The sky watched scorned. Black wispy clouds circled overhead like a mad darkening storm.

My own transcript, melded into the sky, the dirt, the water. Written words now a perfect replica of my world in my head.

My heart, my soul, my passion.

I had poured myself so deeply into paper. Twisting out my world. My world of hopelessness, despair and destruction.

Eldrove, The Siver Vale.

Now I stand in those pages, my feet in the soil. Deep and rich, like iron and earth. A pungent musk permeated the static filled air.

Eldrove was dead, and had been for years. A planet torn away from magic, ripped from gods. Left, and abandoned.

The only things that grew drunk from blood and black water. Anything that thrived, be it beast or man, gored itself on flesh.

Castle Black laid in front of me, its remaining sharp towers peeked high above the dark clouds. It barely stood, stone half carved out from under it, leaving it teetering indefinitely. The Black throne laid somewhere between the cracked pillars, the birthplace of this world’s despair and fury. From that throne, The Hand had stretched out. From that throne, The Maw had spoke. From that throne, The Ocular had seen.

And all fell with their doings.

I stood, watching the world I’d created. The suffering I’d caused. The thick air stung my eyes, my chest heaved as I breathed in. Had I known, my words would create such a place, such a vileness. I’d have cut out my own tongue. But now I was stuck, in horror of my own making. A sickening irony, that I had earned.

There was only one whom could dispel such terror. The hell I had brought with my words. But I was unsure if he would answer my plea, my prayer. For I had not considered him originally as I had written the words.

All the gods were dead in this world. But not in my own.