There was a story of a man who took every giift of the gods as a blessing. He was fed, clothed, bathed - a life that other men wished and hoped.

The demons, jealous and greedy, wanted the man gone. To severe the connection between the man and the gods, as the next gifts descended, the demons snuck in The Bane. The Bane has the words inscribed: I am the bringer of famine, war, misery, and death. Whoever receives, deserves.

The man faltered. Afraid, lost, angery - why has the gods given him the Bane?

Shrouded by doubt, clouded with misery, all gifts were criticized. Nitpicked. For he knows he doesn't deserve The Bane, and whatever similar shall come next.

Again, he asked, why?

His wings were the first gift the gods gave him. The wings that never let him fly. He never tried, for the gods had said: it is not the time.

And for the gods sending him The Bane he feared for his life. The next moon he acted, looking at the opening in front of him, he seized his chances. He jumped. He tried his wings. He failed. He fell.

Yet he was saved - catched by a cloth in midair, avoiding fatal demise. Did the gods gave him the cloth? No. The gods wouldn't.

The cloth was slightly ruptured during his fall, and time knows when it was going to tear apart. When the inevitable will happen.

The man took a peek beyond the torn cloth. It was a black abyss.

Will the gods let him fall?

The man heard the snap. The cloth gave away.

It was never known what happened next.