You strain to see the mortal world, but nothing comes clear. Nothing at all. A mere flick of your eyes, and continents slide past places you've never seen, never known. Where is your family? Your friends? Your country? And... what was family, again? Her name, why is it getting harder to remember? That nest you once called home, back when you were nothing but an ant... Where is it now, somewhere down there? They all look so... alike.

Eventually, you piece it together. You learn to read the threads, the countless filaments of faith stretching across the world. No wonder the gods crave worship so desperately. You tug at them, pull them this way and that, driving the ants, the little bugs, from their earthen mounds so you might recognize your own kind among them. And now you understand: this is exactly how gods work. What an endless, mind-numbing tedium.

A moment's distraction, and already the automata swarm you. Clockwork Angels, line after line, flooding you with alerts, with prayers, an endless tide. Demons gnaw at the world's edges, seizing every crack to slither through, to deface, to destroy. The stars refuse to just listen. They whisper to mortals, always spoiling the Creator's story, always trying to rewrite it. And your fellow gods? Slacking, shirking, leaving the original design in tatters. This world cannot survive a single moment without you watching over it! And the watching? It never, ever ends.

Of course. You are a god now. You can stretch your awareness infinitely, take it all in at once, render divine judgment in an instant. But every time you do, that tiny remnant of you gets hammered. Thinner and thinner, like gold leaf beaten endlessly until the face engraved upon it, the name, the memory... all of it fades.

Fear grips you. You shove the alerts aside. The prayers. All of it. You still want to be you! You still want to remember those ants — no. Those people. Your people! And then you feel them. A few threads, unlike the cold, empty prayers. Warm. Specific. Not quite faith, perhaps, but something close. Trust, if nothing else. Like a drowning man clutching driftwood, you seize them. Pour everything you have left into holding on.

Conditions:

• Slot #1 Has Tag (lock_210) = 1

Result:

• Adjust Tag (Deity) of Slot #1: Add 1
• Adjust Rarity of Slot #1: 1

Action:

• Rite: Divine Throne
• Rite: Your Emissary

You strain to see the mortal world, but nothing comes clear. Nothing at all. A mere flick of your eyes, and continents slide past places you've never seen, never known. Where is your family? Your friends? Your country? And... what was family, again? Her name, why is it getting harder to remember? That nest you once called home, back when you were nothing but an ant... Where is it now, somewhere down there? They all look so... alike.

Eventually, you piece it together. You learn to read the threads, the countless filaments of faith stretching across the world. No wonder the gods crave worship so desperately. You tug at them, pull them this way and that, driving the ants, the little bugs, from their earthen mounds so you might recognize your own kind among them. And now you understand: this is exactly how gods work. What an endless, mind-numbing tedium.

A moment's distraction, and before your divine throne crowded a countless, indescribable horde of demons.

Concepts discarded when the world was made. Elements of annihilation purged from reality for being deemed too unstable. High beings cast out by humanity after ages of defeat. And your own apostles, long since fallen to the abyss, now returned to tempt you. They clamor. They plead. In the million-year imprisonment of the Creator, wishes and promises piled up. Plans and conspiracies lay suspended, frozen. All of it now waits for you. Waits for you to take up the pen and write this world anew. To wage the Third War of Creation against the Immaculate Purity.

And yes, you can. Your power now exceeds even that of the imprisoned corrupted god who came before. If you but begin to speak, the sacred ink will write itself. Will perfect this story. This world.

But every time you reach for it, you feel yourself dissolve into that ink. Thinning. Spreading across each character, each word. Until your self, your memories, your quirks, all that makes you fades.

Fear grips you. You raise a wall of scorching flame. Shut out the clamoring horde, the writhing shapes. You will not look at them. You miss those ants. No. Those people. Your people! And then you feel them. A few threads, unlike the cold, empty prayers. Warm. Specific. Not quite faith, perhaps, but something close. Trust, if nothing else. Like a drowning man clutching driftwood, you seize them. Pour everything you have left into holding on.

Conditions:

• Slot #1 Has Tag (lock_211) = 1

Result:

• Adjust Tag (Deity) of Slot #1: Add 1
• Adjust Rarity of Slot #1: 1

Action:

• Rite: Divine Throne
• Rite: Your Emissary

As your very essence ascended, the twin bound to you transformed with you. All that power. All that dominion. And the thing you tried so hard to flee, the excess divinity, it all flowed into him instead. In the end, you saved what you could. Made of him a blazing, brilliant torch. A sign of your divinity in the world below. And a fire that consumes the last proof that you were ever mortal.

Conditions:

• Slot #2 = 1

Result:

• Adjust Tag (Saint) of Slot #2: Add 1
• Adjust Tag (Protagonist) of Slot #2: Assign 0
• Change Slot #2 Name: Saint
• Adjust Rarity of Slot #2: 1
• Adjust Tag (Physique) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Charisma) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Wisdom) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Stealth) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Combat) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Sociability) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Survival) of Slot #2: Add 2
• Adjust Tag (Magic) of Slot #2: Add 2