Continued from here...
40th of Ymiden 720, Almost dusk in the land of the awake.
60th of Ymiden 923 and noontime in the land of the dreaming.
Whether an opening or a gap in his abrogative armor, Woe sensed that a portion of the Fallen Lord's defenses wasn't covered. Around the area, near where his Abrogative Witchmark was located. It was like a blackened brand, smouldering with deathly energy. Yet it wasn't protected, why?
Woe didn't question his apparent fortune, but went ahead to lash the skin above the witchmark without mercy. He put every ounce of pain and vehemence of his several centuries of life into that strike. And then? Nothing. There was a silent moment, where the Fallen Lord said nothing, but stood there. His hands were hanging by either side, tense as if clamped into a torture chair. Then, with one mighty motion of his glowing arms, lifted them. And with them, Woe was raised into the air, deprived of gravity and balance. He felt every part of his body contract and compress with the power of the abrogative field that surrounded him. He was unable to free himself, and the serpentine whip slipped from his fingers, slithering away into the darkness that surrounded.
The Maledict approached him, smiling gently as it brought its glowing hands near Woe's chest. There, it began tracing runes of arcane malevolence upon him. Woe recognized the runes, having known about them in his former life quite intimately. Runes of frailty, of degradation and weakness were etched into the skin. Yet he didn't stop with two or even three runes. Nor even four or five. As he began to etch the sixth, Woe felt the ether begin to get tasked into his flesh.
However, fate intervened before the Maledict could task that ether with the necessary energy to activate. Before it could turn him into a thoughtless monster born of a failed initiation, there was a sudden and mighty presence that fell upon the area.
"Remember, Webspinner, tis by my grace alone that you are not crushed by the weight of your own arcane hubris." Having said this, Famula's power took control of the situation. The four corners of the Fallen Lord's power, all four sparks which had grown to their height, began to fracture and disintegrate. The Fallen Lord's mouth opened in a wordless shriek. A sound that reverberated well beneath the register of any human, whether alive or in the form of their soul. Ripples of dread echoed outward as the Fallen Lord collapsed into himself, as if his hungering soul was devouring itself from within. Then, at the last moment, there was silence. And Woe fell to the crimson fog beneath him, releived of the abrogative grip of the arcane creature that had been his reflection.
He breathed heavily, somehow needing air even though he was dead. He inhaled the deep red crimson of the Lantern's air, until a familiar figure loped toward him. Breen came up to Woe and lapped at his face, whining, but not speaking.
Then, he was pulled slow and gentle out of that lantern prison,
