The silence following Ozymandias's display was heavy with horrified realization.
Nine Early Creatures, beings who had reigned for epochs, ended in a single bite.
But the Civilization Legion of Emotives did not break.
The violet and gray storm of their collective aura parted, and from the depths of their formation, a figure emerged. He drifted, carried by a visible current of weeping spirits and solidified sighs.
Threnody, The Weaver of Final Sorrows.
He was an Elder Early Creature, his form that of shifting, melancholic shadows. His face was a mask of beautiful, frozen grief, with eyes that were not eyes but deep, endless wells of tear-filled oceans. Around him, Everythings of Emotion swirled...tiny, crystallized shards of panic, regret, and absolute resignation orbiting him like a solar system of tragedy.
Threnody looked at Ozymandias, at the obsidian-crimson predator standing amidst the blood of his kin.
