Nightfall has now come. After a couple of days of travel and poor luck in hunting, Sylvanus succeeded in finding the trail of a wild boar. There is now nothing left of it save bones, but the fragrance of roast boar hangs in the still air.

There is no wind and no cloud; the night is perfectly still. The stars can all be seen, and the moon is shining brightly, casting its silvery blue light through the trees. Ceinwyn is now sleeping; with her dark, black hair, her pale — almost luminous — skin, and white robe, she looks like a marble statue.

Nathella is perched in an ancient and gnarled tree; she begins to call forth sound from her lyre, and to sing. It would be wrong to say that she has broken the stillness, for her melody does not fight the silence as an enemy, but complements it, takes it as harmony. The sharp ears of Sylvanus, awake and nocking an arrow at the snap of a twig, are not disturbed by the song; his muscled chest continues to slowly rise and fall. The haunting melody continues from last night as if it had never been interrupted; it tells of something great, something beyond, something awesome which has been tasted, and yet eludes.

Ola is sitting, encompassed by utter calm. He is listening — to Nathella's song, to the song of the stars, to the silence.

You, also, grow still, and dream of a great, deep, and serene sea.

You are awakened by the fingers of dawn brushing across your face. You can go back to sleep, or you can awaken your companions.