It's Time For The Opening Act!!

[Ada Wong]

The world that she now sees is ensconced in ultra-saturated mother of pearl; echoes of various incarnations and past lives bleed through the blinding white, glittering with all the subtlety of the chain mail of a fish. A distant null of blue and white cloudlets lingers, a fog covering the back of her mind but humming a tune that she remembers fondly, despite all this time.

“This is not the world you know.”

Disappointment. Visions of golden towers, golden cathedrals of light, long tapestries draping across the bloodied bodies of her people— her friends, singing praise to their most celebrated of heroes despite their predestined fates. The streets run red with blood. She flees like a coward.

“This is the Omniverse. You interest me, so I have made you part of it. The Omniverse is a place that reflects the wishes of those who are part of it. But! There are rules. I will explain them only once, so listen carefully.”

Long days and long interstellar nights spent in a congested escape pod. She is alone. She is solemn. Her feet and claws skitter with lamentations best left unsaid. A once green and blue marbled world, now covered in naught but dust and desolation, appears like a bastion of opportunity before her. She dares to hope.

“This is Omnilium. It’s what ties the Omniverse together. Without it, you are nothing. With it, anything you desire can be yours. But you will need more than this. If you desire it enough, you will find it. You will find that using it comes naturally. Just think of what you desire most.”

The loose wrappings that she garbs herself in are tattered and grey. The desert wind is cold and tinged with grit. She walks on.

“You will not be alone in the Omniverse. There are others. Of course, they, too desire Omnilium. Do not fear death.”

Her feet carry her faithfully across sweltering sands to a small settlement at the foot of a large temple which once bore the visage of the Speaker of the Vast Croak. Two of the kingdom of darkness are at odds, here, but she manages to settle their quarrel. They are the Wayward Vagabond and Aimless Renegade. She is made welcome.

Then, the adored sovereign arrives, her carapace white as an eggshell. They all offer the regal carapacian queenship and the utmost piety, but she refuses and instead chooses to bestow the crown upon her, the little Parcel Mistress who had aided her so long ago. The coronation is– was grand indeed, under the stars and surrounded by dusky sands, with cans of beans to partake of beside the crackling fire.

“For as long as you interest me, you will be reborn.”

The former queen, her new royal adviser, tells them of her plan. They are all frightened— apprehensive, yet when the new Prospitian Monarch looks around she can see glimmers of hope flickering in their eyes. Her royal adviser’s eyes shine with no such hope, as black and as dull as a scarab’s exoskeleton. It is then that she knows for certain that the Slayer will be a fearsome opponent. They must prepare.

“That’s all you need to know right now. You’ll figure out the rest soon enough.”

The clock ticks down. The bud of the Writ Keeper’s flower is due to open. Her former queen and king must surely be blissfully clasping hands at this moment. Reunited at last.

Little does she know that the king’s head has just been sliced from his shoulders in one fell swoop, a dash of red blood staining the temple stone. Her royal adviser soon meets the same fate.

In a flash of green light, the Slayer appears, already stained with the blood of another session of young heroes. His wings are wide and midnight black, bent like the neck of a vulture. He exterminates the Aimless Renegade in a moment; she fails to strike him down with her sword before he makes it to the Wayward Vagabond.

It is when she is clutching her dying friend in her arms that she dons the ring. Green fire rips through her— tears her apart, rebuilds her from the ground up into something infinitely more powerful. Wings ripple out from her back. She goes after the Slayer, Noir, vengeance burning hot in her blood.

Then—

“I’ll be watching … and waiting.”

Then, nothing. Her surroundings are blank and white. PM fears that she might be dead.

But, she knows that all version of a single carapacian may not expire at once. Whether that is a regrettable happenstance or not remains to be seen; she would certainly not question it now, while she is awake and aware. It would be rather petulant of her to, although she cannot say that she wouldn’t be opposed to doing so at some point in the future. It has always been this way: her beloved kingdom of light destruct and blown across the empty void of space to be devoured by the Outer Gods, playing a game they were replicated to lose.

This, however, is a new situation to be delivered into indeed. She is sitting upon the ground, legs precisely tucked under her and shell luminescent with the light of the Nexus. Her hands are folded neatly across her lap. Shiny black eyes peer out from under the Peregrine Mendicant’s weather-beaten shawl, curious. She is not dead. She has not been reborn into a new session.

The Omniverse. She tests the word, each enunciated syllable ringing through her mind with an odd kind of reverence. It is almost said with the same sort of light reverence she might reserve for, say, Skaia.

She clicks her claws together to herself, thoughtful. There appear to be a good many mitigated objects floating in the barely-discernible distance for her to investigate, yet simply cavorting towards any one of them seems either spectacularly foolish or very brave. She reasons that it would be in her best interests to ask someone about which pathway to take, although she has not caught sight of any denizens of this Omniverse yet.

But wait. What are those peculiar sounds? There is someone nearby, or rather several someones, for she can hear them speaking amongst themselves! Perhaps they will know where she ought to go.

Her carapace clinks as she rises to her feet, straightening the grey tatters that hang about her knees. Once this is done, she turns to regard the others who stand by the small pond-like structure. Within the pale chassis that guards her internal organs from harm, the Peregrine Mendicant’s heart lightens. There appear to be two humanoid beings and a rather large, armored fellow standing a fair distance away from where she stands. Perhaps they are friendly?

The Peregrine Mendicant walks towards them, being sure to slow her approach so as not to startle anyone. She taps the porcelain digits of her hands together as she speaks into their minds, a general air of goodwill in her voice.

Greetings, she says to them, her claws clicking out the words. I am the Peregrine Mendicant. I mean you no harm. Does any one of you know which one of those specks in the distance would be best to investigate?