In passing winter, an aged figure walks into a forest. The forest is not present, as he slowly moves through the snow. The forest will be present soon, when spring rises. For now, the forest is a field guarded by mountain.
The sage, rotting, carries three masks of stone. Three faces, each of a different expression.
The masks are older than even he, and he gently sets them onto a rock, unfettered by his decaying aura. It is not long until daybreak.
Ash has to do it in a specific order, he remembers. His forgotten friend had always been one for intricate and obscure details.
He wipes off the snow from the rock, and places the weeping face. One of their faces of certainity, the definitive decline. A tear wells in one of the mask's empty eyes, as the ritual begins.
Next, the mask of anger, or perhaps anguish. Their face of the uncertain, the obscured opinion. Mist begins to seep from the mask's mouth.
He hesitates a moment, thinking on his choice. But the cold keeps his mind from wandering, and the Eldest King sets down the joyous mask. Their other certain face, the assured acceptance.
He steps back, and gives his friend room to form.
Fog rolls in from some forgotten nowhere, and the stars appear as double, if only for a moment, as cloth wraps around the fog, and his muse awakens from their slumber.
They ask what their Starborn Lord desires from them.
Ash replies, plainly, for his voice is not of the narrative, "My old friend, I am that king no longer."
They apologize, and ask again what their Star desires of their presence.
Ash explains, slowly, admiring the way the twinkling stars seem brighter reflecting between fog and snow, "Our old way is forgotten, our names are lost. Our people are no more, and our land is devoured. And so I ask of you, to let the story end. Our last listener has heard it, and understands as much as the story will provide. It is time for it to fade." He half-heartedly hopes that they decline, as another might come for their story.
They do not decline. They say that it will be done. They ask if this means that they are free to wander again.
"Yes, I am no Lord any longer. History is free to fade as it will, with no interruption from rot."
The triple god whisper between themself, before they move close and hug their fellow divine.
The Giggling God then detach, and push against themself to stand on the rock they were summoned atop. It takes nearly a minute, before their three bodies are finally standing on top of the stone. They are still giggling, as they bow and fade.
Ash knows that they had taken the bag that hung from his belt. It was a gift for them, and he knew that they liked to take.
The aging god leans on his staff more than before, as he walks back to his home. He never did well in the cold. He was glad to get out of of it, as the sun peaked into the sky; and the last story of Vol is forgotten.
