There are very few of us who catch glimpses of the empty truth.
"We are awake, we are alive."
No... we were awake. Now, it seems we are asleep.
That simple glimpse is what must set them apart from the rest. The Wanderers I'll call them. For they do not seem to find a place in whatever world, whatever realm, they are.
Some even wander between these realms.
Between the lands of Anilestrya and the recent tundra of earth, all varieties of sentience can find this glimpse. And when they do, they live stories worth telling.
We are fascinated by their threads of chance, their choices that are made for them, like some roll of dice. We are fascinated and also extremely envious. And we tend to want to roll those same dice, but it seems we can only nudge the ones that have been rolled. It seems we are powerless without the smallest creature to make decisions for fate, for us.
This game. This tested iteration. For what? For an inevitable apocalypse? For the continual catastrophes?
No, it is simply that we dreamt. That they lived. And that all I can do as the pantheon's scribe is watch and wait.
For I am the realm itself… and I'm fucking bored.