An Eye on God's Mote.

Glazed with frost that deformed the perfect, blue sphere, the eye of Anuzil sat waiting atop its pedestal.  The view was grand from the mountain peak, any mortal eye able to pick out the shimmering surface of the Raviule river winding its way across the Raviule plains many miles into the distance. Most any way that one could look was the Raviule plains, surrounding the lone peak with golden-green fields, flashing sunlight back upwards.  This day was a calm day, the weather stayed its hand from molesting the eye of Anuzil, though other days it tried with fervor to wrest it from its stone perch that was itself perched upon the grey stone of the mountain, both lightly crusted with the same frost that clung to the eye.

Nothing, in fact had moved the eye in a very long time.  A full millenia had almost arrived where it was unseen in the outside world.  Not for lack of knowledge, at least in the early years.  The eye had seen kings with their pavilions and splendor parked at the base of the mountain, striving with the might of their kingdom to reach the peak, to reach it, but each took a different route to cold, icy death.  The lucky ones eventually made it back down to the ground for burial.  Kavnequeth the Bold still lay at the bottom of a pit whose mouth opened half a mile from the top, forgotten by the world, along with his entire lineage.  The eye still recalled him, could remember the glint in his eye on seeing that pedestal framed in the morning sunlight on a day much like today, watched in pity as he stepped forward onto the snowfield and plummeted out of sight.  It was a first at the time for anyone to get close enough to meet the eye's gaze.

Some others made it closer, after a time.  One even reached the carved stone dais from which the pedestal rose.  He had tried for days to wrench the eye free, hammering at the frost , pushing, finally scratching with his bare hands until he died of the chill.  His body had been thrown off the mount by the winds a week later, bouncing off new fallen snow, leaving a dotted red trail all the way to the bottom.  Nobody mourned his passing, and the eye never heard his name mentioned on the wind.  The only thing passers by called him was "poor soul" or "unlucky bastard" on their way to their own doom among the crags.

For all this time, the eye was content to watch and wait, to bide its time.  The wizard who had put it there had promised that after a time and an age and an era there would have to be some needy fool to claim the eye.  Some talented person with just enough luck and brains and skill to reach the top and slip the eye free.  It had not yet been an era, the eye thought, so it was content to wait a while longer.  It would wait atop its mountain of stone and ice and bone for a true owner to appear again, like the wizard had been.  It was patient, even through its loneliness.