"Derelict" in honor of August Derleth the hungry withering moon white sickle in the cold black sky stalks quickly as you move through the empty, decadent countryside the grass like loose hair whipped in the midnight breeze whos moaning reminds of lost children and cold the touch of damp earth reminds you of disease. the echoing manors no more the haunts and decadence of those who came before the countryside with its placid lakes and peaceful poisoned shores. There is no one here anymore.