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And then it got a bit out of hand...
Winner
herecosyouare
Today was pretty awful.

And now I have a sore throat. 

Have some unintended developments yourselves;

“So,” said the Goddess. When she spoke it was from as though far away, and as though inside their heads; it was like a lullaby and a thunderclap at once. Anyone who was still standing sank to their knees.
 
“So,” she began again, “you have chosen the words that would change the world. Of all the gateways I am surprised it was this one that is open, but then again I am not. Hayamutah, you always were terribly persistent.” She turned her eyes on her youngest daughter, who shuffled her newfound feet and looked about the room.
 
“You left all of me here, mother,” she said, borrowing Warda’s voice, but her own came through as well; cool, unused for centuries.
 
“You wanted to stay. You were brave that way. The others were never that happy here. And you, Samatra Asadina, although that is not your true name, you who could see so far that I could see you. Why am I here?”
 
Sammi gaped but she didn’t look around. “Please, oh Goddess Vistara, by everything that you are called, I wanted to bring Magic back to the world. And you. There seems to be something missing with it just being humans. It’s hard to explain ...”
 
“Not at all,” said Vistara, “anyone who has seen the cruelty of humans as closely as you would long for something better, and to be able to do something about it. It is intriguing to see all the different purposes that have brought us here. We have those who live only to praise me, those who would be better acquainted with one of my sons, and those who live only to praise themselves. Ibakafir Bas’hirra!”
 
Ibakafir resumed his human form, black-shadow wings folded against his back, reflecting the pink lights with a shimmer like oil on water. He moved forward and smiled his most charming smile, although it didn’t go quite to his eyes.
 
“Divine Vistara!” he cried, “how good it is to see you after all these cycles! Still radiant as ever, I see.”
 
Vistara gave a short laugh, then gave a shake of her sistrum, a longer one this time, continuous and thrilling. Then, from behind her walked a woman younger than herself. She too was dressed in old-fashioned robes but hers were red as hibiscus flowers. She wore bracelets of every colour on her arms, chains around her ankles and great strings of beads, pearls and chain around her neck. Some even seemed to be adorned with the delicate skulls of small creatures. The sides of her shining black hair were braided and woven with golden threads which glittered as she turned her head. Her skin was the brown of polished mahogany, her lips were painted deep red and her eyes were decorated with black kohl and gold. Her eyes themselves were molten bronze. She seemed deeply unimpressed with the room, with the exception of possibly Sammi. She eyed the Sayshari with particular contempt.
 
“Mother,” she said, inclining her head. Her voice was warm velvet and sweet iced tea. “Sister,” she said, her lips curling up in a cruel smirk, “still not keen on mirrors, I see.”
 
Then she found her target. She walked up to Ibakafir and ran her fingers down the side of his face, letting them drop onto his chest. “Miss me?” she said.
 
Then, in a flash, which was a flash of deep red, like dying embers, they were gone.
 
Some let out their surprise audibly, most just starred at the lighter space where the two figures had so recently been. Sammi licked her lips and continued to look nervously at Vistara. The Goddess did not seem surprised or offended at this sudden exit. She merely lifted her sistrum and shook it again, this time in a steady, military fashion. From behind her right shoulder this time came the form of a strong young man. He was wearing red-brown leather armour decorated with shining bronze studs. His body was sun-bronzed and densely muscled. A curved sword was in a sheath at his waist and a quiver of arrows on his back. The curved ivory bow in his hand was gorgeous in its impracticality. General Asadina smirked to see it, and then paled at the thought that this man could probably use it. His arms were guarded by leather vambraces, his ears hung with huge gold earrings and his eyes were painted with thick lines of kohl, white and gold, making them appear huge even though he barely opened them. Their centres were a brilliant red. His look was one of utter disdain, but he stretched and cricked his neck with the satisfaction of one who has not been able to stretch their limbs for a long time.
 
Jabanil touched his mother’s shoulder briefly. Vistara touched his hand briefly before he passed on. He walked to Warda, lifting her chin in his hand. The eyes without pupils still registered fear as he lifted her higher, putting her on tiptoes.
 
“Sister,” he said, in a drawn out sneer, his voice filled with clashing blades and spilled blood, “found you at last.”
 
“Jabanil,” said Vistara, calmly and with a little laugh in her voice.
 
He put down Warda-Hayamutah gently, and putting his face near hers said, “Until next time.”
 
Jabanil moved around to stand before the kneeling General. “So, you wanted power, did you? I have some friends you simply have to meet.”
 
And with that, in a thud of blood-red light, they too vanished. At this some of the soldiers dropped their weapons, others braced them, ready to attack. The gleaming Goddess merely laughed and shook her instrument again, with a steady motion, like hammers on chisels. The third demi-god to emerge did so stroking the bricks around the Depths of Forever. He was tall and slender but he also looked strong. He wore the robes of an artisan, with many folds down their front. His feet still seemed dusty though it must have been a long time since he walked about a construction. Her was the simplest attired, with a plain gold band holing back his long blonde hair, like a prince. Gold cuffs were at his wrists, and simple kohl around his eyes, which were a serene green.
 
“Did my followers not craft you a fine monument, oh my mother?” he said, stroking the stones as he came to the ground. His voice was the dropping of bricks to the ground, and the sanding of statues.
 
“They did, oh my son. But Tirik, I’m afraid you have no followers here. You can call followers from the world out there, I am sure, but it would be a shame for you to go without taking a present.”
 
“Are the girls taken? Ah, but I can see that for myself! Very well. I like a challenge!” he said, and he strolled over to the Sayshari, who was now a quivering mess on the floor. “What do you say, my fine, rich woman, will you be my first disciple?”
 
Strange burbling sounds came from Rardi’s throat, no more.
 
“Well,” said Tirik, “it isn’t as though you have much of a choice!” so saying, he turned to wink at his mother, and said, “Haya, a pleasure as always,” and spirited his “prize” away in a swirl of green.
 

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