Out here away from all the lights of town, and over the water where there are fewer trees to block the horizon, is one of Rosinante's usual preferred spots to photograph the night sky for his charts. Now that the clouds have begun to clear more frequently, he's out here often, as if he can make up for time lost over an overcast winter. Eventually, after a few minutes of working at a cigarette while taking and studying his photos to make sure they're clear, Ephrim speaks, and he looks over.

"Hm? Well, they don't look like these ones, different patterns, but otherwise it's about the same. Points of light out there in the distance," he says with a shrug. "Why?"

There's certainly some scientific explanation for them, but it isn't one he knows much of anything about. Other worlds, presumably. The mythology and religion of his homeland is just mythology made to inflate the egos of people who think themselves gods.