We all came out to Montreaux, the gaunt elder of a dozen tribes. He’d been around so long, we’d all forgotten which tribe he originally came from. We didn’t have much time.

Our hope was burning to embers, sure to die with an awful sound. The ravagers had come to the Southern lands. When it was all over, we had to find another place. Montreaux had led us here, on the Lake Geneva shoreline, or so it was called in the olden times.

The work was hard in a place that was cold, empty, and bare. With a few red lights, a few old beds, we made a place to sweat. But as the cold winds of November began to blow we’d come for a few last words of wisdom, inspiration for the dark of winter to come. But his words, I know, I know we’ll never forget.

Slowly rocking, eyes grayed with time, he rasped sadly, “Bad portents, my children, bad portents. Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky.“

Heads bowed, we silently nodded acknowledgment. It was time to move on. The ravagers were coming again.