Wandering in a plane of darkness. Mist and shadow swirling are the only visible inhabitant. Something watches her from afar. Her fiery wings illuminate the landscape. Darkness flees before her wrath. But one penumbral being remains. Deeper than the old one and warmer than the cold, this one relishes in her power. A voice speaks from the mass of tentacles. Cacophony is his/its/their only constant. A thousand, fifty, or even 3 voices at times. Pure chaos exudes from this one. Her response is brighter. Brighter than anything the deep one has seen. She rises off the ground, blazing like a star, and speaks his language. A pact is struck, written in black ichor and signed with molten blood. No helping hand this time, only the cold tentacle of entropy. His/its/their laughter echoed across the wasteland, and her hand was all fire.