44th of Spring, 511 AV
Upon a grassy knoll, in old Denval, a man stood and stared up at the sun.
His horns marked him as an Ethaefal, of that there could be no doubt. He was dressed in clothes which may once have represented finery, but which were now torn, ragged, and abused beyond their station. They were also loose and ill-fitting. He did not belong in them, but that was quite alright, he was an Ethaefal, and a Forsaken. He did not belong in this world.
He stood upon that small, currently unused hill, and basked in the light of Syna, that perfect goddess that had betrayed him and cast him out of her heavenly lights.
He stared straight at her, straight at the sun, and he did not seem to realize that the sun burned his eyes, and tears welled up and fell down his cheeks. It was both sadness and involuntary pain that caused his eyes to water. Every moment he spent looking up was in agony, but how could that compare to the agony of this mortal earth, having been denied her light for his allotted eternity?
The first Ethaefal he had met had named him Forsaken, and for him the name seemed suitable. Not just for him, but for all the erstwhile beloved of Syna. Forsaken by her and forced to wander these tired earthly domains for some unknown eternity? Denied beauty and light? He would rather die.
But he did not know what darkness that might bring, so he only continued to stare at the sun, until the blinding pain overwhelmed him and he fell to the ground, rubbing the spots and tears from his eyes.