You're what happens when two substances collide

[noteasybeingblue]

The longer she dwells in this world, the more she despises it.

No one will see her.

A vengeful God-King is not something so easily ignored. She is destructive and regal and demands the attention of all who would worship her. But there are no worshipers here. There is nothing here, nothing at all, just endless swarms of humanity that apparently care nothing for Illyria the Merciless, Ruler of the Primordium, even as she grows ever more indignant and ever more enraged and ever more desiring in her need to do violence.

The vermin are to remain untouched. The vermin are to remain untouched.

So she will not touch them. She will not touch anything here. Illyria will not remain here any longer than is necessary, even if it has long since ceased to become necessary.

The mortal-built bridge will be her focus point. She stretches one shell's hand out, testing the scintillating tear of unclassifiable dimensional energy against her vessel. There is resistance there, a barrier intended to prevent any motion beyond the isolated pinprick of too-small, too-confining space. If she can reach past it, she can escape this metaphysical prison and thus seek out the way back to her world.

The God-King's shell smiles, small and self-satisfied. Nothing can hold a god.

She reaches further. The crackle of foreign energy against hers is unbearable. And then further - the shearing, rifting edge of the barrier begins to screech against her being.

She will test these waters no further. Illyria launches herself at the barrier, driving forward with fists and blazing intent, and the strength of the unfamiliar matter rips at her, eliciting a blistering, tearing roar of utmost pain and displeasure. It is unbearable. It is intolerable. But Illyria is not yet through. She will continue driving at it, regardless of the shrilling agony webbing its way through her shell, into the core of what she is -

The God-King's strength, once glaring and eternal, runs out. She no longer possesses the will or instinct to even draw herself back. Her shell howls, the pain of simply being is exquisite and unquantifiable, and Illyria falls away from the torment of the conscious world.

do not taunt happy fun ball [open to all]

[whofrownedthisface]

The sound of the Doctor's arrival in the Ramble ought to be much more catastrophic than it is. Much more fitting for a crashlanding than the anti-climactic whump of a bird-boned body hitting the ground, followed by the collectively stunned silence of park and Doctor alike. Quickly broken by a convulsive intake of breath and couple of coughs, as the Doctor rolls into a slightly less crumpled heap, recovering from having the breath knocked out of him on impact. His attitude is that of someone who has just lived an entirely foreseen consequence, and would absolutely do it again given the opportunity.

He had taken every precaution, hadn't he? Well, every precaution except not seeking out the rift. And he hadn't even done anything to it yet. Not much, anyway. Just some preliminary prodding. The Doctor gets up, pats himself down gingerly, an inventory of bodily integrity as well as pocket contents. All the important things, screwdriver, yo-yo, and--yes, chalk. The geography of the area is right for rocky outcroppings, and the Doctor means to find one and write on it for awhile. First order of business: • Do not prod the rift.