In the realm of Nyarlothep, He Who Wore Many Faces, there was a gnashing of teeth and howls of anger. The chosen Handmaid had betrayed her master! She had not killed the Sun’s beloved student! She had not done her part as the wedge in the cracks of the Elements!
But the complaints of the slithering darkness were silenced by the realm’s master. He set himself down on the outcropping at the heart of his courtyard and shed his pony disguise.
There was no need to be upset, he informed the air and the watchdog Naur who prowled his holding. No, to lose a minor skirmish against a foe like Celestia—even in her diminished state—was not a tragedy. The opening volley had not laid them low. So what? The next might, or the next. There would always be opportunity in some distant age. The Handmaid had failed, but she was a weak creature, afraid to act and do what she wished so ardently to do. The lesser, almost parasitic things that crawled on the surfaces of the planets were such contradictory creatures. He liked that about them sometimes. This time annoyed him.
No matter.
Nyarlothep could wait for another chance.