Kismoa, as the Kaos god now (perhaps vindictively) called himself, roared in triumphant laughter. Harder, further, wider he pushed Helovians and their magic into the Rift, ripping apart the fabric between worlds in his combined desperation and greed. Where this Helovian world would fall, his Rift would rise. No longer would it lay dormant, slowly dying a suffocated and magic-less death.

So the mortal-made-god; the conglomerate of four unholy, slain deities forced and funneled what magic he had from those dead gods and Helovians. The Portal shoved into the Rift’s rainforest was filled with shadows that seemed to eat even the ominously glowing fluorescent that gleamed from the ancient forest’s depths.

But, despite all of this death and ominous upheaval, such a sudden influx of magic in so starved a world drew creatures of all kinds to the Portal. “Come! Come!” cried Kisamoa, mismatched teeth gleaming from every sharp shadow, “I am life—I bring life!”

And the Rift breathed anew, a shuddering breath of souls and magic—not quite healed and never tamed. But no longer stagnate and waiting for death.