On the Precipice of the Heavens
T he gray entity stood on the edge of a precipice, overlooking the heavens.
The expanse of stars glimmered with clarity and power, among them the newly formed constellation that had been the god-being, Salvistar.
Few among his kind, despite their unending lives, had existed long enough to have witnessed the birth of new stars, or their death.
A cord of pulsing magic clung to the entity’s back and anchored him to a layer of the world that was all gray earth and sky and had done so since the shattering that had forced him into exile.
In the reckoning of time on the plane of reality, it had been close to six years ago, the shattering, but felt more like a millennium.
He’d pried filaments of etherea from his anchoring cord and coiled them like rope.
Upon his exile in the world of gray, he had gathered and hoarded whatever magic he could find.
It was dull magic, hard to work, but he was able to remake himself, not as he had been, but as a new version of his form.
Far from perfect, it nevertheless gave him a body after a fashion with which to carry out his desires.
The cord streaming into his back fed him, held his pieces together, but also imprisoned him.
If he tried to leave the gray world for the plane of reality it would snap him back, and to remove it would weaken and unmake him once more.
Inspired by the idea of anchoring, he had created another cord strong enough to penetrate the layers of the world and planted a holdfast in the castle of Sacoridia’s king, allowing him to briefly visit the plane of reality to collect news and spy on Karigan G’ladheon.
This cord rooted itself in his chest and fed on his energy in order to remain anchored.
Because of the energy required, it limited his ability to manifest fully, giving him an apparition-like appearance.
It was worth it, the ability to move across the worlds, to see the blue of the sky and the colors of the earth, however briefly, and to gather information and spy.
The rope he had made shimmered as it ran across his hands. It would serve a different purpose than the cords that sustained him. He smiled beneath his hood. He could lash it whiplike or tie slipknots to form a noose. If he wished, he could weave it into a net.
He possessed Salvistar’s heart, which was, in truth, Westrion’s, but it was not enough.
He also needed the death god’s avatar in order to recover entirely from the shattering and end his exile, so once more he could travel freely between the layers of the world and carry out his desire to return the Earthly plane to an etheric world in which his people had once thrived among their many kingdoms.
His opportunity to repair all that had been lost was nigh for the avatar was falling and falling and falling through the heavens.
He parted his rope into thinner strands to weave them into a net. He would stand on the precipice of the heavens and cast his net among the stars to snare the avatar even as she fell.