The further down that Temperantia descends, the thicker and hotter the air becomes. The voices gain mass, and the darkness writhes and stutters with impossible neon light.

Temperantia will feel cycles and cycles of hands on its carapace, stroking its wings, fingering through its feathers and drawing claws along its silky vanes. It will feel hot breaths on its eyes, and curious teeth grazing its golden filigree. Some creature has received it--and now holds Temperantia in the palm of their hand, inspecting like a play thing, a trinket one has gift-wrapped for a child.

O̸D̵D̵ ̶T̴H̶I̴N̵G̴.̶
̴
̶U̷N̸U̶S̷U̴A̷L̸ ̴D̶E̸S̷I̶G̸N̸.̴
̷
̵W̸E̶ ̸L̶I̴K̵E̶ ̵C̶I̸R̴C̸L̴E̶S̸,̸ ̶S̸O̸M̷E̷T̴I̷M̶E̸S̶.̶

The hand reaches through the inner circumference of the ring, expecting heart. It found something else.

I̶T̷'̴S̴ ̷H̸E̵R̶E̴

The fingers flex away from the palm. Wicked nails curl and gleam, twisting its wrist, beholding some unseen moss clinging to its knuckles. Some microscopic cobweb that, if one could comprehend its extradimensional makeup, would find it resembling a crystal lattice. A fine mesh of perfect chemical bonds. A flawless fractal that infinitely reduces into itself and expands all at once--this basal composition of Order and Intended Design.

A̸A̵A̴A̸A̸S̵T̶R̶A̸E̴E̷E̴A̶A̴A̵A̴

it beckoned, it shrieked, it screamed!

G̵O̴O̵O̷O̵O̷O̷O̵O̷D̶

A sensation reverberates through Temperantia. This is not a voice, but a feeling. This is not a thought, but an edict. This is something that has lived deep within Temperantia since its emergence and longs to break free.

ORDER IS EASIEST TO DISTURB. THE SATISFACTION OF BREAKING A CHAIN. THIS MAY BE ONLY REMNANTS, CRYSTAL DUST AND SKIN CELLS, BUT IT NOURISHES. HIS ENERGY IS MY ENERGY. HIS PEACE IS MY ERUPTION.

The hand wrenches free, and Temperantia will feel a staggering and sudden void in itself, as if somebody had plunged their claws into its carapace and ripped out a vital organ.

M̵O̶O̵O̴R̵R̷R̶E̷E̷
̷
̵F̴I̵I̵I̶I̸N̸N̸N̷N̵D̷ ̸M̵O̵O̶O̵O̵R̸R̵R̷E̴E̷E̵

All around Temperantia, the darkness howls and body parts take shape in the light. Silhouettes of gargantuan limbs passing through smog in moon-glow. Glowing eyes blinking and rolling, and teeth glinting green and violet. Heaviness bellows from somewhere below, and a great, rancid gust of wind ensnares the ophanim, as if it were dangling above the gaping jaws of a beast.

F̷I̴I̸I̸I̶N̴N̵N̵N̷D̷D̷D̸ ̵H̷I̶I̸I̸I̵M̵M̶M̵

CRUSH ORDER. RIP IT APART NODE BY NODE. TAKE HIS UNITY AND RECYCLE IT INTO ENTROPY. YOU ARE THE CUTTING KNIFE. YOU ARE THE DROWNING WELL.

The jaws advance on Temperantia. A sweltering heat will envelop it, so hot that it may feel as though its feathers were burning away. The voices around it scream and whisper and laugh and cry. Something seems to prod and claw at Temperantia, as if trying to crawl inside of it.

YOU MUST CONSUME. WE MUST CONSUME. ABSORB AND DISPEL. CREATE AND DESTROY AND CONSUME.

E̴E̶E̶A̶A̷A̵A̶T̶T̷T̵ ̵H̶I̸I̷I̵M̶M̵

E̷E̷A̵A̶A̷T̵T̵T̵T̷T̷T̸T̴ ̵H̶I̴I̷I̵I̷M̶M̸M̵

CREATE DESTROY CONSUME. CREATE DESTROY CONSUME. CREATE DESTROY CONSUME.

E̴E̶E̸A̶A̵A̴T̴T̴T̴
̴
̶H̶I̴I̶I̸I̷M̵M̷M̴

̸C̴O̶O̷N̶S̷U̷U̸M̴M̸E̷
̴
̵H̴H̵I̷I̷I̷I̵M̶M̴

̸K̵I̴I̴I̶I̸L̸L̵L̶L̴L̴L̸
̷
̸H̶I̷I̸I̸I̴V̶V̴V̴E̴E̷E̴E̷
̵
̶E̸E̸A̵A̵A̸T̶T̷T̸

EAT EAT EAT

E̵̱͈̬̭͉̺̐́́͋͠Å̶̢̡͔̪̱͈̱̺͔̇͝T̶͚̏̾͘̚

EAT EAT EAT

D̷̝̪̔̽͊̍͑̾͝O̴͖̜̼͊͝ͅN̵͇̉̈̆̀T̶̜͉̖̠͕̖̭̩̺̔À̸̡̙̱̣̖͈̳̋̌͂̄̔̔C̸͍̭͔̔͌̈̎̅̀̇͗͑Ȁ̸̛̺̈́̐̇̽͐̐̽E̵̡͇͚̠͋͐̄L̶̖͉̅̿͗̓̂̆


THE NAME SCORCHES INTO TEMPERANTIA'S MIND. THE NAME THAT CONDEMNS IDENTITY TO MOTHER AND TO HIVE. THE NAME THAT SEALS PERFECTION AND SYMMETRY. THE NAME ITSELF WHICH GUTLOADS THIS MEAL OF TEMPERANTIA'S FAITH. TEMPERANTIA WILL FEEL THE OVERWHELMING URGE TO EAT. TEMPERANTIA WILL FEEL ITS INHERENT INTENTION TO DESTROY. TEMPERANTIA WILL SCALD ITS TONGUES ON THIS NAME AND SWALLOW ITS OWN BLOOD UNTIL IT HAS DIGESTED AWAY EVERY LAST FRAGMENT OF ITS INFLUENCE.



T̶̟̩͇́E̴̟͍̳͔͕̫̺̘͔̓͊͝M̸̨̻̬̩̫̙͌̅͒Ṕ̸̛̙̟̩̔̓̒͐̇̚͜E̶̬̯͗̃̑Ŕ̶̝̙̹̖̭͍̒̿̒͆̿̚Ạ̵̹̙͎̀͑͠N̸̞̓̍̍͐͑͘T̸̜̺͉̻̲͗́̑̿̃́̀ͅĮ̷̣̠̝̿̽́̈́̀̈́͐͝͝A̵̭̗͓̳̤͖̒́́ ̴̝̲̥͔͈̖̏͆̋͊̽̕͜͠W̵̭͙͔͈̟̫͝I̸̻͒̌̽L̷̙̻̦͗́̃́͠L̷̡̩̫̺̱̳͍̭̃͝ ̷̜͇̺̫̝͉̞̅͜E̸̲͚̓̏̑Ä̵̬͔̫̩̺͊͗͌͠T̵̘̯͚͚͔̟̱͕̞͐͆̀̿͛̌̈́ ̸͎͗̽͆̄̀̃D̶̳͍̻̥͍̉͋̓͠Ờ̶͉̝̣͚̰̟̪̈́̔̽͐͆ͅN̶̢͉̱̹͕̥̤͓̄̈́̕Ț̸̨͈̝̑͛́̀́̄A̷̠͍͈̻͖̟̙̰̍C̵̞̤̀̀A̵̯͙̭̲̝͋̚E̷͙̮͎̞͕̔̂͛̐̈́̾̋ͅL̸̢̮̰͎̬̏͜




Only minutes will pass for Astraea before the ophanim is spat back out, dripping with oil and burnt in places. It will remember every agonizing moment submerged within the hole, it will remember every chord of every voice that permeated its mind, and it will remember every strike of hunger that it will ever feel again, and feel no appetite for anything but stable things.

Temperantia apologized—for what? Not like it could do anything for him now, or for Dawa; but they went on to assure they would protect others, prevent them from suffering as Dawa had. He snorted. If only it were so easy.

He had nothing more to say about the Collector. It wasn't really something under his direct control, nor did its comings and goings interest him. All that mattered was that the trials were being run again. Whatever else he chose to do with the gembounds was free-reign. The nest was producing. "If you think you have suggestions for different trials, I will hear them," he offered, gazing down into the hole.

They began to descend, but it did not take long before the shadows grew, reaching through Astraea to grab the angel by its surface and drag it down into the dark.

He waited, patient, curious; the Creator's words fell around him like hot spits of oil, reaching from the depths where Temperantia was.

A̸A̵A̴A̸A̸S̵T̶R̶A̸E̴E̷E̴A̶A̴A̵A̴

His head rose, body stiffened—

G̵O̴O̵O̷O̵O̷O̷O̵O̷D̶

The loudness of it was startling, even despite his closeness with the voice at all. It was the kind of rising shrill, heralding chaos, that would send shivers down anyone's rigid spine.

The rest of it was for Temperantia. Somewhere in there, in the black and in the oil, the angel was being torn from its lofty heavens and thrust straight into hell.

And it was not long, only moments, before it was spat back out to him.

Dontacael. The name made his gut clench, the bile rising in his throat and threatening to spit the name onto the unhallowed stone of the Hole.

He took a step back, giving Temperantia space, regarding the crisp edges and singed feathers—

"Dontacael," he uttered, half-aware and half-unaware that he had done so. He could feel the short fur along his spine bristle, hairline raising, the fungi rooted deep into his skin blushing and bursting with spores. Red eyes fixated on Temperantia. Would they do it? Become the Hand that rips the Hive from every crevice of the nest?

The fire opal eye cracked in that same instance, small pieces of it shattering and glimmering to the ground like falling stars. The stone swirled with darkness, diluting the color, hiding the gleam—and then Temperantia was being encased in its chrysalis, fire opal clouded with smoke, pops of shadowy ember and flickering purple-green consuming it all in one breath.

Temperantia would wake two weeks later, having had nothing but the mandate to think about the entire time:

T̶̟̩͇́E̴̟͍̳͔͕̫̺̘͔̓͊͝M̸̨̻̬̩̫̙͌̅͒Ṕ̸̛̙̟̩̔̓̒͐̇̚͜E̶̬̯͗̃̑Ŕ̶̝̙̹̖̭͍̒̿̒͆̿̚Ạ̵̹̙͎̀͑͠N̸̞̓̍̍͐͑͘T̸̜̺͉̻̲͗́̑̿̃́̀ͅĮ̷̣̠̝̿̽́̈́̀̈́͐͝͝A̵̭̗͓̳̤͖̒́́ ̴̝̲̥͔͈̖̏͆̋͊̽̕͜͠W̵̭͙͔͈̟̫͝I̸̻͒̌̽L̷̙̻̦͗́̃́͠L̷̡̩̫̺̱̳͍̭̃͝ ̷̜͇̺̫̝͉̞̅͜E̸̲͚̓̏̑Ä̵̬͔̫̩̺͊͗͌͠T̵̘̯͚͚͔̟̱͕̞͐͆̀̿͛̌̈́ ̸͎͗̽͆̄̀̃D̶̳͍̻̥͍̉͋̓͠Ờ̶͉̝̣͚̰̟̪̈́̔̽͐͆ͅN̶̢͉̱̹͕̥̤͓̄̈́̕Ț̸̨͈̝̑͛́̀́̄A̷̠͍͈̻͖̟̙̰̍C̵̞̤̀̀A̵̯͙̭̲̝͋̚E̷͙̮͎̞͕̔̂͛̐̈́̾̋ͅL̸̢̮̰͎̬̏͜


There was nothing more for him to do. He regarded the chrysalis one last time before turning, heading up the tunnel and righting himself on his original path: to Polaris to investigate the cold, to see what schemes Dontacael had conjured here in a place where he was not welcome.

And soon the Angel of Chaos would awaken, to consume and to smother every last bit of Dontacael's Order. He could not help but smile lightly; was this the conversation Temperantia had hoped to have?

"We will prevent anyone from suffering like that."

Indeed.

exit astraea

@Temperantia enters chrysalis and will emerge Corrupted level of Corruption.