WE stand in a valley before a mountain range, where we see a dark and sharp-beaked Roc upon a distant craggy Aerie, who is eyeing us hungrily. The mountain peaks are obscured by low-lying rain clouds. The valley is shadowed by the mountains, and the air is chill. The valley is soaked in the tension of ominous doom, a victim of the dreams of the Titans. Beneath these mountains sleep the last of the pent Titans of Old. The others were freed long since, and have returned to the stars.
Tyr unslings the Horn of Return, and holds it up at arm’s length to admire its golden face. He looks to each of us to ensure our support, and then he holds it in play position and blows into the horn. A great and mournful note like that of a fog bound tug rings out and shakes the air. For perhaps three-fourths
