Horror

[Warning: Old, unedited draft]

Squishy has not left. In fact, it has somehow made itself more comfortable. The interdimensional rift it emerged from is still floating ominously in the sky, but now it's… smaller? More compact? As if Squishy decided to shrink its horrifying, incomprehensible mass just enough to be "polite." Unfortunately, it is still staring at Argider with far too many glowing eyes.

Meanwhile, the palace is in full catastrophe mode. The high priest is currently screaming into a holy relic. The nobles who haven't fainted are loudly debating exile, divine smiting, and whether Squishy's presence is an omen of doom or just an unfortunate Tuesday.

And in the center of it all, Argider is pinching the bridge of her nose, vibrating with barely restrained suffering.

"Alright. Status report," she mutters. "Is reality stable?"

Faeralys glances at the rift. "Define stable."

"The sun still exists."

"For now."