Lone lightkeeper stood by the cliff, watching as the day ends with skies turning crimson and sun, blocked by thick fog and dark clouds, hides behind the horizon. Night is coming. Thunder roars somewhere above the sea, raging and warning any remaining sailors of the merciless storm coming. No souls shall be spared. Crimson skies turn into dark void, no stars will be visible tonight... Time to light the tower, let the cold, yet guiding light give last hope for those who are lost.

The last Lightkeeper moves swiftly, not letting cold wind disturb his routine as he makes his way towards the only lighthouse remaining amidst the destroyed, deserted land. His silhouette disappeared within the tall gloom building... And a moment later, beacon of light illuminates through fog, spinning slowly... Old and worn out, yet persisting, as the metal gears screech ominous song.

He is the last Lightkeeper... Alone in this tower, in this deserted land. Others succumbed to the Wild Hunt. Burdened by his duty, but not resenting it. Even if there's no one to light the beacon for, even if it's pointless, even if the loneliness eats him alive or wild hunt finally claims his battered soul, someone's still needs to keep the light on... For those who are still alive and fighting. Flins leaves the tower, lantern with purple flames seep from the glass prison... He stood there motionless. Waiting for the storm, watching the raging sea. Hollow, tired eyes do not dare to look away, as violet hair and dark cloak flutter from the cold howling wind, that almost wants to rip his skin.