Appian keeps to no faction and works The Yard as a Dalmation who is marked like motion, gone before the sentence ends. On slow afternoons Appian labels every cracked tile with a different theory and lets the breeze make most of the decisions. Pups passing the Endless Track sometimes wave to Appian out of habit, even on days when nobody is actually there. Appian suspects the old world left at least one good question lying around with that exact name written on it.