Yanech stretched out before me, a wasteland. Desolate and bare, the mountain’s rage had scorched the earth and left here nothing, not a green sprig. So all was black rock steaming under gathering mounds of snow. Still, some geysers sprang, and glowing rivulets of magma rolled into the frothing sea—deep green and deep blue, perhaps, but dark, dark to the point of blackness, her only other color the white-topped waves reaching up to a heaven too distant to reach. A grey heaven, a diffused sun, a monstrous illumination of everything; here weak and wan shadows lingered on too long.
Yanech’s Grey
Tale Told 