In an alternate timeline, ...
Ixidor was alone now. Banished into the wastes by the Cabal for his failure in the pit fights, he didn’t even have the strength for tears. He had lost everything: his money, his dreams, and most painfully of all, his one love, Nivea, slain at the hands of the cruel Phage. All that was left was himself, his thoughts, and the infinite seas of sand.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, unmoving. He wasn’t conscious of the movement of the sun, the passing of time. His thoughts and consciousness seemed to flicker out, then renew themselves, more than once. All he knew throughout was his pain. And as an artist, he knew only one way to let out pain: creation.
As he gathered his strength and began his work, he already knew something was different this time. There was his renewed strength, for one. There was also the brightness of the images in his mind, red-hot and flaring, alive almost from the moment he conceived them. But most of all, there was the rage, burnt into every inch of his being. Rage against the Cabal, against the fates, and especially against Phage…. His limbs moved with almost supernatural speed, twitching and shivering with the pent-up anger animating his once frail form. He could feel a scream well up inside him, a scream that encompassed all of this heat inside him, but no sound would be sufficient. He worked, faster and faster, sweat running down his face, almost blinding. He pushed that scream into his arms, his hands, his fingertips, as they pushed and prodded at the very fabric of reality. He pushed and pushed until the scream began to ring in his ears, at first soft, but increasing in volume and pitch until it threatened to shut out the rest of the world and leave him deaf, forever leaving that cry echoing through his brain.
A wisp of heat tickled his face, and he looked up. The scream was real, all right, and it was coming from the throat of the figure floating before him, a figure that had not been there moments before, framed by the setting sun. She was beautiful, glorious, her face twisted in a frenzied anger, her every muscle bursting with that glorious rage, dying to release it all on a wicked world.
Then came her first words, ringing clear and hot. "What do you want me to destroy first, my maker?"
Thus came Akroma, Angel of Fury.