The fog broke over the sharp rises of the parapets of the city. Black stones absorbed the dawn’s heat and light like sponges. The sun hardly reached any surface below the capped roofs, so brass was employed in cardinal placement to catch the meager illumination.
The sun did not wake Basilika. The Dead City always murmured for those who would listen. Every surface seethed with secreted intent. The only question was how deeply to delve before knowing you could never really return.
The dark bricks twist in maddening ways as you wind towards the ground. Annexes from unknown eras web across the architecture. Breezeways interconnect from the city’s many towers beset with polypous additions from designers long gone. Each path splinters amongst countless others. Some have been walled off, whether for a purpose or not. There are many roads in Basilika. They all might lead somewhere, whether or not to a place you’d ever want to go.
Basilika is at dawn. But this means little to those that scuttle in the morass of its antiquity.