Where did he end?
The question walked with him across the storming dark of THE Krazhor-Nul, as it had walked with him across every era since THE Wyld. His titanic body moved through the raging skies wrapped in obsidian flames, fossil ranges and drifting mountains sliding past beneath him, and the question turned itself over in his silence.
He was Existence. This was not philosophy, it was anatomy! His Pantheon took the shape of whatever surrounded him because whatever surrounded him was, in the deepest accounting, already his. The bone seas were him. The storm was him. The million-mile trees and the cursed rain and the ancient graves, all of it existence, and all of existence…him.
And yet.
