As damned as the Ordealmen are, the Ark leans across the Eye in a manner almost too violent to comprehend, a vision that strums the scale of the spirit too profoundly to hear. All this time, she has thrown aside her face, shielded her gaze, lest she vomit, void her bowel. But there is no avoiding it now, short of groping her way forward. Evil. An alien malice as cold as the Void. Mutilated babes. Cities heaped like so many beehives upon a bonfire. The Horns gleam static through imagistic clamour, rise against clouds of tangled violet, crisp and gleaming, massive and inanimate, scarcely reflecting the eruption of demonic atrocities below, the thousandfold glimpses of dying peoples, races, civilizations—crimes that break the back of imagination, multiplied unto lunacy across the span of lands and ages, so heinous as to draw Hell, like fat in famine, up through the pores of the World.