[Whenever they reach their destination, however the door deposits them, they find the soles of their shoes pressed upon mounds and mounds of ash.
It’s difficult to say what their surroundings used to be. Whatever skeletal remnants of this place still exist, they’ve gone grey with the weight of cinders, buried under a depth of the stuff, foreign forms rarely jutting out of the landscape like constructs of shale. Perhaps there used to be trees, branches stretching skywards towards a now-departed sun, maybe this was once a square where people walked and shopped, maybe Markus himself once took a path through this place, to a certain paint shop to pick up a certain hue of color. But if that memory once existed, it’s all crumbled into ash, turning their surroundings grey, grey, grey.
Even the horizon shows no promise of anything beyond this terrain. Only a yawning expanse of dull sky, sometimes adorned with the phantom flicker-flash of tall buildings, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. They’ll have to tread through shifting and colorless earth, for stretching minutes, before coming across anything of note.
And what they’ll find is Markus, slumped against what looks like fallen signage (—LLINI PAINTS) that’s half-buried in dirt. He’s covered in a thin layer of ash, the build-up heavier near his legs as if this world means to eventually consume him. Eyes closed, utterly quiet, there’s no sign of movement, even if they attempt to interact with him.
It’s as if he’s just another dead object, in a world full of them.]
no subject
It’s difficult to say what their surroundings used to be. Whatever skeletal remnants of this place still exist, they’ve gone grey with the weight of cinders, buried under a depth of the stuff, foreign forms rarely jutting out of the landscape like constructs of shale. Perhaps there used to be trees, branches stretching skywards towards a now-departed sun, maybe this was once a square where people walked and shopped, maybe Markus himself once took a path through this place, to a certain paint shop to pick up a certain hue of color. But if that memory once existed, it’s all crumbled into ash, turning their surroundings grey, grey, grey.
Even the horizon shows no promise of anything beyond this terrain. Only a yawning expanse of dull sky, sometimes adorned with the phantom flicker-flash of tall buildings, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. They’ll have to tread through shifting and colorless earth, for stretching minutes, before coming across anything of note.
And what they’ll find is Markus, slumped against what looks like fallen signage (—LLINI PAINTS) that’s half-buried in dirt. He’s covered in a thin layer of ash, the build-up heavier near his legs as if this world means to eventually consume him. Eyes closed, utterly quiet, there’s no sign of movement, even if they attempt to interact with him.
It’s as if he’s just another dead object, in a world full of them.]