A single breath in the early morning air tells of the magnificence of this place. The air is crisp and fresh, like biting into a ripe apple freshly picked from the tree in the cool morning. High, feathery clouds are dancing in the trade winds, taunting the sun to chase them across the sky. The grass under foot is a lively jade carpet leading to the edge of a babbling brook of cold clear water that flows contently into the future. The limbs of giant trees are heavy with birds that sing the wonders of the sky and warble about the beautiful history of their leafy homes. The sun peaks over the languid form of sleeping mountains and the cold air is banished from the valley. The dew glitters like tiny jewels on the intricate webs of spiders. Whirring and chirruping insects take flight from the stalks of delicate flowers. The birds flock from the trees, eager to spend another day in the glorious breezes.

The day begins again.

A single breath in the early morning tells of the hell of this place. The air is cold and tastes of rotted weeds. Thick clouds of a sulfurous hue hang low to the ground, choking out the wan sunlight. The loose stone of a thousand years of ruin threatens to topple the weary into repulsive streams of lambent liquid. Twisted spars of metal heavy with rust tell of a place where mortals once did roam. The light of burning ruins in the distance cast flickering shadows, but offer no warmth among the hills of debris. Small wretched pools of water ripple with the movement of the sour air. Black beetles and roaches chitter and scamper between stalks of twisted and diseased flowers. Half seen through the fog, a carrion bird floats slowly overhead, eager to find another meal.