Local Cultus; Hades and His court in the Midwest
Silos jut from earth, once filled with grain, an ecosystem to themselves but now 40 years abandoned. Rust drips from every rivet and grasses overcome these turrets to His palace.
It’s flat, like peaceful water, every direction showing nothing but gold and sapphires.
Winters are short and brutal, a love affair stopped too soon and Her grief and joy mix into a scorching, burning sun and miles of bountiful wheat.
Rain comes rarely, and when it does it’s never gentle. It comes with wall clouds and cyclones and silver-black skies. They churn from winds hard enough to peel the roofs off houses and throw cars into ditches; the Rivers churning their way to the over world to swallow up Thanatos’s newest children.
Little is new here. Farmland stretches with pretty houses but barns a century into disrepair. Tractors don’t run anymore and they sit two stories tall and idle, their wheels large enough for a man to stand in and the engine lays bare and corroded with acid. Wood is bleached gray by the sun and worn smooth by the ever-blowing winds and splinter apart from red and orange nails. Rubies become rust, power is forgotten and the shells of industry lay out like corpses. Mine, melt, brand, raise, grow, reap, build, strive, repair, abandon. Everything eventually is swallowed by the earth to become His again