He looks upon the smoking ruins from the brow of the hill of outside, that once was the great city, its name, once in a now lost language, that was simply called 'sanity'.

The invading horde have destroyed it all, without ever understanding it. They sit atop fallen sentances and collapsed chords, strumming their melodians, whilst the last of that mad band, the Forlorn Hope, wander, still carrying their bodhrans, not believing they're alive after storming the breach.

No words can match the scene, so he simply shakes his head, and goes to rejoin them.