The old misanthrope, Archimedes, an ancient grumpy kind of miserable elf, had spent generations down on the coast behind Palimpest, praying on unsuspecting waders and fisherman. These were simple men and women who drank rum as they dragged their nets and talked of insurrection. But lately, as he lulled them into their stupor with songs of sorrow and longing, and smeared the bioluminescence across swollen lips, leaving them writhing and tormented with unfinished dreams and forgotten tasks, he no longer felt the same deep satisfaction. What was the point? he wondered, as he looked down upon tired human bodies. Of anything.