Her or - her shell. There is such a vast differential in these times, and Illyria doubts it cares so much for the god-beast within. Few things do. All the same, she attempts to swing her shell upward to grasp at its hand.
The attempt is not successful. She aborts after the first try, knowing full well that a success could just as easily result in both their demises in addition to simply her own. And this would not necessarily be Illyria's demise. In fact -
She can see the infinitesimal cracks forming the shell's hands, the thick carapace-like armor.
It seems her shell has reached its pathetic limit.
"You will be safe," she promises the vermin still clinging to the edge, even as she states it dully and without inflection. It is a simple fact. She has vowed its safety, and her oath she shall keep.
Illyria lets her shell drop.
As she sinks lower and lower into the great yawning crevasse, the God-King lets the Hell-air tear away at her shell, shred at the hardened exterior and release the clawing, squirming thing that resides bundled all inside. It unravels itself eagerly, free to exist in whatever form it chooses in a Hellscape that no longer is bound by the laws of the purely mortal plane. So it bursts forth in all its glorious, hulking true form, single eye glaring, armored tentacles lashing. The God-King of the Primordium is free, at last, from the confinement of a human shell.
The great carapaced thing, the true form of Illyria, spills out of the crack in the ground that now seems tiny in comparison. The little mortal-thing is even smaller now; it truly resembles the ant that it is. The great blue-green eye rolls down to glower at it. They could crush it if they wanted.
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Her or - her shell. There is such a vast differential in these times, and Illyria doubts it cares so much for the god-beast within. Few things do. All the same, she attempts to swing her shell upward to grasp at its hand.
The attempt is not successful. She aborts after the first try, knowing full well that a success could just as easily result in both their demises in addition to simply her own. And this would not necessarily be Illyria's demise. In fact -
She can see the infinitesimal cracks forming the shell's hands, the thick carapace-like armor.
It seems her shell has reached its pathetic limit.
"You will be safe," she promises the vermin still clinging to the edge, even as she states it dully and without inflection. It is a simple fact. She has vowed its safety, and her oath she shall keep.
Illyria lets her shell drop.
As she sinks lower and lower into the great yawning crevasse, the God-King lets the Hell-air tear away at her shell, shred at the hardened exterior and release the clawing, squirming thing that resides bundled all inside. It unravels itself eagerly, free to exist in whatever form it chooses in a Hellscape that no longer is bound by the laws of the purely mortal plane. So it bursts forth in all its glorious, hulking true form, single eye glaring, armored tentacles lashing. The God-King of the Primordium is free, at last, from the confinement of a human shell.
The great carapaced thing, the true form of Illyria, spills out of the crack in the ground that now seems tiny in comparison. The little mortal-thing is even smaller now; it truly resembles the ant that it is. The great blue-green eye rolls down to glower at it. They could crush it if they wanted.
It is lucky they do not choose to.