Stained crimson both Terra and sky alike. No moisture in the air, every breath a sandpaper glance inside the throat. In the rushing winds one can hear every harpy speaking at once, cawled words inaudable, voices innumerable, the screaming agonised sonic that the insane call silence. And yet even the disquiet of hell has no fury akin to the homeworld where the young despise those that lived before; those who so freely gave away the soul of this species and ridiculed the collective dreams. Now only domestile bound slaves, none can construct a unique thought nor chance upon another vessel of beauty, all tomorrows lay dead and rotten. The eyes are fogged by cataracts but there is no wish to see.