Griscer's eyes were locked on the sky, his wings spreading wide across the stark white canvas while the terrain below was painted in pitch darkness. As the shift settled into his flesh, Griscer whispered to himself: "What happened to my belief... to my own realm?"
The flesh across his back began to weave itself together, bound by pale hands rising from his skin. Thread made of raw veins moved slowly, stitching through his tissues and turning them back into form. As those veins began to beat and pump warm blood, Griscer flew harder into the air, holding onto a conviction sharper than anything he had ever felt.
Suddenly, a streak of black lightning tore through the distant sky.
Griscer froze in mid-flight, his heart skipping a beat. A single breath left his lungs as his eyes widened with sudden terror. "What in hell does this mean?" he whispered. "I never allowed lightning to strike here..."
A strange numbness crept through his hands. Flying faster toward the earth, fear gnawed at his mind—afraid another bolt would strike him down, feeling his very grip over the realm slipping away. The moment his feet touched the ground, his chest was heaving. He stood completely alone over the barren terrain, staring up at the white sky. His throat felt dry, but he understood nothing of what was happening.
His wings began to fold, but above him, the canvas of the sky began to shift. A massive tapestry of human eyes began to embroider itself across the white expanse, leaving Griscer standing paralyzed in shock on his own soil, inside his own domain.
On the ground below, the pale hands sprouting from the earth wept, reaching out with bits of Griscer's torn flesh to seek a blessing from the God of Nihilism.
Above, the sky molded like liquid metal, forming an ocean of eyes looking directly into Griscer's soul. Hundreds, thousands, millions of eyes filled the heavens, staring down at him in absolute, crushing silence.
Down on the earth, Griscer broke down, weeping as he tried to wipe away his tears. The hands rising from his skin fell lifeless to the dirt, and his tears turned into thick, dark blood. His wings burst into flames, burning down to ashes that scattered over the pale hands below, nullifying his divine power and causing his entire realm of nihilism to stumble.
His screams echoed across the plain long before his throat could even form the sound. As his pale, dead skin flushed with warm, living blood, Griscer stood trembling. His body stopped burning, yet the sky held millions of eyes as silent witnesses to the birth of a human from a god.
Griscer crawled out from the pile of ash, staring down at his hands. Seeing skin that actually breathed, he rasped, "What... what in hell happened to me? I am... human?"
He pinched his forearm. For the very first time in his existence, he felt raw physical pain.
As he forced himself to stand, the bloodied grass of hands swayed with the cold wind. A dark horse stepped forward, walking slowly toward Griscer with deliberate, measured steps that echoed through the void. Griscer felt an unnatural chill. His eyes mirrored the terrifying sky above, but as the horse drew close, it spoke in the soft voice of a young child:
"Lord... please ride me. I will lead you to victory."
Griscer stared at the creature, his gaze cold. Without a word, he spat a thick slurry directly across the horse's face.
"Go somewhere else if you want to sell yourself for free," Griscer sneered. "I would never ride something like you."
With its face dripping with Griscer's spit, the horse simply laughed. It turned away, the heavy thud of its hooves echoing loudly through the barren land before it vanished into the haze.
And the eyes in the sky witnessed every deed.
Griscer looked around, turning north as he tried to recite an ancient spell in his head to force his realm back under his command: "Change the direction of the wind... push from the west to the southeast!"
Nothing moved. The wind continued to blow steadily toward the west.
Griscer's steps were slow and heavy as he pushed up a steep incline. The grass of pale, bloodied hands howled alongside the rising wind. Griscer took a deep breath—the metallic tang of fresh blood mixed with damp, wet earth, creating a sickening stench that made him gag. He looked across the dark, ruined land and found nothing.
Desperate, he began chanting his ancient rights of authority out loud: "O Blood! Serve the deserver! Rise, land, and grant your command to your father!"
Nothing changed. The eyes in the sky remained fixed on Griscer and his fallen sin.
He walked for hours, taking slow, painful steps as he watched his own realm warp around him. Massive trees began to sprout from the dirt—their trunks swollen and twisted, knotting around one another in dark, tangled shapes. Pale red leaves hung heavy over the dark earth. Exhausted, Griscer collapsed beneath one of the warped trees, folding his hands together. His legs throbbed with a burning ache he had never known.
Looking down at his bare, bloodied feet under the sky of staring eyes, he muttered into the quiet: "What is this place?... I was a god, not a wanderer trapped in my own domain."
His voice was bitter, yet it cracked as he asked the void: "Even Vaish never punished me this brutally... Who are you?! What do you want from me?! What have I ever done to you?!"
No one answered. He wept bitterly in his grief—a sorrow born not from the fear of death, which was still far away, but from complete helplessness.
Then, his stomach twisted violently. A sharp, unbearable cramp seized his lower belly. Unable to understand the sensation, Griscer clutched his stomach, grunting as he paced around in frantic circles to make the pain stop. Nothing worked.
Finally, he dropped into a crouch. A heavy mass passed from his body. Losing his balance, Griscer fell backward into the waste. A wave of physical relief washed over him, even as a foul smell filled the cold air. Using both of his weak, mortal limbs, Griscer scrambled backward, sitting in the dirt and crying in pure humiliation.
Wiping his tears, he screamed at the sky: "WHY?!"
Silence was his only answer.
Griscer sat there until the air shifted once more. The wind turned toward the east, carrying a lighter chill. Sensing the change, Griscer pushed himself up. Far off in the distance, a low chant echoed across the plains, accompanied by the thunderous stomping of marching feet.
Ignoring the agony in his legs and the foul dirt on his skin, Griscer took off, running wildly through his own broken terrain toward the sound.
High above in the sky, the millions of eyes watched him run, gasping for air like a dying beast. And from behind the clouds, the soft voice of the child laughed quietly into the stillness:
"Little do my gods know... they are about to meet a god not yet born... but so-called... Griscer is waiting for you."