That cannot be concealed, and many gods turn their attention from Zon-Kuthon's vault to stare back at Absalom again in sudden and considerable alarm.

And Fe-Anar who has become something more than he was,
not from having touched the Starstone, but from learning the truth of his own character,
gives a brilliant imperishable Radiance to Erecura and another to Dispater,

(All three of the bearers having been bound around with a vastly carefully-composed oath of mutual interest and thorough honest cooperation, whereof which Dispater has sworn from sixty-six different angles that He has not tried and will not try to pull anything sketchy or unexpected,)

And she-who-was-Aerecura, much diminished but still not just an ordinary god,
reaches into the shattered Starstone and draws forth the indestructible awfulness that lies at its center,

the cysted remnant of a stillborn universe, of a flawed and failed Creation,

a thing of indeterminate size, at once light enough to hold, and heavy enough to bore through a moon,

and the awful green brilliance that shines out from it sure looks poisonous, and would dissolve even a god if they were unprotected by the Radiance that stabilizes Creation,

but the three of them hold Radiances, and they withstand it.

Dispater opens another Gate then, and in that dread green brilliance it seems to gape wider than even a god's Gate should.

And the three of them pass through that Gate to a place that should have been less simple to reach, into the heart of the Gardens of Erecura.

There was a great golden Ship buried beneath those Gardens, but it need not be raised; for now there is a better alternative, that was also prepared-for.  All those who'll go have stayed, and those who'll stay have gone.

Erecura raises the hand holding the Starstone's poisonous center high, even as Her other hand grips a Radiance;

green brilliance flows about Her form as though She wore a cloak of it, twists about Her head in twin pointed vortices; and the local distance metric deforms around that power, light wavering and distorting and showing glimpses of gaps into starlight through the haze in which She's cloaked;

And with a huge crack that echoes through nine layers of Hell, She rips out the Gardens of Erecura from the fabric of Dis;

Fe-Anar has by then comprehended somewhat of how to wield the Radiance of Stability, and he lays it about himself, blazing protection to match and neutralize the poison;

And Dispater lays one of His hands upon the green brilliance, while Radiance flares white-gold about His other hand that He may not die; and Gate after Gate after Gate begins to gape impossibly wide about them.

There is an ark that is leaving Creation, before it might perish; and those who have longed through ages to leave it, now come to pay their oaths of passage to the captains.

Now at this point, every sensible god will finally panic:

They will coalesce Themselves wholly, forsaking all other matters, and turn Their entire attention toward whatever triggered Erecura to do that:

For to the ancient gods it is a known fact about Erecura's exile, that if Creation itself is seriously threatened, Erecura may break Her exile for a greater exile: may flee Hell and flee Creation, with Her stolen energy and any others She chooses to protect with it, sith that any tiny remnant of Pharasmin Creation might survive.

There's a difference between interesting and important moves being made within your divine game, which is how it is for three new gods to arise or Iomedae to consume Zon-Kuthon; versus gods realizing that They personally may be about to die, along with all those things in which They hold Their value.

They don't need to know the specific alarming details, to panic.  They are gods, and it has become predictable to Them that They will learn alarming details later.  They gather Themselves now, They are ready to spend vast desperate resources now—

But by the time They are paying that much attention, all Their real chances to intervene, now lie in the unreachable past.  By the time They finally notice the true danger, all of the critical events are already done and over.

For the way of fighting all the gods at once, if you insist on doing that, is to make very sure They have lost before They awaken to Their danger and act, at all.

The moment when the gods finally panic has been scheduled, and it comes after it is already too late.

A lesser god looks up from where He stands near the base of Pharasma's Spire, that is the foundation of the Great Beyond; He has passed in a flash by distant suns and the surface layers of planes, and hidden away encapsulated strangelets and other catastrophes, whose dead-man triggers are in Golarion where prophecy is shattered; and near about the base of Pharasma's Spire there are now hidden the frozen potentia of thunderbolt singularities and relativistic death waves, true-vacuums and single-quarks and assorted other kinds of physics disaster.

(He didn't actually know that he'd be able to do it, even in his last mortal minute.  He'd read some nontechnical gruesome-stories about physics disasters as an overly interested child, he had that much reason to know that possible ways existed in principle.  But while still mortal he carefully avoided thinking about physics disasters in any mathematical detail, or whether his future god-self could implement them with divine magic, just in case those thoughts would have been legible to Otolmens.  He touched the Starstone in a leap of blinded faith, on that last step; trusting that his future self would solve those physics problems, given that dath ilan solved them and that he knew all the base equations.)

And now He sends to all the ancient gods to whom He is not utterly opposed, and to all the once-mortal gods whose address He can see, and to Pharasma Herself, this legible thought:

Coming before you as an envoy sent of Elsewhere, but foremost in my own person and purpose, I have placed my death-grip around Creation's throat.

There is too much pessimization of utility functions going on inside this subregion of Reality.  I consider it better ended, than continuing as it is; for so would wish those souls in Hell that still can think; and my own unshared and unshareable experience suggests that those consciousnesses ending in one place would continue in another.

That's my batna.  Let's negotiate.

And to Pharasma Herself, privately:

A message from a tiny little mortal named Tarnish, who You thought could never do You any injury and whom it was safe for You to ignore:

Fuck you.