At the edge of the desert of black sand hunkered a dead city of black glass. The people who called themselves Whisperers made their home within those strange ruins and beneath them. Two of their initiates greeted the scholar at the outskirts, or perhaps met was a better term, as they stood, eyes averted and heads bowed under cowls of undyed cloth, simply imposing themselves in his path.

"We mean you no harm and no ...er ... intrusion," Enoch said.

The two Whisperers gave no indication that they heard his words, no acknowledgment.

"But we need water, and shelter... food only if you can spare us a meal..." Enoch faltered as the Whisperers stood like statuary. "Only... only until the storm passes. We'll be gone after that."

There was no answer.

The Grub stirred in its sling against Enoch's chest and quietly trilled. "We bring an Offering to the Bearer of Lost Voices. To Ikon, the Phantasmal."

To this, the Whisperers raised their heads. Their parched lips moved, but Enoch barely heard them above the wind that whistled across walls of cracked black glass.

"Praise be to He who speaks for the silent. May we be worthy to shelter in the shadow of His wings."

As they turned, one leaned close to whisper to Enoch.

"Follow."