Every time I pull that infernal lever, my fears are confirmed. The Horrors have never truly left. They are still here, albeit still dormant. The voice haunts my waking dreams, a clear and emotionless female voice that rings in my head like a sordid whisper, in a foreign accent that I can only assume is ancient Theran. "There is a Scurrier 221 paces in that direction." I do not even know what a Scurrier is. I know that it is a Horror, and that a pace is approximately 2 feet. Every time I point the Sextant to a new direction, I find myself surrounded on all sides. It could be this place, Haven, a city built on the ruins of another city which was forgetten to all time and memory and consumed utterly by the Horrors.