There was no brightness anywhere. It is like a late twilight under clouds at the end of November, a dour, chill, dull air in which one could see, but not clearly and not far. Overhead, there are stars, but, save one, no stars the living ever see. Still , the constellations of this land are known to the wise. The Sheaf. The Door. The One Who Turns. The Tree. Unmoving they shine, unwinking. These are the stars that do not rise or set, nor are they ever hidden by any cloud, nor does any sunrise dim them. Still and bright they shine on the dry land. Only one also shines on the land of the living, still changeless and unmoving even in the waking world. Thaban, the North Star, The Star That Guides.
In this place there are many towns and cities, where the houses have windows that are never lit, and in certain doorways standing, with quiet faces and empty hands, the dead. The marketplaces are all empty. There is no buying and selling, no gaming and spending. Nothing was used, nothing was made. The potter wheel was still, the loom empty, the stove cold and no one ever sang.
All those you see, not many, for the dead are many, but the land is large, stand still or move slowly with no purpose. None of them bear wounds, the mark of illness is not on them. They are whole and healed, healed of pain and life. They are not loathsome or frightening, there is nothing but quiet in their faces. Freed from anger and desire and in their eyes there is no hope. You could see a mother and child who died together, and in the dark land together, but the child does not run nor does it cry, and the mother does not hold it, nor even look at it. And those who died for love pass eachother in the streets without a glance.
The land is dry, the rivers are dry, there is no water save the dark sea that laps at the wharves. Here they drink dust.
It is cold.