The light of moon leaking into the cathedral reflected brilliantly off the crown of Pontiff Sulyvahn as he busted a sick move, stunning all onlookers who had come to witness the spectacle. With all the power of a raging inferno and all the grace of flowing moonlight, Sulyvahn's poppin' and lockin' was beyond the comprehension of most mortal men. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley brooded in stunned silence, and rage simmered within her. She resented being the Pontiff's bitch, completely ignoring that everyone else was as well, and was a source of consistent annoyances to Sulyvahn. One day he had grown tired of the passive aggressiveness of the Dancer, and so challenged her to a battle of sweet dance moves. The harlot thought she could woo the judges with her temptatious sways, but the purity of Sulyvahn's moves shone through the darkness of the night, blazing like a star unparalleled. The fluid motions exhibited by the Pontiff were tubular to the max, and his hip sense of rhythm was straight bitchin', son.
Pontiff Sulyvahn's routine ended just as his mixtape, fashioned from the ever burning fire of the Profaned Flame, grew silent. The Pontiff held his pose as the building grew dark. Someone had thrown a tarp over the windows. A series of lights lit up around the perimeter of the designated dance stage as a swarm of eerie blue lights fluttered up towards the roof from behind, highlighting the Pontiff's silhouette which now pointed skywards. A slow beat soon began to echo through the room, for the Profaned Mixtape never goes out, and the beat escalated in intensity until an explosion of blue magic lit the room. Passionate vocals descended from the rafters and the Pontiff spun around, pointing intently at the side of the room as he tapped the floor with heel.
It was over. The Dancer had heard of this technique long ago, spoken of in hushed whispers.
"The Disco…" she muttered, heartbroken at her assured loss.
The Pontiff rushed his outstretched hand to his hip and jutted his other hand out into the air. He began to jerk that hand back and forth and the Dancer new this as the Sprinkler. In the dynamic lighting of the cathedral the Pontiff rushed his glimmering gold-adorned arm down and grasped at some imaginary contraption. He pulled his arm back and continued the motion again and again. The Dancer knew this as the Lawnmower. Again and again the Pontiff unleashed ancient and forbidden dance moves to visit ruin upon the Dancer and to stun the judges. the Hustle, the Bump, the Bus Stop, the Funky Chicken, and even the Electric Slide. It was only as his dance came to a close that the Pontiff unleashed his ultimate move. The Pontiff jutted his finger into the sky above just as the mystical lighting of the building lost its damn mind. Infernos blazed unchecked off to the side as blue magic rocketed through the air. This was the Disco Finger. This was the Dancer's doom.
The Deacons that had gathered to judge the event had all lost their sight, their eyes burnt away by its power, but the final sight of the Pontiff's silhouette pointing skywards to the beat would live on in them forever. The Pontiff threw the Dancer a ring as a consolation prize and she ran from the building, sobbing with despair. A singular mass of all consuming ooze drifted in from the outside of the building as the tarp was lifted to restore natural lighting, and it spoke from a stolen mouth to the Pontiff.
"Yo yo Sully, that shit was frickin' awesome."
"Hey yo daddio, thanks for the help my man."
"Hey, you hear that Sully?"
"You mean those sick beats?"
"Hells to the yes."
And with that the two, along with the Deacons, busted a move most sick. A groove beyond measure, danced to the beat of Sulyvahn's Profaned Mixtape.