I have heard about the God Wars, in the stories that Grandfather gives. He passed them down from his father and his father before that, tales of epic battles and destructive forces beyond reason. This must have been what clashes between gods felt like.
Imaru and Kuldra, raging against one another using Ashenfall as a weapon. The wind became knives, the rocks hurled as cannon-fire, and the rain turned to hail, falling like great-hammers on everyone caught in their path. Cataclysmic powers crash against one another and each blow feels like it might tear the continent apart.
She feels different this time, Imaru. Changed. Like her grief and her rage have been forged into weapons and she slams them against the Godeater with unbridled hate. In response, Kuldra laughs, even though her armour shudders against the force of it, scales falling to the earth like the beginning flakes of winter snow.
There is a sensation in my chest -- strength being leeched from within me as Imaru presses the attack. I see old Mrs. Mossfoot stumble, hand across her chest, as each of the other villagers feel it too. The Blessing, a source of strength, now feels like a hole in each of us, draining us dry.
But for Imaru we’ll endure it. Against Kuldra we’ll stand.
Fellhollow does not fall this day!