No one knows where it originated, but one thing remains true. The mist which has engulfed the realm functions as yet another impediment pitted against the denizens of the desert. The harsh climate, foul monstrosities, and their internal struggles pale in comparison to that haze and what prowls within its film. From sunset to daybreak, the city of emerald finds itself blanketed by that fog. The people discover security behind their walls as every night they wait in fear for the morning to come. Those stationed on those defenses whisper of things shifting within that ethereal curtain—eyes glimmering through the veil with a rampant disdain few could describe. Whatever might stalk within that abominable pall terrified the hearts of lesser folk.
Notwithstanding having felled many oppositions, things were still tucked from prying eyes that kept her up at night. The dread of the unknown, while primal, still presented itself as the source of distress. And while most might arise inclined to neglect that impending menace, Samara wasn't so content. Ever since the realms collapse and that ensuing bloodshed, the bovine trekked these dunes searching for answers. And while the precise nature of this peril might have eluded her sense, she wasn't oblivious to the certainty that is their plight. Call it instinct, the honed sixth sense of a seasoned vanquisher of filth. Either way, she found herself inspired to solicit after solutions, answers that might lead to the purging of this newfangled hazard.
This wasteland never flowed with milk and honey—the drudgery of survival apparent in every facet of these cascading ridges of sand. Despite the facade of towering structures of white stone and emerald glass that glistened within the suns and the creature amenities they might inspire, the jezebel remained on edge. Those topaz eyes scanned the bustling streets. The unmistakable expression of despondency lingered across the smudged countenances of former constituents. The redolence of putrefaction dangled aloft this formerly grandiose municipality, a reminder of the inanity of endeavoring to quell one's lesser proclivities. Death, your name has become emerald, and your oracles the very masses that had unknowingly stoked the pyre of your indignation. Could it be her sermon had compromised her sagacity? The dogmatic and extreme proclamations yet another scar across an already disfigured psyche? Perhaps, however, when confronted with the pitiless nature of this rancours world. The certainty of that rhetoric made it a strenuous thing to disregard. The temptress loitered within the shadows of an alley, those pupils swerving off to the market district. Her eyes were beholding just how far they had fallen. No longer did they engage in mercantile with precious metals. Instead, the economy had retrogressed to that of bartering. A huff divorced itself from those lips as she located amusement that the gelatinous nobles that had once surfeited themselves on this providence were reduced to the common rabble. A great scouring, while delayed, couldn't be thwarted.
Samara leaned against the wall, her hourglass shape bedecked in the blackened habiliment of stone. Segments of earthen plating were fastened across the exterior as her ample bosom remained visible. This sphinx stood within the littered alleyway, only for her arcane-tinged orbs to deviate up at the welkin. The suns would soon set. Evident by how that once cerulean atmosphere now transitioned more and more into an orange shade.
Why had this machiavelli withdrawn herself from the sanctuary of the hive? While innocuous, the answer to such an inquisition could be surmised as a calling. Ever since depleting the Ashlandian volcano, the enigma felt magnetized to the planet itself. Like a heartbeat, its pulsations communicated to the bovine in ways she couldn't recount. This pull spurred her feet to make that voyage. Confidentially, she questioned the perspicuity of participating in such a trek. Thus far, she had encountered nothing and only found herself sickened by the scars of former conflicts. Samara had imagined what this collapse might look like, and while she intellectualized the racial division and the dearth of joy it might convey. She never accurately divined the destitution and anguish such a plummet might have rendered in its wake.
Such introspections would be cast to the side as the dancer removed herself from brooding against that wall. Cooly, she turned and headed down that taut tunnel sandwiched between the buildings, only to emerge onto the adjoining street. The murmurs of the people reaching those knife ears, yet their acrimonies had verified themselves as nominal. The inane loquacities of ninnyhammers incapable of rationalizing what was to come. And while some might feel pity, Samara harbored nothing but abhorrence toward them. No, this baptism was crucial, a methodology by which they might learn from the imbecility of their ways. And it would be insensitive to meddle in their redemption.
After all, through the sweat of their brow, they might bowdlerize the begrime of debauchery and come to recognize the necessity of her governance. To aid in such a trial would only cheapen it and result in a lesser lesson imparted. To be benevolent, she had to conquer her empathy and allow these berks to transcend on their own accord. Only then, when they rise to such alps through their exertions, might the product benefit the whole. For now, Samara would sashay down the sandy road, marveling at just how far they've tumbled from grace—vicariously culling erudition through their hell, in ways she'd never articulate publicly.