A shadow passes through the window. Half-seen, barely more substantial that dust and starlight, with a wicked grin.
The shadow sees rubble; a rush-covered floor, a dying fire. A man groaning in his sleep as his wife patches a poultice over his chest, forgetting to tend the baby in its rocking cradle, or the child shivering in her sleep.
The shadow stops, and hesitates; a ghostly hand looks over the baby once more. One that I should make my Chosen, perhaps? The small creature sneezed, oblivious in her infantality to what was going on. A close choice, but… With a sigh, the shadow waved a hand dismissively. Not this one. She hasn't the destiny the other one did.
And with that, the Crooked God left, and went westward.