“The Great Mount heaves in the distance, skinned from its blanket and left alone. Ripping through gravelly seams of slag, naked wisps of vapor rush to meet the storm above with the hiss of an alarmed Viper. Mud upon mud, the wasteland whistles hollowly until it draws in an abrasive gulp from the pitch-covered heavens. Out of these burnt pores, worlds within worlds mix like oil and water in the surging, iron air.”
— Words by Morgan Schultz
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