She blinks once, twice and hears the wings of owls taking flight. Bellow a blood red sky, in a landscape devoid of color, live souls lost in their own dreams. In a Valley of Dry Bones, Deposed Prophets shamble down rows of Crucified Saints. The doom came with the Fisher King, an entity of no ill will or spite, just an absentminded God who prefers impersonating the dead to avoid contact with the seekers. Long ago in earlier Epochs there was some method to the madness, for too long the in- mates have been running the asylum. Wicked whispers and forgotten moments of lust are remembered here, by vipers who braid whips with the leather skin of the dead. Call forth names from the Book of Life and the Book of the Dead. The massacres of Monotheism turned a vibrant paradise into an arid wasteland where staving children rob tombs and sell relics of the past to stave their mothers ravenous hunger. For priceless relics they can have stale bread and water to satiate their starving bellies and malnourished bones. Hounds yelp in anticipation of chasing the naked condemned through brambles and thorns, tearing bones loose from cringing phantoms called from ever sleep to face trial by maniacs. Any time of instability is answered with in fighting stoked by Holy-men who shiver like rabid dogs at the thought of torture and tormenting their targeted groups of vulnerable minorities whose property has no protections they must obey. Many must starve for few to live fat in hidden sanctums of unreachable fortresses. The Last Prophet walks a road strewn with body parts from the most recent massacre. Piles of arms and legs litter as far as the eye can see. Lidless eyes of severed heads stare into oblivion from some place of last anguish and terror. Above in the sky great rings of spirits in endless procession wail lamentations from high in the atmosphere...