The Cerulean Storm

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Most men called it shadow, that dark stain visible only as an absence: the cold gloom cast upon the ground when their bodies blocked the light of the crimson sun. Wiser minds referred to it as the Black, and they knew that it separated everything that existed from everything that did not. It lurked just beneath the surface in all things, like the leathery shell of some great egg, buried shallow and about to hatch. Outside lay the barren mountains, the endless sand wastes, and the bleak, windswept plains that were the world of Athas. Inside lay the Hollow, filled with the languid albumin of nothingness.

Within this colorless ether floated the bones of an ancient skeleton. It lay curled into a tight ball, its shoulder blades fused into a large hump and its gangling arms wrapped around its knees. The skull seemed remotely human, though the slender jawbones, drooping chin, and flat cheekbones insinuated that this was not entirely true.

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