Temperantia, no matter how much they hated it, had crawled back into the hole. To lay at the altar, as some subservient familiar. Temperantia rested by the base of the altar. Their wings, burned and pale grey in the anti-light, alternated in a slow, lazy pattern to keep themselves aloft. Their eyes stayed focused on the altar. Temperantia glared as hard as they could, with nothing to emote with. If looks could kill, the altar would've been destroyed ten times by then.

"We only obey you, for now, Creator. For as long as we require this place to return to our normal state." Their voices laughed. "As normal is for us, now. You are a cruel and false deity. We had come to you with hopes, but instead we were used. By you, and that damned deer. We will have our revenge. We will destroy Astraea. Then we WILL find a way to rid the caves of you. Of Dontacael. Of Mother. Of all of your influences. We are only here so long as we require your assistance. We will take what we need from you by force, if necessary."

Temperantia focused on the stone altar. Their blue eyes glaring at the god they'd come to hate, more and more, every time they descended to the hole. They would have what they wanted. You are nothing, they thought. An unthinking force. A hand of ruination. A force for us to wield, and nothing more. Then, with their magicka at hand, they pulled.

"When I speak."

When I think.

No voice came, but a powerful surge of energy was drawn from the altar: nothing nutritious, but an overwhelming, trembling sense of corruption.

With it came a certainty, like a thought without words.

Hope. Despair. These are but decisions made. They are meaningless. There is purity only in being. Purity only in chaos.

It did not feel sentient, but it was dwarfing: the power that surged into Temperantia would send the winged wheel flying back, clattering against the far side of the cave, magically-wounded and quite near death. She was nothing before it, before this vast and unending font of power, only a trickle of which reached her through the altar: but for a moment she would glimpse it. Perhaps she would chrysalize here, or simply take some time to recover: but the corruption that surged through her veins was a prize for her hubris.

Temperantia has gained 5 Corruption Points. Lingering here more than twenty minutes or so will cause death or chrysalization.

@Temperantia