From the hollow edge of a dying cosmos,where galaxies unravel like frayed dreams, a realm endures.
Oisdara.
The place where gods come to rot.
Lanterns flicker, each one a dying breath, trapped in glass.
And at the edge of oblivion, a lone Ossuary Stage stands.
Half-ruined. Bone-elegant. Its seats, carved from star-marred marrow and veined with frozen starlight, whisper beneath your touch.
And in those seats...
The dead sit.
They have waited long. Some for centuries. Some for something worse.
Some twitch. Others slump headless, their rot perfuming the void. One jaw clicks open—then shuts, like a puppet waiting for its cue.
Empty sockets peer into the dark—not with sight, but with hunger.
Then—
she arrives.
At the heart of this cathedral of ruin, she steps forward, conjured as if memory itself called her back from the grave.
A throne of horror-bones awaits, bleached by starlight and terror.
The faint rustle of silk precedes her.
Stone kisses her feet.
Her eyes—glowing violet—flicker behind a cracked raven-shaped skull mask. Her hair spills like ink through bone, cascading in mist and memory.
Her body is an elegy.
A goddess reimagined through rot.
She moves like smoke, like sin, like ceremony.
And she speaks:
"Hello, my little nightmares..."
She whispers it like a secret-already carving its place beneath your ribs
Her voice—raspy, smooth, thick with the ache of unspoken things—lingers like perfume in a crypt.
She grins.
The corpses shift.
One claps. Another moans.
The theater comes to life.
"It is an exquisite delight to make your acquaintance," she croons, her voice a velvet curse laid upon the void.
The shadows twist, shriek, and take shape—replays of worlds broken and gods undone.
She walks to her throne.
"I am Hela Grimm—older than the void, deeper than the first whisper of time. The Ascendants, the gods you've forgotten, were still young when I was carved from the scream between stars."
The corpses shudder. Skeletal heads tilt.
She leans forward. Her heel grinds against the stone.
The asteroid groans beneath her disdain.
"And you," she sneers,
"You pitiful husks... you've been dead so long you've forgotten the true gods. Not the ones fed by prayer and fear—but the ones who shaped existence itself."
Her eyes ignite.
Twin infernos of carnal, cosmic fire.
"Time. Light. Magic. Gravity. Passion. Death. These were not worshipped. They awoke.
And one among them..."
She breathes—though she does not need breath.
Only drama.
"One... became everything."
The shadows behind her swirl.
Images form: a burning crown of eyes, the clash of titans, a flame that devours light itself.
"Qaritas,"
She whispers it—like a curse, like a promise.
And the dead remember.
"Ascendant of the Void. First King. Father of gods. Husband to the cosmos. Champion of dying worlds."
The galaxy moans.
Even the corpses fall silent.
"But we begin," she says, her voice silk soaked in blood, "not in glory, nor in ruin—but in a cradle of ash."
Another lets a slick red organ slip from its fingers, wet with memory.
"Born from the corpse of a universe," she intones.
A corpse twitches. Another gasps.
"Qaritas rose after the war between the True God and the First Evil…"
She raises her hands.
The void trembles like a curtain ready to be torn.
"And from that destruction... something impossible began."
She leans close.
"This is the story of Qaritas."
Her arms spread.
"So take your seat, loves. Get cozy.
You're already dead, anyway."
A seat of starlight and jawbones awaits.
The stars part.
The curtain draws back.
Hela curls a finger between her ribs—and grins.
"When the god of Nothingness wants something..."
"...reality does not resist. It folds."