ORIGIN

Mirac stared at the black spire. He was bored--the Sentinel had left Mirac, off to do whatever. Mirac did not know, but Mirac would be angry if it was murdering without Mirac. And Mirac wanted to fight. This cave, at least, seemed an opponent. He knew now what the cave was called. Draco. The breathing cave. The undying cave.

Despite what Sentinel had said, Mirac still did not like the living cave. Sentinel had said to do nothing with the Draco cave, and yet...Mirac did not like it. It breathed and pulsed but it did not die, nor did it seem to fight him, want to fight him, or speak to him. And Mirac wanted to fight it. His eyes squinted, watching the ground rise and fall. Could it understand him if he tried?

Mirac's silver-lined eyes flicked back up to the ominous black spire. And he tried to press his will into it. His magic came easily and at will, and Mirac relayed a simple message to the spire: "DRACO! MIRAC wishes to FIGHT you. Mirac would like to engage you in COMBAT, because you breathe but you do not die. Mirac wants more things to FIGHT. And most of all, Mirac is BORED."

"When I speak."

When I think.

Mirac screamed at rocks.

Generally speaking, screaming too long into rocks did not cause the rocks to scream back. In this case, however, Mirac's mind was suddenly ignited in black fire, a sense of eternal burning roaring through his entire being without warning.

There was no fight.

This was not a thing that Mirac could fight. Not fight and win. Not fight and exist, for more than a second after this power chose to simply snuff him from existence.

This was something overwhelming, a black smoke that poured from the flame and expanded outward, that filled Draco to Mirac's mind, that filled the caves, the world, the universe. It was impossible. It was immortal. It was eternal. It was a power older than time, a power beyond measure, unfathomable, a power from which a mere trickle of a hint of a drop had fully infused Mirac with all that he was. And there was no hint as to whether this power would regard him with curiosity, or obliterate him, or torment him for eternity.

CHAOS was not so predictable as that.

"YES," boomed a sudden voice; and it resonated over mountains and through oceans, "IF IT IS BORED. IT SHOULD FIGHT. BOREDOM IS THE TRAP OF THE WEAK OF WILL." There was a pause, immense, interminable, as great toxic eyes opened and cast their sickly green light across Mirac's new black universe. They stared down at him. "A GIFT," the voice decided, and the rumble cracked stone as it spoke.

Electricity crackled black through the sky, and static began to charge the air...

Mirac's void lightning was lashed back at it a thousandfold. Pure power crashed through the living sword, shuddering down bone and ripping through gum, shattering black blood and potentially popping eyes, here and there. It was agonizing. It was wondrous. It was a taste of what true Chaos held, a sampling of Mirac's own being, but vast beyond his any measure.

He was left, after that: the strange black world and all its smoke fading, leaving him in the breathing void-light of Draco. What a gift-! What a glorious taste of true Chaos he had been given! -left smoking in the dark.

@Mirac

Mirac

Game Master Dark