Eldrithor, The Whispering Abyss, known to many Realities as Primordial Chaos, was fleeing, and it was ugly, lacking any grace that an immortal being should have.
It was not a run of speed, but of desperation. His feet, pale and long-toed, kicked up puffs of grey ash that stuck to his damp skin.
He ran with the frantic, stumbling gait of a nightmare, constantly looking back over his shoulder, his star-and-void eyes wide with a panic that was utterly new to him.
He was Primordial Chaos, the architect of randomness, the author of accident, and he was running in a straight line because his new, simple mind could not conceive of anything else. The irony was absolute.
Rowan followed. He did not run. He walked. A steady, relentless pace. A force of nature following a failing one.
