Ratatoskr's unfathomable mass, still swaying in its dreamlike trance, sensed the intrusion before it fully coalesced.
Bubbles along its surface quickened, eyes swiveling in unison toward a point of gathering shadow midway between the eldritch bulk and Fathomi's distant sphere.
A cloaked figure materialized there, cloaked in darkness that absorbed the fringe's faint, scattered glimmers.
The cloak draped heavy and absolute, its fabric—or whatever passed for it—a void-woven shroud that trailed faint wisps of null-light, as if devouring the space it occupied.
Beneath the hood, a pallid face emerged—sharp features etched with lines of ancient weariness, eyes like polished obsidian reflecting nothing but the infinite.
Hands emerged from sleeves, gloved in the same unrelenting black, fingers long and deliberate as they adjusted the cloak's folds.
Ratatoskr's chorus voice sung in greeting, tendrils curling forward in welcoming arcs.
