Tempest’s ears pivot towards the sounds of excited chatter, the kind that is never, ever heard in this awful fucking shanty city. Both of your eyes gravitate towards it’s source, otherwise known as your destination: an abandoned-looking cross-breed between a water wheel and a windmill, the former stacked on top of the latter with the water wheel having a notable lack of, well, water. The “first floor” of the windmill part was also connected to the nearby Nth floor of “civilization” with wooden boards, no doubt leading to the front door. Finally, the top had some kind of clothesline gondola looking thing, hauling pallets with crates on it and looking like it was driven by that windmill.