[h1][center][color=007236]ѕσmmlєr[/color][/center][/h1][hr]

Everything was moving too fast.

The world kept spinning, and people kept being born. Life and death orbited the earth, the sky swirled with swarming clouds. Everything was changing, developing, growing. This was an age of birth and an age of innovation. Even now Sommler could feel it, a fire burning at his heels. He fled through the skies, and he could feel the constellations named. He hid in the dark of the moon, until it too was named. He travelled in the eye of a child, until imagination too was named. All things grew solid, all things grew broken. Like a dead tree, things hardened mere moments before falling apart. Rotting on the inside, defined by the beholder's eye.

Was this his fate? Was this his purpose? To flee and run and hide until he could hide no more. To grow ever weaker and smaller until he was nothing. To shrink away from the light, counting the days until he himself was defined. Hardened. Petrified. Shattered.

Perhaps he was not meant for this world. Perhaps it was in the world before creation that he had been meant to thrive. Was this new form, this new consciousness, a curse? Was he allowed to feel the world even as his place in the world drew to an end?

It wasn't fair, was it? Such an existence, to live in the margin of others' lives. To exist as the shrinking shadow of civilisation. To flinch away from every new truth brought into the world. Was he even a god? Or was his nature something smaller, less significant? What cruel mind could dream such cruel things. So Sommler thought over the years, as mankind grew ever larger and greater. As they learned of fire and they learned of paint. Images formed onto cave walls. Dead stones and sticks reformed into homes. Artificial caves formed from the carcasses of the world. Metal and stone hardened into blades, hammers and spears. Chiefs and shamans and masters and slaves. Light and dark, dream and reality, truth and form. The order of the world.

Hiding in the shadow of a rose bush, Sommler came to know of something rather odd. Fire, but not that of civilisation. Fear, and death, and chaos. A failing of order.

A child stared at the bodies of it's parents. And Sommler could hear the falling stars as the child's world collapsed in on themselves. As the names came without meaning and the feelings lost their hold. As words broke down, blotted out by pain. He could see scales and twisting beasts, a creature defined and bound by no name. A beast of rage and anger and destruction, meaning carved into the world with fire and claw. And Sommler looked upon the dragon and he knew it for it's beauty, for it's strangeness. And he looked upon the village, screaming and dying and fleeing, and he knew it for it's beauty. For it was in the shattering and forming of worlds, in the screaming and the fleeing, that Sommler saw glimpses of the world as it once was. Undefined. Wild. Beautiful.

Was this it? The answer he had hoped for? A world doused in fire and destruction, born anew a millionfold?

But then came the silence. The beast had left nothing alive. Charred remains and charred buildings. And in the silence, all was nothing. For where there was no life, there was no being. Twilight was born from light and darkness. And as surely as the light of knowledge had banished him, so too was there no music to be found in silence. With a sinking feeling Sommler viewed the destroyed village, and he knew that he had lost something dear and precious here. Destruction was a means, but it was not an end. The world as it existed was not in a form hospitable to Sommler. It needed to be changed, but not destroyed. Something must be taken, and something must be given. All things in balance, balance in all things.

With a beat of mighty wings, Sommler launched himself after the dragon. With a thousand arms he caught it. With a thousand mouths he bit into it, tearing into flesh and soul. The dragon roared, but fire and claw could not find it's target. Helplessly the creature beat at the mist, but it knew not what it fought. For it fought the lack of knowing. It fought in silence, for Sommler took it's voice. It fought on the ground, for Sommler took it's wings. And as it struggled and writhed so too did he take it's sight, and sound, and the anger and pain that drove it. It's form like water, liquid in Sommler's hands. It's thoughts like clay, to be formed and set and left. Like a seed to grow, like a hope to forget, like a story to weave.

When the mist receded there was a tree where once there had been a dragon. Anger and pain carved into it's bark, claws and wings and bodies hanging from it's branches. Mindless, sightless, soundless. Forever trapped in the prison of it's own mind, the tree dreamed of the sky that it no longer knew.

And Sommler left, slithering across ashen forests and broken bodies. The earth cracked and tore beneath his feet, and twilight poured forth from the holes. His breath was mist and his eyes shone with darkness. He would bring destruction and creation. He would bring things new and old, and he would shape the world to his whims. He would step forth from the dream, and take the nightmare with him. The time for fleeing was done. The age of fire would come to it's end. Darkness and light would fall.

The age of twilight would commence.

And as he rode forth into the world, Sommler consumed all he came across. Villages and hunters and beasts and others. All would be drawn into the lost lands, where night and day were meaningless. Where time and space flowed like water and the wind echoed with mournful song. He would help them, at last, to find peace in the twilight. And if he needed to, he would drag each of his brethren screaming into this abyss of mist and formless chaos. To return the world to it's state of birth, the shape it into shapelessness. 

[hider=Summary]
Sommler realizes hiding is for wusses, and messes up a dragon. Then he decides to drag the whole world (or at least all of humanity) into the Lost Lands so that technology and knowledge can never progress.
[/hider]