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There it stood ahead of him, rising up from the lifeless and polluted wasteland, a single great hive of metal and machinery and humanity. Even from this distance one could hear it, hear the cluttering, the clanking, the mindless chatter that all blended together to form a single great orchestra that seemed to signal to all those around: here! Here is life, here is sanctuary, here is mankind.

Here is Bleakmond.

Who knows how old it truly is? Certainly older than any records in existence today, for as one plumbs the depths of the city, below the primary hubs of activity, below even the slums and ghettos where only the poorest of the poor live in conditions barely habitable, one will find layer upon layer of strange and ancient constructions, crumbling now as they are steadily crushed by the weight of the great city above. When it comes to their age, their construction, who can tell for certain? All we can know is that one way or another, Bleakmond is ancient.

And as for those who inhabit it, well, what can be said about them? Generation upon generation upon generation, born lived and died in the same vast hive. Never knowing the release of the open, the noises of nature, the myriad vibrant shades of green, blue and everything that could be found wherever one looked. No, all they know are the cramped and constricted streets and alleys of the city. All they hear is the chatter of the crowd, the whirr of the machine, the clank of steel. Colour? What is colour to them but a dull thing, tarnished by millennia of grime and pollution until all blends into one greyish haze? The vibrant posters that could once have been found on every wall might've provided some respite, but they have long been faded and tattered, hardly recognisable at all.

To some, such a life could hardly be called life at all. Yet for all its bleakness, for all its harshness, it is life nonetheless; and that's more than could be said for the surrounding area. For miles and miles around, all one can find is dead and barren land, littered with the ancient pipes and roads that speak of a civilisation long gone by now. One will find no man in this waste, no village, no beast. Only the hardiest of weeds and insects are here. From above you can still trace the lines and boundaries of the old fields that may once have fed this city, but they are long gone by now, replaced by insects and fungi cultivated beneath the earth's surface. To these people it is all they know.

Perhaps one day Bleakmond too will fall, following along in the fate of the countless other dead cities that litter the toxic and barren earth. And when that day comes, it will simply be another marker, another step down on the decline of the race of man as his numbers dwindle ever further, evermore as he tumbles down, down, down, until his inevitable extinction.

But for the moment, Bleakmond lives. Humanity lives. And so he stepped forward.

There was work to do.

---

Artwork belongs to

Description

There it stood ahead of him, rising up from the lifeless and polluted wasteland, a single great hive of metal and machinery and humanity. Even from this distance one could hear it, hear the cluttering, the clanking, the mindless chatter that all blended together to form a single great orchestra that seemed to signal to all those around: here! Here is life, here is sanctuary, here is mankind.

Here is Bleakmond.

Who knows how old it truly is? Certainly older than any records in existence today, for as one plumbs the depths of the city, below the primary hubs of activity, below even the slums and ghettos where only the poorest of the poor live in conditions barely habitable, one will find layer upon layer of strange and ancient constructions, crumbling now as they are steadily crushed by the weight of the great city above. When it comes to their age, their construction, who can tell for certain? All we can know is that one way or another, Bleakmond is ancient.

And as for those who inhabit it, well, what can be said about them? Generation upon generation upon generation, born lived and died in the same vast hive. Never knowing the release of the open, the noises of nature, the myriad vibrant shades of green, blue and everything that could be found wherever one looked. No, all they know are the cramped and constricted streets and alleys of the city. All they hear is the chatter of the crowd, the whirr of the machine, the clank of steel. Colour? What is colour to them but a dull thing, tarnished by millennia of grime and pollution until all blends into one greyish haze? The vibrant posters that could once have been found on every wall might've provided some respite, but they have long been faded and tattered, hardly recognisable at all.

To some, such a life could hardly be called life at all. Yet for all its bleakness, for all its harshness, it is life nonetheless; and that's more than could be said for the surrounding area. For miles and miles around, all one can find is dead and barren land, littered with the ancient pipes and roads that speak of a civilisation long gone by now. One will find no man in this waste, no village, no beast. Only the hardiest of weeds and insects are here. From above you can still trace the lines and boundaries of the old fields that may once have fed this city, but they are long gone by now, replaced by insects and fungi cultivated beneath the earth's surface. To these people it is all they know.

Perhaps one day Bleakmond too will fall, following along in the fate of the countless other dead cities that litter the toxic and barren earth. And when that day comes, it will simply be another marker, another step down on the decline of the race of man as his numbers dwindle ever further, evermore as he tumbles down, down, down, until his inevitable extinction.

But for the moment, Bleakmond lives. Humanity lives. And so he stepped forward.

There was work to do.

---

Artwork belongs to