"Damn weather—wonder which goddess got her heart broken to cry this much," muttered what one might describe as an energetic-looking old man. His hair was a striking white, his posture remarkably upright. The only clues to his age were the silver in his beard and the quiet aura of years long past.
His stride leisurely, his eyes sparkled with the mischief of youth, as if the storm were an old friend come to share a story.
All around him, the forest stirred. Tall trees swayed with the weight of the downpour, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. Mist clung to the underbrush, curling around gnarled roots and moss-covered stones. The earthy scent of wet bark and damp soil filled the air, and every now and then, a distant branch cracked—perhaps from wind, or something else watching just out of sight.
If a third party was present, they would be surprised to note that although he walked amidst the heavy downpour he was completely dry, the rain seeming to part around him as he continued his stroll.
Then, cutting through the rhythm of the rain came a sound—fragile, wet, and unmistakably human.
"Waaah... waaah... WAAAH..."
The cry, so faint amidst the rain it was nearly lost to mortal ears, stood out glaringly—like a message etched across the sky."
The old man's brow furrowed. That wasn't the cry of a baby merely cold or hungry—it was the sound of something lost. Or luring.
Following the sound, he was led through twisted roots and rain-slicked leaves, deeper into the forest, until he reached a small clearing veiled in mist—where the cry seemed to hang in the air, louder now, as if it were coming from everywhere and nowhere at once."
There, cradled in the hollow of an ancient tree whose trunk had split open like a wound, lay a bundle wrapped in deep violet cloth. The fabric shimmered faintly, resisting the rain as if enchanted. Within it, a baby—eyes shut tight, cheeks damp with tears—wailed with the voice that had pierced through the storm.
But it wasn't the child's presence that stopped the old man cold.
It was the faint glow radiating from the baby's skin. Gold, soft, and pulsing like a heartbeat. And behind it, Ancient symbols, sigils long forgotten, even the old man hadn't seen them in centuries.
"By the gods," he whispered, bending closer. "Ah… fate truly is a whimsical thing. No matter—since we've met, little one, our paths are bound."
He reached out with weathered hands,
Careful not to cause the child any discomfort." As his fingers brushed the edge of the violet cloth, the crying ceased. The forest fell silent, unnaturally so—no rustling leaves, no patter of rain, just stillness, thick and expectant.
The baby opened its eyes.
Not blue, nor brown, but a swirling hue of silver and stormclouds, as if the very sky had been captured behind its lashes. The old man inhaled sharply.
"Strange little one, eh?"
The infant blinked slowly, then smiled—not the reflexive twitch of a newborn, but something older, knowing.
In that moment, the mist around the clearing
shifted.
In that moment, the mist around the clearing shifted. The world seemed to pause—time itself holding its breath. Even the rain hung motionless in the air, suspended like droplets of glass.
"This is going to be fun " he mused, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.