Vyseriel’s eyes opened. Bright white light smothered his sight as he woke. He sat up quickly and surveyed the surroundings. Furnishings lay strewn across white marble floors; an oak drawer was broken up against a pillar, its contents spilled all around it like tiny islands in a sea of white. Framed maple illustrations were broken and shattered all about the room, their precious illustrations ruined by tears, as if savaged by a pack of starving wolves in their desperate hunt for food. Everything around the sky elf was broken or torn; even the polished mahogany table he found himself lying on had snapped its legs and rested upon the ground. He took his longbow and stood.
Careful steps carried him across the wrecked home, across the mountains of splintered wood and tarnished canvas, to what he remembered was the front door. As he went, he noticed that the walls were ravaged and peeled; where once bright paints and mosaic patterns gave warmth, there was only faded colour remaining to bring despair. The door opened effortlessly, and from the broken home, he came upon a cloud, or what one might consider being on a cloud to look like. Everything in front of him was stark white and thick with a fog that seemed to pull him down with phantom hands. His eyes saw very little, and even behind him, the fog seemed to creep past and into the house like a quiet plague. But he was not alone, not completely anyway. In the deep fog, he saw the outline of a shape.
A large shape, undiscernible at first, but then…
… it moved.