It took only seconds.
It began as a small ripple flowing out across the spacetime continuum, cleaving and doubling itself for every quantum mass it came upon, forking out for every bit of matter. In an instant, there were hundreds; in a few seconds, trillions. They were not so much ripples, by then, as they were a conglomerate wave of the myriad edges of Reality As It Was Known.
It reared about and towered over Aluonra, spreading into the sky like an invisible cancer. On the other side, things that resembled faces were taking shape: Hundreds strong, the parts of many beasts set in chimeric arrangement, howling madly beneath their astral veil. A plume of gray fire spat forth, and rising out of the ground where it struck came a titanic pillar of complete and utter blackness that blotted the sun from the sky. Its passing drew the earth beneath into the vacuum left behind.
It is said that approximately 1/100th of the multiverse's population is comprised of beings with the ken of magic. This includes wizards, warlocks, witches, sorcerers, psions, priests, gods, faeries, the enlightened, and the insane. They all looked into their respective skies, and in a rare moment of cross-dimensional unity, they each gasped as one.
It took only seconds. The wave crashed.
Across the infinite times, massive tracts of land were ripped out of their planets and inverted, the soil tilling itself with geometric precision. Buildings were reduced to rubble. People of any age or race were thrown out into space as gravity worked out which way it should push.
In a forest at the edges of Graspedseduce, a dwarf clad only in deerskin and leather was tossed in the air to land in the lower branches of a tree. He yelled out a profanity as a current of wind whipped up from beneath and uprooted many of the smaller trees around. They circled around for a few moments before coming to rolling stop on the ground.
The devastation ran deep, though some places were spared the onslaught. Failcannon was once such place. Something about dwarves and their particular single-mindedness maintained a coherent sphere of existence around them. Their knowledge of the outside would come from those who dared to make the journey and tell them.
Lur blinked, trying to get the dust out of his watering eye. He clambered down the tree that somehow still stood, snagging the thong of his sandal on a jagged twig during descent. He fell with a start and hit the ground hard. Gritting his teeth as he stood, the dwarf picked up a pointed stick and used it to fish down his footwear.
"Marvelous," Lur muttered through dirt-speckled lips as he slipped the rogue sandal back on his foot. The cosmos were still ticking, but they were starting to shiver with fever. "Rotten bastards!" He yelled at the sky, fuming. The entire situation was entirely unfair. Existence was having a fatal case of the hiccups while he was stuck here in this meat body. It sickened him.
Yet he had the knowledge, a timeless trove, trapped in the recesses of his primate brain. It told him there was only one person who could help, who was within traveling distance and would actually believe he was who he was.
Lur sighed, took a long look at the upturned land all around him, and set out to the west, to Failcannon.
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Topic: FailCannon: No Rest for the Wicked (or anyone else) (Succession: Battlefailed 2) (Read 897160 times)