Heat visibly radiates from the sandstone blocks compiling the greatest of the old temples. It is so hot that colour has stopped functioning as expected, and your eyes register acid greens and electric oranges that your rational brain understands cannot really be there. Breathing in the temperatures surrounding you has become an act of endurance, but there’s still a long trek down the fractious path before you reach any sort of shade or shelter. And yet you marvel at the lush growths visible in the cracks between those ancient blocks - blossoms trailing down the temple’s mighty walls - and steel yourself for the journey ahead.
The half-buried skulls of long-dead giants, partially unearthed from the barren earth, form the basis of their shelters. As fragile as porcelain teacups are the great domes which house the local families, the curve of the orbital bones serving as convenient doorframes. While the travelling priest claims that such acts of necessity desecrate the sacred bodies of the Nephilim, the locals simply scoff and say their homes are no different from a deer skull fishing hook, or a whalebone piano key. Where were his complaints about the haddock stew he so happily lapped up? Or, indeed, the hymns reverberating through the ribs which encase the village church?
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