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Imca: You have the Winterhold College correct? And you have bloody powerful magic dragons, can mages here combine their power? If so, gather all the mages you can, put all the power into one large spell... and just wipe this continent here.
(Imca points to the one with the knife in it.)
Imca: Off the map. Show people what happens when any one entity tries to control the world like the Thalmor are trying...
Aurora: ...well... that would probably end the war, but...
Imca: But?
Aurora: ...but would that really be worth it? Eradicating an entire Island full of not only Thalmor, but also civilians, just to prove a point?
Imca: There are two things about this: you first deliver an ultimatum, and start somewhere a bit smaller to show them that you can, if they still don't back out you work up.
Imca: ....
Imca: Committing such an action, will change the progression of history, as all other nations will come up with their own variations of this, while in the short term it is a horrible thing to do, in the long run it renders large scale war a thing of the past as no nation is willing to push the button, so to speak.

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"Have you seen a modern leviathan, Elwood?"
"Yes, I witnessed one... feeding. At the base in San Diego."
Doughty could recall it with an awful clarity - the great finned navy monster, the barnacled pockets in its vast ribbed belly holding a slumbering cargo of hideous batwinged gaunts. On order from Washington, the minor demons would waken, slash their way free from the monster's belly, launch, and fly to the appointed targets with pitiless accuracy and the speed of a tempest. In their talons, they clutched triple-sealed spells that could open, for a few hideous microseconds, the portal between universes. And for an instant, the Radiance of Azathoth would gush through. And whatever that Color touched - wherever its unthinkable beam contacted earthly substance - the Earth would blister and bubble in cosmic torment. The very dust of the explosion would carry an unearthly taint.
The Unthinkable, Bruce Sterling

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Jack Parson's box became a warhead.
Nothing could hold it.
A blast, an acceleration, the distillate, the spirit, the history, the weaponized beauty went critical. It unfolded. A whimper, a shriek, the burr of insect's wings, the tolling of a bell, a city-wide outrushing, an explosion, a sweep and stream and a nova, megaton imaginary, of random and of dreams. That winnowing wind of Lefebvre, Brassai, Agar, Malkine, Aline Gagnaire and Desnos, Valentine Hugo, Masson, Allan-Dastro, Itkine, Kiki, Rius and Boumeester and Breton and all of them in all the world and all that they had loved all that they'd ever dreamed up. A fucking storm, a reconfiguring, a shock wave of mad love, a burning blast of unconsciousness.

There, in the chamber that had once been known as the Pottery, Elphaba stands in the fineries of her war regalia, hundreds of hard-faced magicians and scientists awaiting her word.
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And in that deathly silence, Elphaba whispers, "Open the Slamming Door."
Cackling gleefully to himself, Dr Lintel hurries over to a complicated fusion of machine and magic circle, and begins pressing buttons and pulling levers, chanting all the while. As he does so, the researchers begin hurrying away, carrying as much of their work with them as possible, for they know that whatever happens next will change everything...
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