There is a confusing thing about divinity, about apotheosis. In many cases, one would assume that in order to dance among the divine, one needed to amass a following, to become less a mortal existence and more a legend personified, and then to tear from that marrow the essence of myth. To build, from the carcass of belief and ones very self raise a standard high that was undeniable for all to see. In many cases, on many worlds, the fledgling divinity was quickly bound, caught and consumed unless they rose without force and strength to not be worth the easy meal.
Much more often, rather than true divinity, what woke was something in between, as the the idol took in the breath of the faithful and in the manner of myth and legend expelled glory. Not to the same extent, and remaining firmly grounded among mortality. And yet, at times all it can take is a moments realization, an epiphany that turns the potential into a roaring bonfire. So it was, as one drow pondered the state and nature of his existence, the arena crowds falling silent as they witnessed the blasphemy, the absurdity before them, at the males latest 'victory'.
They were silent, as the world held its breath, as he held in his hand the skull of a chosen, one one directly touched and empowered by the goddess that bound them. Some could already hear the war drums, could feel the bone deep cries for war without end or reason, for a sea of unending violence and slaughter that had no malice but merely WAS. The weapon who was a drow merely needed to step in the proper manner, to take up his crown of blades. It was in this silence that four words came. Four words that burned like poison, struck like molten iron.
"What is the point?" In his hand the male held a shard of divinity, of possibility and power beyond all most mortals could dream of. And so, the silence deepened, as some figures, above and below turned. Some to welcome, in one fashion or another, a new power. Some of those who saw most clearly and deeply, their eyes widened as they moved... only for the moment to erupt in viridian flames, looms cracking, snarls flowing into the tapestries as flames danced and burned threads, as the male laughed.
For once in his life, it was an honest laughter, as that crown burned, as divinity was not merely spurned, not merely denied or even rejected, but disregarded as he turned, leaving it to burn in the dust, as the world howled at a deeper profanity than many could understand. Mighty matrons were driven back to their seats, shock on their faces as the male simply dropped divinity as if it was some worthless bauble, unworthy of consideration. Yet, their reaction was nothing, compared to the pressure that formed, the wrath and the rage that howled down, a storm of flaying webs and chains.
Yet, it was not the goddess herself that descended, that emerged wrathful and enraged into the mortal realm. Or perhaps it was, in the aspect of one of the 'daughters', a gleaming knight of darkness and malevolence, whose form screamed grace and rage... of a woman's love betrayed... or of a child denied a toy they had had their eye on. There were still embers left, he could still take up the crown, a silent and wordless plea resounded, a demand one could see it as, one dainty hand on the hilt of her blades. Two killers, the only ones that mattered in this drama.
The male looked at her, but not at the crown that was being devoured, as he spoke, his tone a lake, calm and placid, unbothered and unworried. And yet, his words struck at the soul of all who listened, burned and flayed. "What can divinity offer me, that I cannot gain myself?" There was a profane and blasphemous truth there, as mortal looked at divinity, unbowed and unconcerned. "It offers nothing at all." His words seared, reverberating on the bones of the world, as the spear din rose, as all could see him fight until he no longer was.
The male gave a mockery of a courtly bow, not a single ounce of respect or deference inside of it. "After all, what is the point in offering divinity to a blade? Tis a rather pointless proposition, is it not?" Around the pair, the silence, the held tension, the waiting moment did not disperse, did not fade. It shattered and broke. All the while, the Dark Knight watched, looking over the one that was to have been hers in every way that mattered. With senses and means more than mortal, she reached out... and found nothing.
This went beyond even a rejection of divinity, beyond blasphemy. He was not even an empty and hollow shell. No, everything about him had been refined and forged until what was left was a blade in the shape of a drow. There was no pride, no desire or fear. There was the purpose of steel, of an unsheathed blade that sought blood, sought to kill and kill until either there was nothing left to kill or until it broke in the attempt. And even this was not the most horrific part. A Blade could be broken, shattered and remade in the hands of one skilled enough.
But it had not just been his potential divinity that had been consumed by the viridian pyres. What sort of being, what sort of madness could possess a mortal to simply throw their own soul into the furnace, uncaring as it burnt into ash and nothingness... and worse still, what sort of abomination could not only function, not only exist but indeed had changed not at all now that their soul was less than ash on the wind? A keening shriek of rage and loss left divine lips, her blade (a fragment of a dark star) drawn as she moved.
But the divine and the profane clashed, black and green flames raging and pulsing, laughter pure (mad but pure) joining the shrieks of divinity denied. Who are you to defy divinity! This was a message that roared in blood, that struck the marrow and rattled bones. It was a knife to the brain, a bloody howl and command that reduced those too close to wrecks. Mortals were not meant to stand in the presence of the gods, much less to endure their passions and fury. Who are you to deny me! It was clear by the snarl, which she considered to be the greater sin.
Perhaps she should have expected the brass boot that struck her in the groin with the force of a thunderbolt. "I am the Blade Path." The world tensed once more, a revelation drawing in like thunderstorms, the wrath of the gods turning their eyes to him. "And I welcome the gods. After all, who better to test my steel against?" There was innocence, as the world howled, as a heretic declared war, twin blades flashing and burning, scorching away as he moved. In many ways, as blades sang and danced, the difference was stark.
She moved with grace and elegance that spoke of something beyond what were considered mortal limits. Every move was perfect and a killing blow that should have slaughtered the rebel. But his response was in mortalities bitter experience, in movements honed by unending violence. She danced to a tune of the battle should be. And as burning green blades sank into her heart, a scream tearing through the minds and souls of those too stupid not to have already fled, he danced and sang to the beating tempest of steel, in each moment as it was.
Screaming, the Dark Knight fled, nuclear flames burning and searing at her essence as she returned to the realm of the gods, hate in her eyes, the last sounds from the one fated to be her companion and counterpart laughter... and the taunting truth that he looked forward to continuing their battle later, for the fight was only over when one of them was dead. Hate burned in her chest, flames licking like poison as her blood burned, as she desperately ran to her mother, as mortality raged and burned inside of her, a blight against the divine!
And yet, Tebgloth vanished, ambling on really with no hurry as he sought new battles, new tests. For why would he remain? There were no longer any great tests for him there and so he was free.