It was no eventful moment in Aethelred's long, long immortality: he'd only stretched his arms before he made his first decision.

Aethelred began by fleeing. 'Twas what he was best at, truth be told; 'twas a gift he was not entirely proud of, but a gift with which he was bestowed. His flaky soul had never felt so lost at that moment, at the moment of his freedom, that it took a while to flee at all, and when he did, he didn't know where to go. The other Children seemed as sure of themselves as they could be in the moment, but fragmented and smashed up. They reminded him of the glass figures on game boards, like so many pieces sent to be smashed against the reinforced defenses of the vague evil of their opponent.

Aethelred's flight had slowed as soon as he left the Pit.

The world, at once as small to him as his finger, was foreign and strange beneath his feet. The craggy rock that speared into his boots felt not like some earthly stuff, nor did the wind on his cheek remind him of the happy breathing of a sated country. This was a world he did not know; a world that had changed over the many, many, many years. In short, Aethelred was lost. Worse than that, Aethelred's bow had vanished.

This problem seemed to solve itself soon enough when Aethelred came upon some lusty forest of little importance save the fact that it had yew branches. Aethelred spent the day of his escape fashioning a new bow out of the finest of these, six foot long when finished, with a strip animal pelt as a bowstring. Shouldering the white bow--for which he lacked arrows--he made his way out of the forest and began to recognize his surroundings.

Skulking across the north was the distant line of the Treacherous Sea, an indigo swell that gashed deep into the land, speared as it was with bald patches and forests.

To the East were the mountains. They rose like they did, only if to explain that they were there to stay. Legend has it that the mountains will grow continuously. Aethelred's eyes traced the tallest peak; a few thousand years had not ruined the view.

To the left--some westerly point on the horizon--there was the glow of the great Capital Analos silhouetted against the setting sun. The rising spires of the city touched off the awe that all travelers experience when approaching, but it is the glow that Aethelred always remembered. No other place gave off such a light, such a positive orb of energy so densely packed that it could be called the sun. 

"This Earthly star," he mumbled to himself, "Damned Earthly star."

It was the place that he knew he could not go, at least not yet. The only approach to the city from this direction was the series of gates of the Red Palisade, and it would be easy for any Anglonian to recognize him.

"Not so easy to revere, eh?" 

Aethelred watched the city for several minutes before retiring back to the small forest, nestling his body in the crook of a tree limb. Rather than pray like usual, Aethelred slowly recounted the names of all the important landmarks in Etruscia.

"Heaven's Gate..."

A small grunt.

"Three Tree Glen... Laughing Forest... Babel-Fish Cove..."

Aethelred's eyes slowly started to close.

"...Gewisse... Port of Revene... Oldtown..."

The night air kissed his cheeks, the dewy angel descended from on high, and a tear welled in a singular eye.

"...where the hell... am I?"

And Aethelred fell asleep.