1794, spring, somewhere in Poland As the bonfire burns, it lights the face of a tought looking man, who sits near it in his bicorne, planing something out of wood, out of boredom. Domingo seems to be not very eager to rest, despite it being a late night and his friend, Tadeusz already sleeping somewhere beside, on the grass. Expanses of the field are dark, looking almost like an ocean of sombreness. Their stop is quite quiet, sometimes interrupted by the sounds of wind or crickets