Pilgrim squinted at the Crescent, now just an immense shadow against the drifting clouds save for the flashes of lightning that sent brief sheets of luminescence across its flanks. The sword gave a discomforted thrum as he strode on, though the voice stayed silent. He discerned a brooding quality to it the closer they drew to their goal, as if it were lost in unwelcome contemplation. Whatever awaited them in the Crescent, the voice evidently did not relish the meeting.

After a prolonged trek, during which the storm swelled and waned several times, he saw Priest come to an abrupt halt in the lee of a tall frozen wave. A flash of lightning lit the comparatively flat stretch of glass beyond, revealing a large number of what appeared to be human figures. The storm calmed again as he came to Priest’s side, the clouds thinning a little to allow daylight to play over several hundred people. They were all skeletally thin and mostly naked save for the rags that clung to a few. Some wandered in aimless circles with heads bowed, others strode back and forth, gesticulating with animated urgency. Most simply stood and stared at the Crescent. But all, without exception, were speaking.

“More dritch-wights?” Book wondered, surveying the multitude.

“Wights don’t talk,” Priest said. His brow was set in a frown of grim understanding as he started forward once more, approaching the nearest figure without apparent fear. It was a man, tall with the vestiges of once-impressive muscles still clinging to his bones. He stood naked upon the glass, repeatedly raising his arms to the crescent as he voiced the same request over and over.

“Please, return to me my son. Please, return to me my son…”

He paid no heed to Priest as the cleric paused in scrutiny, continuing his mantra, gaze never straying from the shadowed bulk of the Crescent. Priest bowed his head in momentary sorrow before gesturing for them to follow as he turned and resumed the trek. Pilgrim glanced at the tall man as he passed by, seeing a bearded, wide-eyed face oblivious to anything save his endless question. They passed a woman next, young and partially clad in the remnants of once-fine clothes reduced to mildewed rags. She moved in a ragged circle, hands clutching at her belly and face formed into an ugly rictus as she spoke through gritted teeth.

“My child deserved to be born. My bitch sister had a child. Why was mine taken from my womb? Give her back to me…”