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Ants in the viridian chaff, the farmers sap the last drops of pristine moisture out of the salt-spangled earth. ·
Spores dance in eddies across kaleidoscopic fungal bonnets. Rivers of primordial soup, cast in the light of lava, gurgle a quickening melody. ·
Rampant greenspread canopies a starburst of the Eaters' richest works. The jungle is torn at the corners, where crysteel balustrades and star orchid lancets peek through. ·
Red qudzu vines take as their trellises chrome wells bored into the earth. ·
Rubble encases this abandoned mine where ancient tribes siphoned the black blood for their own inscrutable purposes. ·
Shrouded in the rotting jungle are the mouths of the rust-caves of Golgotha, chrome's graveyard. ·
Spanning the sky rusts a metal archway under which passed the chrome gargantuans canonized in the elder canticles. ·
The grove's million laced fingers sway in gentle opulence. Verdant fronds nestle the base of the Spindle from its mountainous nook. ·
Still erect is the superior half of the clossal gate inscribed with the runes of a hundred indecipherable tongues. Beneath its chrome palings a wide passage opens into the jungle loam. ·
Long ago the rivers themselves were ravenous, and they feasted on shale and limestone before taking bloated respite in the Great Salt Sea. Now the fissure-wounds have rotted to crimson and salt. ·
The hallowed ground upon which the Spindle, a lengthless needle of Maya blue, meets the earth from where it pierces the firmament. ·
The ivory sea's dunes are like waves frozen in place. There are cracks in the salt from where the earth, blistered by the jeweled sun, contracted and broke. The horizon melts the sky together with the vast plain of Moghra'yi, the Great Salt Desert. ·
The Six Day Stilt rises from the dunes like a petrified kraken corpse, bearing down upon the vacant flats. ·
Thriving florae pack the loam with maze-dense roots, and a high-wreath canopy chokes off the last beams of light. ·
Through the prismatic umbrage fly the archways and buttresses of the monuments above the catacombs of the Eaters of earth. ·
Prismatic filament colonizes the cracks between the salted rot. There are meadows here, She says. ·
In the wave graph of stone over time, where the world plates once vexed themselves into war, a quiet peace has settled. ·
A hydroponic cradle containing a cutting of water lily and empowered by sunslag. ·
In stagnant pools, luminous lilies compete with the ribbon of stars in the night sky. Under the salt sun, though, they shrink into the shade of brine weed. ·
Hex prisms burst out of black marble beds, and their edges decohere as warm static dew. The Stair purrs at low frequency. ·
Here lies the Garden of Geth, from whose ancient coordinates seeds sprouted in spite of the earth's churlishness. ·
Here crumble the mysterious Eaters' vine-swathed works, spun on the cyclopean lathe in an ageless past. Chrome steeples and parapets that rise above the clutches of shale hint at the labyrinths beneath them. ·
Eons-shifted stone entombs the angleless architecture of Bethsaida's lair. ·
Dyed pipework topology mounted in the spongebed is a lodestar to the lyrical community. ·
Coral fingers poke out from the spongebed and pierce the algal bloom, where white esh flock in the hundreds. ·
Braids of roots and ribbons of fronds dimensionalize the flat loam. Something's home a discarded leaf makes. ·
Blips in the wave graph of stone over time. ·
At the center of a particularly thick copse, the vegetation clears. Flower-bedecked huts huddle in the clearing within, surrounded by phalanxes of tidy watervine rows and carefully-tended lah. ·
An arcology of bright polyps arches across the soldered trellis of old, and a rich diversity of life peoples it. ·
A small crack leads down into the earth. ·
A naturally reddened outcropping of stone juts out of the salted crag. ·
A jungle village of ape-god worshippers and their giant mushroom dwellings. ·
Tucked into a marble glade is the cloven trunk of Chavvah, the Tree of Life. Its fallen leaves lay like a mirrored carpet, and the dream wrens chirr a psychal carol. ·
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Here crumble the mysterious Eaters' vine-swathed works, spun on the cyclopean lathe in an ageless past. Chrome steeples and parapets that rise above the clutches of shale hint at the labyrinths beneath them.