Rezo hasn’t had trouble noticing or finding this void storm. The singing of the void, the roar of the wind, the pounding of rain and hail, all those were easy for him to observe. He’d even braved his way into it, in spite of the way it made his skin crawl and his head throb. The monsters and the maladies were straightforward enough, really.

The real problem was finding the void tear.

The tears, apparently, would be distinguishable from the rest of the storm by the bright whirl of color that they shone upon the ground. Simple enough.

If you weren’t Rezo.

He’d spent a little while in the storm now, roaming about and refusing to admit that there was something that he was supposed to do, but couldn’t. When he’d finally retreated to look for shelter, he still couldn’t entirely frame it as giving up.

He just needed to dry himself off. And deal with the headache. And take a moment to strategize.

It is thus a very frazzled Rezo who, when he finds a shepherd’s hut tucked away at the edge of the storm, does not stop to consider that his great-grandson may be in it, and may be less than pleased to see his estranged great-grandfather burst in, resembling something like a six foot tall red-and-purple drowned rat.