Deep scars dominate the flood planes.
Great trenches, bored in moments by blasts of arcane force. Mud and dirt cakes the faces of soldiers huddling in the makeshift shelters.
Somewhere in the distance, past the dark edges of night, a fire ranges on the slopes. 
Stars are obscured by smoke. 

They’ve been fighting here for years. A conflict ranging from one slope to the other. Each night, the shelling of guns keep an unseen enemy from sleep. Tired eyes waver. An officer, plumed feather matted to the helmet askew upon his head, calls out an angry shout to the sleeping picket guard. Unresponsive, a hit to the back of his uniform topples the dead soldier.



 From a distant hillock the sounds of banging objects can be heard. They hold a pan, and jangle it. Coins and strange orbs clack against statuettes of intersecting fissures. 

On a door, two figures hammer with ceaseless will. “What now?” 
Another, garbed in emerald, mouths a silent prayer.

Inside the house, there is no answer.
Swirling, dust, and patterns of tremendous complexity are positioned against a still body upon a table.

Inside, a finger twitches.
Rings of strange fire emerges from the scalp, as human eyes open.

Outside there is no more time. Shoals of rhythmic sand beat an eternal drum. 
Repeating the inevitable a chorus of singers chant.

Below, the singers whisper.

Outside, the figures still knock. All their efforts to make sound amidst the silence fail.

Chiral Day, Excerpt from Races with Indigo