There were a lot of awkward moments, marching along with the rest as Signe and Jartor enjoyed their temporary reunion. Tyr supposed he was happy to see both of his parents excited to see one another, and that the love hadn't died. Still... It was awkward.

However, they were about business. Important business. With the presence of the primus', none had refused to tag along. To the various 'Tyr's', this was their duty. The only one they had left, for the most part. Most didn't bat an eye at the presence of the awakened nephilim, but several were impressed at their vast power. Calling it a 'divine stigmata' for some, and 'grace' for another. That only through the active blessing of the gods could they become so powerful. Something none of the others present could achieve, and neither would Tyr himself. A blessing was one thing, but a stigmata was a mark upon the soul given by more than one god individually. A divine mandate, of sorts.

It also had a cost. Rules. Regulations. Always, and without exception. In their case, the siring of only one son, and 'the call'. Tyr was already sworn to a god, or so it would seem, and doing so hadn't included that in the bargain.

Most of these other versions of Tyr were essentially cosmic criminals, and homeless ones at that. Their worlds destroyed or too hostile for them to return to, for whatever reason. Worlds where there were other Girshan's, Abe's, Astrid's, Alex's, Sigi's, Jura's, Daito's, even Jartor's. And so on, and so forth. In some cases, these people who existed across realms were of varying relations to the others, not always stable in their affiliation. For example, one of the Tyr's had been stabbed to death by Benny, and another claimed that Jartor had been driving the truck that struck him. Even blood family, for some. As disconcerting a concept as ever, Tyr felt the same as he always had. It was an unburdening of his soul. He worried about this curse of immortality, but now wasn't the time. It'd be centuries before the ill effects began to wear at him, and he was an expert at procrastinating on things that were actually important.

“Are we close?” Xavier hissed. He was not a fan of being so near to these primus'. Their aura was so fierce that even someone blind to mana would feel it. He was surprised that anyone could remain so close to them for any given amount of time. Just a look from one of them made him feel like he was being electrocuted. The humans, however, didn't seem very concerned – and neither did the beastkin for the matter. Besides the obvious, less literal effects of being near the strongest humans in the world.

“Over this rise.” Girshan pointed. Just on the opposite side of the valley that had previous been obscured by fog. Octavian had quickly drawn out a map for them before their departure, carved into the snow. It was unfortunate that they had no army, but these adventurers were fairly adequate all considered. In any case, each primus was equivalent of any single legion. Never in living history had this many of their number joined hands to compete a single task. They could not fail. If they did... It was better not to think about the impossible. They were living gods. While they might not know much about astral spaces, whatever malign intelligence was the architect of this anomaly wouldn't find them easy prey.

They crossed the rise. All Tyr could think about was Jura. He was so ashamed of how he'd tried to use her as a tool to enrage his father. But what was done was done, and they didn't speak on it, not directly. There would come a time for that and he was aware that she might very well leave him.

The valley was long and wide, and it took them some time to cross it due to the less physically able members of the group. Giving her enough time to turn it over in her head and finally approach him. Not with words, but seeing his conflict she took his hand into her own. Both remained silent, but it was a load off their shoulders. For Tyr, to know that she hadn't forsaken him. For Jura... It was more complex. She was angry. She wasn't a brainless woman. While she wasn't an academic, she was capable of reading things for what they were.

Tyr had done a bad thing, and he clearly regretted it. Now was just not the time to admonish him for it, they needed to focus. And then there was the culture she treasured so dearly, even if the proponents of it had treated her like trash from a young age. Family, oaths, and bonds. Orcs loved their kin fiercely and ably. Because of that, despite her mother breaking clan law in siring a child with her human father, they'd forgiven her. Begrudgingly, sure. In any event, it was a source of great pride that she could call a heritage linked to multiple primus'. By custom, that would be three at the very least. Her tribe hadn't held a great love for mankind, quite the opposite. But they respected strength and ability most of all. Nothing on their planet was more able than a primus. Race, in the face of merit, was irrelevant. She couldn't help but feel her chest puff out and swell in pride. But she was aware that this was a selfish and shallow want to bond with a partner. Glory and heritage were not everything. Thus, she was guilty of her own hubris. That didn't stop her from celebrating, but she tempered it as best she could.

He wasn't all good, Tyr. There were faults, little things about him that she didn't like, but she would not save nor change her chosen mate. They were his trials, and if they became too heavy to bear, she would leave him behind. There were also many good things, and conversely, she would nourish and feed these positive aspects of his personality if she could. But at the end of the day, her purpose in this relationship was not to smooth out his wrinkles for him. As much as she feared the reality of leaving or being left, she liked him quite a bit and hoped that it wouldn't happen.

Benny wasn't sure what to do. He'd witnessed the conflict of son and father, impressed at how Tyr had managed to remain standing. They'd all heard the rumors, leaving him further confused. To know that he had been called a bastard and banished... There were no bastards among kijin, they simply did not care for marital bonds and most children never knew their parents. Tyr had been subjected to a grim punishment for events beyond his control, and it made Benny's heart ache for him. All the while, the others trudged along. Lost in their own thoughts and stunned at the sudden arrival of all these great figures. The only ones speaking at the present time were the various other renditions of Tyr. Except for his 'mother'. Another shock for them to digest. Whoever was setting the pace for this story of theirs was all over the place.

They crossed the valley and crested the incline. Taking a wide berth of the tower at Tyr's explicit direction. None, included the primus', were doubtful of his words. What they had seen of him came from that place – and none of them wanted to be made a puppet. Whether it was possible or not was unclear, but caution never hurt in a situation like this, five minutes of their time was inconsequential.

“I do not like this place.” Octavian observed, eyes darting around to identify any possible threats, but there were none. And that was what bothered him the most. “Something feels wrong.”

“To be expected.” Jartor replied gruffly. He was all steel, something that might convince someone that he had no brains in him, but he was as sharp as a blade forged of the stuff. Well polished and honed after centuries of experience. “But this is our duty. If these things get out...”

“Best not to be too loud.” Octavian whispered. Fortunately, the others were so unnerved by their presence that they remained a fair distance back. A good thing, too. Monsters were just the first step in the depredations of the place beyond the rift. Poorly understood as it was, they knew that much. There were things in that space that could even give a primus pause. Things the gods themselves wouldn't willfully interact with. Alien things. They were no stronger than normal monsters on average, and that's why they remained there, but the laws against dimensional magic and continent spanning wards were in place for a reason. Nobody wanted to find out what would happen if they, as Jartor said, 'got out'.

“At least this pace gives us time to question why Hastur remains the idiot and despite many years and more concessions, he has made little progress.” Jartor frowned, turning to cast his eyes on the sniveling wretch of a man. A man he very much wanted to break apart into the smallest pieces. To hunt down his clones one by one until none were left. “A decade. Years pass and your promises become grander as your deeds become less so.”

“Soon.” Hastur nodded, not protesting. He knew that Jartor would not kill him so long as he had the guarantee of Octavian. “I've made great progress. Hundreds of mages killed. We simply started too late, and I ran into an unexpected guest in Amistad who I was told would be in slumber. But ultimately, it showed me that the direction I was taking was the right one – if not the execution.”

“Abaddon?” Octavian asked, but he already knew. “I've heard tell that the ancient one awoke early, but he's returned now and should stay down for even longer this time. I do not understand why he is helping them. Never understood, in fact.”

“Because Hastur's method causes him pain, as with all the others.” Jartor frowned. “Airborne insects that feed on etheric energy? Did you even think before concocting such a ridiculous scheme?”

There was too much. Too much of everything, all around the world. They were already doomed, all they could hope to do was slow it down. To eliminate those who walked on the path of forbidden knowledge and to limit the number of mages. Unfortunately, Octavian's father had been too short sighted, and Jartor's had been too soft in the wrong ways. All while Ragnar had remained tinkering around in his castle with too little care for the outside world. Most of all, there were too many mages. A population explosion of them in the last century that had seen widespread expansion of mana capable individuals. Now, one could walk into any village on the continent and find one or more mana sensitive humans. Most were limited in power, but it added up. Every passing of the seasons, the ambient mana in the world became richer, and with it came calamity.

Monsters were more common, but worst of all – people grew more complacent. Consumerism had really and truly doomed the world as much as anything else. There was no 'equivalent exchange'. The churches had been rattling on about this for centuries, but now they knew how right the house of light had been. They were near the point of no return where they'd either stop it, or they'd fall. A spell was used, a magical artifact activated, or a ward tripped. Each consumption added a little bit more. A tiny crack on a spiderweb of many more decorating the bastion that guarded their planet from the other side. Cortus had damned them, exacerbating things by a thousand years because of a 'vision'. And yet here he was walking alongside them. Another face, another name, another identity. None of the powers, all of the arrogance. Losing his aspect but not his life, but in the end – they'd found a use for him. Enough to keep him alive, for now.

“It would help if you didn't keep so many secrets. What the hell are those things, anyway? But I guess you'll never say. It's the best I had to work with, but things are already in motion. I've learned so much from the fungal organisms that your... Son.” He paused, clearly holding back any sort of alternative identifier. “...Created. They were a work of art, but they were flawed. In their flaws, I've understood the folly of my original designs. Don't fret, great primus.”

Something about the way he said that word, primus, irked Jartor a great deal. But they'd crested the final ridge, and now was the time to be about their business.