[BvG]

"What do you mean 'not dead'?'" The thunderous voice of their God echoed in the gigantic hall, even tho the roof had collapsed eons ago. It made the Acolytes shiver in fear, their bones rattling below their dried husks. Dusk elder Okedur grinned. It was the only facial expression he was able to perform.

He tried to explain "We are few and in great Peril, oh deadly one, ..." but the lord of exosceletal flies interrupted him: "Deadly is not the issue at hand!" - "Yes sire, but you see, the prophecy..." Okedur gestured vaguely to the grim looking altar on the west side of the Ruin. "The prophecy was not clear on..."

But the living are not as patient as the dead, especially when their godly blood is steaming in anger: "We WROTE the damned thing, and We remember specifically to only be called when everyone is dead." The god was now pacing fore and back. All that quick striding was unnerving the dusk elder, looking left and right all the time was bad for his dried neck. "Dead shall everything be, and the One shall arrive and be dead too" His angriness recited, "and Us too!" He underlined with dangerously lowered voice. "But here We are, fully alive ourself. How could that have happened?" His furrored browdom stared at the messenger of the inappropriately vivid news. "Begone foul Soul!" The god screamed at the dusk elder. His deadliness shortly stared at the small pile of dust that used to be the most powerful mage of Ermor.

"We will shape the world until it becomes as we want it." The god declared, pointing at one of the Lictors. "You! Go and kill some people, and don't stop until We are pleased." The lictor thus appointed to these new honours bowed. Then he turned around, looked at his small flock of followers, and grinned dispiritedly.