The Big Applesauce

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.

She will rend them.

She will shatter their skulls, play glorious harmony with their spines, rip through skin and muscle to crush the beating hearts within, and if they lack hearts she will grind to dust their brains, and if they lack brains she will shred their miserable vermin bodies, and she will wreak beautiful destruction upon everything she sees.

She cares not of what or who she strikes and damages and destroys, only that she deliver destruction unto all of them for incurring her wrath. She may lack the grandeur of her true form and the full might of her true glory but she is still Illyria, God-King and regal chaos incarnate, and they have made her wrathful.

All of Hell has risen to meet them. Illyria will make memorable their reception. She wishes violence, she revels in it, she prides herself in her methodical infliction of it.

And despite it all, still she grieves.

She grieves.

Illyria is grieving.

It is an emotion, pathetically human, welling up from within her or the shell she occupies, she cannot tell, and it is so profoundly alien that she has no choice but to accept its presence. And seethe.

Thus far she finds the sensation of grief to be disagreeable. And no amount of violence seems to rectify it. She refuses to believe that it is not rectifiable. It is a taint, a sickness upon her shell, and sicknesses are rectifiable. All things are rectifiable. And if they are not Illyria makes them so.

She will administer pain and bloodshed until this also becomes so.

There is a shift of energy behind her but she pays it no heed; the energy here is ever-constant-changing and always has been, and if it has been more volatile on this day it is because the forces of Hell have been set slavering upon this world, so Illyria dismisses it. She will focus on her current work - namely, enticing a lowly demon to part ways with its spine. Forcefully.

She rips the inconsequentiality free with a glorious spray of blue-tinged gore - a truly neon specimen of demon, as would befit its Pit-origins - and stands, victorious, gruesome trophy in hand, and then her world changes.

It wrenches in her as it happens, the rip-burn of dimensional tearways screaming past the whole of the God-King’s being, and all she knows is that her world of violence is gone.

In its place is one of peace and clouds and rain, and Illyria can sense them, vermin, everywhere, crawling on every surface, tiny and mindless and simple and everywhere. They are still here, carrying themselves like a blight over the world that was once hers by right. Disgusting. Grating. Virulent.

She does not know where she is, nor does she care. She just wishes to return. But she is no longer the all-powerful and feared being she was, this universe no longer simply aligns to her, she cannot tear through the walls and barriers between dimensions so easily, the voids remain closed to her, and this world will not succumb to her will.

Illyria stands in imperious revulsion, gore-spattered and rain-drenched, disembodied spine dangling, and bitterly wishes a return to her world of Hell.

[ooc: if your character is running into Illyria after she's met Aziraphale, she will be significantly less bloody and scary-looking courtesy of unexpected angel deep-cleaning services]