In a vast and collapsing boatyard, once used to ship out some great fleet for causes unknown, and now a single huge, columned hall, cold and littered with tacks and spars, curls the lindworm of Chirica, coiled like the nightmare of a thousand rotted ropes. Long and growing longer, it is an endless flow of grey-green scales, curving around pillars, its mighty head resting lazily on the floor. The lindworm is appallingly lonely, so lonely that truly understanding its loneliness would drive most mad, and even being around it causes creeping doubt and despair, and accelerates the decay of its environment. Nothing lives near the old boatyard. The lindworm claims that its contagious despair is existential: it claims that it remembers another world, where it was born and knew others of its kind. It obsessively seeks ways to return.