Essentially alone, sitting on the shore of some depopulated continent and listening to the song of the stars. From somewhere comes the thin sound of prophecy, Azathothian pipes from a leveled city.

It becomes painfully apparent that somewhere, somehow, a wrong step was taken after nodding to Nasht and Kaman-Thah, and that these are not the familiar dreamlands of so many nights' imaginative rest. This is some nightmare, a Roerich landscape no man was ever meant to visit, much less become imprisoned by.