Those who remained in the Plebelands staked out small dwellings in the ruins of the once bustling townships. They survived in the mud-scrabble half-light, groping together towards a dim and faltering hope of future, their toil lit only by stars. These tiny factions believed it was better to stay outside than to join the established meccas of falsified leadership, the new utopian bubbles. Giant corporate-owned monoliths were become home to billions of transient souls, but ignorance and decay lurked among the comforts of this "new world.” Indeed, those remaining outside may have feared corruption and were not easily led like frightened sheep to slaughter. And perhaps among them here and there were also those that didn’t have the wherewithal or desire to wonder about such things, but nonetheless harbored hearts that dreamed beyond the grey veil of the sky.
One group of outsiders heralded themselves as Eaglekin. They sought to make the Plebelands livable again. In an heroic attempt to do so, they employed cacophonous sounds across the great wastes. It is known today that the enclaves rose darkly, humongous jet-black half-globes set in vast fields. Sounds only ricocheted off their impenetrable surfaces. But a raggedy handful of souls in the Plebelands heard, and soon people came from far and wide to witness and join in the spectacle. Eaglekin made them happy again, helped them find hope. The distant clap of thunder reflecting off the enclave shells did not hearten those who heard the music, nor did the silent rolling of the clouds on the horizon. But the people came to prize and revere each tiny bit of life clinging to the Earth. Slowly they continued to rebuild the fractured and lost landscape, to reclaim the scorched soil that had held only the promise of the grave...
