Penguin Prophecy Waypoint

A poster reading Penguin Prophecy Antarctic Opera crowns a frozen ledge where a hooded walrus holds a slab engraved WHERE VOJTA?, the aurora tracing the question across the twilight sky. Six penguins stand on the ice in cloaks like chorus members, necks craned and beaks wide as if practicing a storm of notes to fill the missing solo. Wind smells of salt and fish oil, the walrus exhales a brassy rasp, and each echoed syllable presses the meeting point into something like a plan. At the foot of the ledge a small penguin clutches a fish and cries the neon phrase again, the aurora and slab answering in pale green script. An elder penguin mutters in a word balloon, Third season in a row—still no soloist, and that season-numbered disappointment turns the place into a waypoint on the ongoing search where Vojta remains unfound. Mischief is obvious—fish as bait, signs as summons, cloaks as disguises—so the chorus keeps singing into the purple dusk, mapping sound and shadow for whoever will finally show.