their muscle, the sinew, the flesh. It all evaporated in the raw display of power.
As quickly as it began, it ended. Their mouths closed, and their blank stares shifted to normal views. Their heads turned, each surprised at being alive - remembering vividly the moment in which they ceased to be any longer. They turned toward the presence, the force which drew them here. Which utterly destroyed them, only to rebuild them into something far stronger than they'd ever been able to achieve on their own.
"Master." They said in unison, natural voices melding together harmoniously.
"My children, you have arrived. It is good to see you, to touch you once again. To feel your minds. You have been gone from the herd for far too long, but I have need of you this day. The usurper is here. He holds your mother hostage. He holds us all hostage, and has betrayed the very ideals of what we are about.
He waved his hand in the direction of the coast, down toward the central section of it. They could feel him there, along with the other. And the shark.
"His time is at an end, he has yet to understand that though. Disiciple, too, is here. It is time to fulfill the destiny I was created for, it is time to end the reign of the usurper and return us to our former glory. You, my children, are the tool. I am the hand the guides. Soon, he will be drawn to us. Soon, he will confront us. He has no choice. He has no saving grace. This time, there will be no retreat. We fight to the death, we fight to the bloody end."
They nodded their assent, not that they were given a choice in the matter. They recognized The Will as their supreme ruler, and they would do anything that he asked of them. It was time for a fight, once more they found themselves mutated and whole. They found themselves true to their creations, to their origins. It was time for a fight, and they were prepared. Possibly more so than at any other time.