Ren stood trembling, his soul-form small and naked before this ancient being. The low-frequency hum of the Sire's presence vibrated through his essence like the grinding of entire universes.
"This curse mark upon your neck and arm," the Sire intoned, his voice a chorus of ancient monks echoing directly inside Ren's soul, "I cannot rid you of it."
Ren's heart — or the echo of it — clenched painfully.
"You may wonder… if I helped shape all things, why can I not simply erase this mark? Why do I not know every incident that unfolds across the realms? The answer is simple, little thread: The things I did not create… I cannot unmake. Every creation obeys its creator. This curse was born from forces older than even the roots of this Tree. It belongs to the void between voids. To the hunger that existed before light."
