Nothing is left, right now. Only the wind, he blows over the city, uninhibited, through broken structures and empty ruins. Once there was life, and even if it only was a dying life, there was life at this place. Now all that is left is death. Crosses are everywhere, at every corner, rising in every street. Blood is everywhere and the whole planet is drenched with corpses. The wind carries dust and grains of sand through the broken streets and in the distance a dust-storm is slowly approaching, its dark-brown clouds rolling over the barren wastes outside this concrete sepulchre. Before the collapse, an undying amount of rain struck down from angry clouds upon this city. I remember standing high in HeadOffice, looking through a panoramic window upon the city below, the glass stained and steamy by the perpetual barrage of drops of rain, Slayer in the twilight behind me, sitting in his chair like an idol, drinking an ancient brewage from an equally old crystal goblet. The air was dark above Mort, condensed into a mournful gloom, and below me the lights of Central stretched forth, almost reaching the horizon, a never-ending, sparkling sea of lights. Aspiring to pierce the clouds, the slim twin towers of DarkLement rose high above the roofs of the city, far in the distance; a statuette of Ebon knowledge and spirit, revered by the chosen race, feared and viewed upon with suspicion by the others. Miles below the twin towers the chaotic structure of the ThirdEye MediaDome squatted in the deeper regions of Central, towering above the GrandPlaza, neon lights and monitors surfeiting its surface, showing a barrage of ever changing pictures and sending a constant stream of propaganda to the crowd below; all of them under the watchful gaze of the deep red iris of the company's ThirdEye; scintillating infernally, its lids half closed, as if near sleep, the sphere hovered huge and bloated before the Dome, suspended in the air above the plaza.