You’ve never heard the word “forest”. If someone were to try to describe the concept of an ocean to you, you would call them a madman.

Your experience is the unbound and fluid sand of the desert, stretching from the ice-capped north to the smoking, cavernous maw of the earth to the south; beyond which lies the inexorable creeping doom of the world.

The empires of man lay shattered for an age before your ancestors had even thought to write, or build. You were born amongst a people attempting to preserve the legacy of a time they cannot recall. Cities built upon what sources of water remain; springs and oases surrounded by dust and death and the ever-present sand.

A fell wind blows from the south, bringing whispers of woe and despair, of madness in the desert and the slow dissolution of life; the last chapter of an atrocity which began with the sundering of man and all of his works. You are the last death-rattle of civilization.

Knowing this, would you lie down? Or take the last sickly glimmer of hope in your hand and fight?

Khamsin