A figure stands in the distance, houppelande sleeves billowing in the wind; he stands in awe of the Colossus Cluster, the only remains of the great giants of yore.

The Stranger flaunts an intricate staff, the very one responsible for this, reunited with its victims at last. The armor-clad lad who bears it is the closest thing left to a king.

After The Annihilations, the world deteriorated into a state of sullen despair. The air is thick with humidity, fog, and ash as the cracks of the parched gray earth reach for the rain.

The Stranger finds the head of the great creature through the mist, pressing his nose against its own. He feels a strange connection with these beasts, though also the sense that they do not want him here.

A shiver runs down his spine as his gaze flicks to the 3 crows resting on the giant’s index finger and the lone magpie ominously perching on the thumb.

Bad signs of death and sorrow.

The Stranger mutters to himself, “I must go.”