'We'll reach our destination before sundown, Mr. Kötz.' 'But do you really believe what that noble told us? That there's a land in the wastes for these refugees to eke out a living?' The mercenaries' worries weren't without reason, Kötz understands that. But he has no grounds to doubt that young Leithanian noble. The self-professed Hyacinth Count's Arts have saved countless people in the midst of war, and he claims he can lead these people to a new home. Such kindness is hard to come by. Kötz turns to look back at the procession of refugees. Leithanians, Siracusans, and those driven from their homelands by conflict, now exiles of the wastes. The despairing crowd trudges slow on the barren ground. Their destination, a land that exists only in legend. And far in the distance, a colossal glut of buildings appears on the horizon before them. When the procession reaches its destination, the people let out a collective sigh at the sight. Amidst a swathe of ruins, a number of constructs tower, goliaths near a hundred meters each, their sensational metal structures sheltering from the setting sun. Yet Kötz lapses into silence. The lofty metal monoliths strike no sense of wonder in him. In his own world, such buildings stood on every corner. Only their dimensions speak to a difference. The colossal parabola of the antenna dish is riddled with holes, its pedestal imposing firm and straight in its root upon the earth. The wastes' bitter winds bore through those holes, giving rise to a terrifying whistle. Under these ancient buildings, the low mumble of machinery still sounds, the impression cast that some equipment remains at work. This radio telescope of such preposterous size is clearly not of this age. 'So this is that land where the titans sound...' 'Do you see that big bowl that's fallen over there?' The Hyacinth Count points far off at another telescope, collapsed in disrepair. Its parabolic antenna, size encapsulated in tens of meters, lays turned over on the ground, forming a sturdy shelter. 'Quite a number could fit in there.' 'There's a spring nearby, and according to recent records, there's been very few Catastrophes in the area.' 'So, why has nobody settled down here?' 'Because they fear this place.' With a discontented chuckle, the young Count explains. 'Sargonians think these buildings are the remnants of a long-gone disaster.' 'Minoans believe this place is cursed.' 'But as a scientist, I have no faith in any of this unfounded hearsay.' The refugees turn through the building's remains, finding in the age-old ruins a place of respite. This is to be their new home. Night falls and Kötz sits alone, high on the ancient building, gazing at the complex, each part of it just as foregone. What went into the making of these vestiges, such that they persist from innumerable years to this very day? The people of this world once looked with hope to the starry skies, but what was it that happened afterward? He looks across the wastes stretching from near to far. Even further off, the twin moons gently rise.