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The prone form of Iskiak, known to the Men of the Ancient North as Aurang (Warlord), the Nonmen as Sin-Pharion (The Angel of Deceit), once spear-bearer to Sil, was discombobulated utterly, a cage of screaming tidal forces had rent him from his wings and rendered him insensate to the world, the positronic functions of the mind was drawn towards stale repetition as the assault of unknowable angles and axises proved too great a burden, a half-Cant, sputtering and deformed could only paddle out briefly and weakly, below the Men from every corner of the Three Seas: Ce Tydonn, Kian, Nansur, Conriya, Galeoth, Thunyerus and Zeüm called out and sung in triumph at the sight before them, an enemy brought low and nearing the inevitable end. The laughter of a thirsting godling echoed past the thinning veil, as the Aspect-Emperor ties up a loose end as an offering to the approaching Ciphrang. You crept past the laxing lines of Scarlet Spires Schoolmen, reprieving from the endless hordes of Sranc which is now thinning out, the Swayali sorceresses clearing out the last of the bastions manned by dwindling Bashrag and Ursranc. As your distance is sufficient, you lept forth in a soundless scream, maw and eyes and translucent flesh draped in otherworldly lumescence, an outwardly teething array of wards, wheel within wheels, the burning eminence, you struck the distracted Men in all your half-awake fury. Cants devised through simulated millenia, known only by Indoctrination in the midst of re-gestation. The Minutae Severance, a converging stream of light that burns eyes that look upon it, unleashing a silent, unseen burning poison into the lands. The Causal Inquisition, snapping souls from the Outside, shortly before their time, from the space they all inhabit. In conclusion, The Clay-Gorging Star, unleashing a seismic rape of unfocused regiments and the plains itself. Celebrations became despair as you swept with blinding speed, recalling your distant memories in another frame, slicing through the emptiness in a void-adapted sleeve and tearing into a shoal of geodesic starfighters alongside battle-brothers and a melting planet below, this war paled into a bland distaste in comparison, weighed only by the spice of anger. You became fully lucid, after a stray Chorae arrow grazed your inner oscillator wards, condensed air deflecting the lethal Aporetic. Your next move?
>Flee, this is getting too risky: Your wards had been torn through, the sorcerers near.
>Keep fighting: You might get some more damage in, large risk of instant death.
