Felassan does not know, no, but he stores the titles away without pressing for further details. When everything is equally new and strange, it's difficult for one new and strange thing to capture too much attention. He'll circle back to curiosity about Astartes-The-Emperor's-Angels-Of-Death, perhaps, once wind sprites has settled into the background as a fact of life here rather than a novelty.

"Maybe they do," he says. "It hard to let go of a home, but if it stays this bad, then over time they will. More of the people who have memories of when it was simpler to live here will hold on and have hope, but their children won't. In a few generations this might be a ruin. Less than one, if the sprites carry all the pieces away."

He tosses a shingle, catches it.

"Or it may not stay this bad."