The air in the realm of the Forgotten Tides tasted of salt and sorrow. Xylos, god of the deep, felt the familiar crackle of his world dying around him. The vibrant hues of his domain had dulled to the gray of ancient coral.
"Another one gone," rasped Theron, god of silent winds, his form barely visible in the fading light. "Lyra of the Lost Songs… just a whisper now."
Xylos finally opened his eyes, the movement heavy. He gazed at Theron, a fellow relic. "Did she sing a beautiful farewell?" His own voice felt like the echo of a crashing wave, weak and distant.
Theron shook his head, a wisp of movement. "Silence. Like most of us now."
Xylos sighed, the sound like the tide pulling away from a barren shore. He was weary of the slow fade, the quiet deaths of his kin. Their once mighty pantheon was crumbling, forgotten by a world that had moved on.
Suddenly, a jolt ripped through him, an invisible force yanking him away from the familiar decay. Colors exploded before his inner eye, a chaotic symphony of light and sound. He heard a high-pitched whine, like metal screaming, mixed with a frantic buzzing.
Then, a crushing sensation, as if he were being squeezed through a keyhole. He felt his very essence being reshaped, forced into a form alien and… small.
Darkness swallowed him whole, followed by a sharp, stinging slap that made him gasp and then wail.
"It's a boy! A scrawny little thing," a rough voice chuckled nearby.
"Hush, Bram," a softer voice scolded. "He's just arrived."
Xylos's vision swam into focus, revealing a blurry face looming above him, its expression a mixture of concern and wonder. He was upside down, wrapped in something rough and itchy. The air smelled of earth and something sweet, like dried flowers.
A boy? Scrawny? His internal outrage didn't translate into any physical power. He tried to command the air, to summon a flicker of his oceanic might. Nothing. Only a weak twitch of his tiny fingers.
"Welcome to the world, little Pipkin," the softer voice said, her face now clearer. She had kind eyes and a gentle smile.
Pipkin? The name was an insult. "I am Xylos!" he tried to roar, but only a pathetic cry escaped his lips. He was helpless, utterly and terrifyingly helpless.
Bram, a man with calloused hands and a weathered face, peered down at him. "Quiet now, little one. You've had a long journey."
Journey? Xylos thought, his mind reeling. You have no idea.
Elara, the woman with the soft voice, cradled him close. "He's so small, Bram."
"He'll grow," Bram said, though his voice held a hint of doubt.
Trapped in this fragile body, Xylos could only listen to their unfamiliar words, feel their clumsy but well-meaning touch. His power was gone, his world was gone, and he, Xylos, god of the deep, was now a crying infant named Pipkin, in a world that smelled of hay and held the terrifying weight of the unknown. His new life had begun, not with a roar, but with a whimper.