The clouds had long been gone, turned to dust in this now ancient drought, the aftermath of the great war, the war that most believed would never come to be. But it did. And now I, the last pilgrim, and the desperate vultures who followed me through this wasteland, were the only residents of this emptiness. Yes, we lived out the last breaths of our existence in a dry, dry world of fading brown that lay lifeless beneath a steel gray sky.
Miles of nowhere led to just more of nowhere, a vacant vestige of memories now long forgotten. Once there was green, the many dappled greens of trees trying to leave the earth, the green, green grass carpeting the land, even the deep green moss clinging to the river rocks as clear blue waters washed over them. Once there were dabs of colors, sun-drenched yellows and orange-y reds, buttery golds and deep royal purples, the daffodils and the poppies, the marigolds and the lilacs, everywhere. But now they were but straw, pale, pale straw being burned in the hot wind that blew endlessly from here to there beneath the steel gray sky.
The next color: Crimson