#istar

You can bet I’m shrieking.

That’s a demon crawling from the pits of hell into the city that is now a tomb crawling with goblins, and there are no armies to fight this thing.

There are no outstanding warriors from the days of Morgoth that did battle with dragons and balrogs and legions of dark creatures.

There are just nine people, and only five can fight. And none of them are of any measure to fight a literal demon.

“Ai! A Balrog! A Balrog of Morgoth!”

That’s pretty freaking tame, actually.

And a very complete thought and exposition and exclamation of terror.

Know your enemies.

Balrogs have leveled civilizations. The people who have been able to kill a Balrog don’t even fill up one hand.

There’s a reason Moria has been left to its desolation for so long. There has been no one equal to the task of seeking out and battling a Balrog to the death for thousands of years.

Gandalf, one of the Maiar, of which the Balrogs were made… even he did not survive his victory. He perished and was sent back. But that hasn’t happened yet. That future hasn’t unfolded yet.

That’s a Balrog coming towards your company.

You’re just one person, picked because you’re not loud and noticeable and dragging around a big reputation, and all you have is a stick with a string. No armor, no mighty weapons. You’re kitted out to slip across the world unnoticed for as long as possible to keep a terribly brave hobbit safe.

This battle is beyond all of you and your companions.

Mesopotamian gods designs for an animation I’ve been working on lately (for my university, huh).

Hestia's Cove was once again under attack. The darkness of the night sky, the littering of demons and undead that had crashed into the old stone, it shook the genasi to his core. There were times where Zagreus could expect the unexpected, but this? The necromancer, the dragon – he'd done what he could. He'd put out a call, to old friends, to the Dreamscape – the heroes of old – they'd shown up. Zagreus had even thought of Istar, the Olympian who'd stained his thoughts like spilled wine on tapestry. Fresh, sharp, vibrant – Zag hated how he'd become. No one else between his thighs had even come close.

Still, the primal genasi continued to call the storm forth, centered upon himself and the waves that crashed against the stone walls that were built up. The demon in front of him shattered to ash when lightning struck it, and the genasi continued to pull from the static around him. Elements that called to him, the bard would continue to manipulate the undead around him and banish them from his sight. His magic pulled forth again, and he turned, eyes alight before he came face to face with the Olympian – the same one he'd hoped would hear his call in his dreams.

"Istar."