"Then we shall play all day!" his original body says, grinning, as it lunges forward to embrace his disembodied spirit.<br/><br/>The first thing Draiss will notice, as he merges with his preserved, mortal body, is the intense pain. Not just the pain of the dying body, wounds still fresh and ragged, after all these years, but the pain of attempting to force his divinity into a mortal shell, much like trying to squeeze an elephant into a peanut shell; it feels as if the mortal body will merely explode at the seams, but, due to the power preserving it, it doesn't, or can't. At the same time, the knowledge floods back into him; the moments immediately following his ascension, of him, of all of them, fleeing that mortal plane amidst the tremendous explosion that annihilated everything else, the incredible pain of being trapped in their mortal forms driving them insane, overwhelmed by power.<br/><br/>He sees himself, hurtling through the deep etheral, and finding a random Material plane, luckily devoid of any developed species. Sentients, but primitive, barely intelligent. He sees himself, scouring the plane of all life, unleashing his power in wild torrents, both trying to find a release to ease the pain, and, perversely, testing the limits of his new strength. Finally, in this dead world, he breaks free of his mortal shell, like a butterfly, emerging from its cocoon, leaving it spent; in a panic, he leaves behind mortal weaknesses, along with the memory of everything that happened, and builds this vault, this tomb, for it, sealing it, and the plane, away, before drifting into the Astral, a free being, once more, conscience unclouded by the planar destruction.<br/><br/>He sees, in a flash, everything he knows about the Beyonders; a thought/image/sight of the space beyond the universe, a vast, empty void, between pockets of reality, where the normal rules no longer hold sway. The Far Realm, where the most horrifying and unnatural abominations exist, great beings for which there are simply no words to describe, where matters of size and perspective simply break down, with unknowable motives for their purpose of the dissolution of those tiny pockets of reality, struggling to hold out against the vastness of the darkness surrounding them. Only one emotion can he make out of the jumbled mess; fear.<br/><br/>With the force of a silent thunderclap, it ends, a heartbeat later, as, once again, he is ejected from his mortal shell, though, this time, it merely slumps to the ground, as dead as it ever was, the forces animating it now a part of him, once again.