The decadent horizons of judgment built these towers. Off-white, wailing walls of corruption and misfortune anoint the bruised sky. The vendors stand with idle intent and the tradepost bursts with unknown imminence. The false spirit of religious tolerance encases the city with halcyon ease while the haughty bastions of savagery, dressed in the appropriate Aquilonian uniforms, stud the land with opression. Tarantia: the unwashed scarab of Mitraic theology, the hub of austere reverence, the heart of the Hyborian age. The only culture I embrace is ice. My only belief is victory over defeat.