I love how every example of an Old God in fiction come in two flavours
The breath is the storm, and their pulse the dance of the heavens, and the stars sing a song of them, for they await their dread and formless self, older than names, to drag them into their embrace, and I fear they may not be long
Some guy who used to be a big deal and maybe ruled over a grove somewhere until a Catholic monk showed up and hit him in the knees with a stick, and now they're completely irrelevant








