A sorcerer's apprentice was the first to gaze up into the benighted skies above this darkest of worlds, perched upon the wall with battered telescope in hand. The lunae light barely hides the stars above; the endless night stretching ever outwards over the forest provides the perfect conditions for would-be stargazers, were there many so foolish.
Each time the lunae set, he would gaze up at the oddly tinted stars above; seemingly waiting for something. One day, as the lunae began to set and true night was to fall, he began to mumble and murmur, his eyes seemingly fixed t'wixt all three lurking lunae.
In time his mumbling turned to rambling, and from rambling to raving. Screeching that they are coming; coming to reap the harvest that was sown here on this blasphemous accursed rock. They will come, those horrors from eldritch skies, and even death is no escape. To this day he still raves in choked whispers, never pausing, his voice long since torn to shreds by his endless dire utterances. He was the first and, for now, he is the last.