[hr]While his siblings and esteemed ancestors were quarreling up a storm Yllwythyr felt relaxed to be in contact with the soil. It felt nice, different. He experienced his non-existent years melting away and his not so elderly bones being rejuvenated. The formless void and the indiscernable white fog were interesting at first. Their potential essentially limitless their promise fascinated the elderly looking young god. Yet ultimately they were nothing, they could not be touched and staring at the void gave him no pleasure. This soil, on the other hand, was nice. It was cool to the touch yet warm underneath the sun. It could actually be touched. Having a form was a relief. It might've limited one's potential yet the results were so rewarding. Yllwythyr preferred a potential that could be grasped by his own two hands rather than some ephemeral, untouchable void. In that moment he already made his decision. With a gesture which took exceptionally large effort of him, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

[color=olive][b]Yllwythyr tries to consolidate his claim over the Dominion of Earth[/b][/color]