Before The Signal began to flood every corner of this world, there was still time for magic. Amidst ancient temples wrought of basalt, we wondered what a life without magic and mysticism would be. How could the highest form of human expression be replaced?

We, the druids, gathered in those final days. We resolved to look ahead and wait for it all to pass. Together, within the Sacred Circle of Stillness, in the deep forest, beneath the watch of the stars. It was necessary to cherish each of our last moments.

None know precisely how or why it happened, but soon we all perceived the devastation to come. It became impossible to hear the birdsong, the fall of rain, or the crackle of fire in the same way. The Signal was upon all things, and it seldom allowed a space for silence—neither for the ear nor for the mind. Connection with the spirits was severed.

Losing ourselves in the sky became our last refuge. The stars were as familiar as they were mysterious. We once believed we could read the future in the constellations, but when our powers faded, all we could perceive was a mocking smile in the distant dark: "We warned you."

Our unity was that of aged friends, reminiscing of better times and telling worn tales of a world that was no more. We clasped hands old as basalt ruins. Hands aged, from bodies grown old and draped in tatters, bones twisted by damp. Our elder smiles were etched with the deepest defeat of the ages.