"Many Mianates would tell the tales of their for ever glorious Gods, Mianite and Dianite and Ianite. The few whom dare to speak the name of the Shamarook the creator of all are placed in the never ending asylum of Arapothia. That twas where the people standing up against the devils lived and died."
Staggering onto his bare feet Thomas Syndicate of Dianite forced open his heavy eyelids. The comforting smell of a certain three year old suit and tie drifted around his sweat stained face and crept into his nose as sneakily as the Devil Dianite. Squinting into the distant mountains he heard the slow rythmic patteren of breathing, It had been so long since he had his last breath. Alas he would never breathe again in his life and he quite missed breathing. He could never just hear is breath before entering slumber, but he would never stop a slumber by the stench of his own breath. Funny he could hear it though as he was the only one there but he could not.
A cold chill ran down his spine, someone was watching.
His head whipped around searching for the person but there was no-one in sight. Slowly he lay down. But when he lay down something unexpected happened, unlike the cold motionless dirt what he lay on was a warn moving body.