Burning torches, rising smoke. Pillars beyond pillars of black marble architecture, holding the palace of death on its blackened hillside. Grass burnt and singed from the Lord of Death's pacing and frustrations.

Leading up to the broken yet spectacular mausoleum is a line. A line of desperate, waiting translucent figures.

Oddly taking the form of humans, but hover and wail in despair as they wait to be judged for their eternal fate of Elysium Fields or the darkest pits of Tartarus.

Beyond the great palace lay the simple garden of hope. Dismal flowers grew; buds and fruits bloomed in the terrible conditions, having only blood red streams of embers flickering through cracks in the earth's crust to cultivate their urgent and crucial needs.

Thick mist wrapped around trees and the tallest towers of the marble palace.

Souls were led for miles down the Onyx paved road, cutting and bloodying their feet. As if death wasn't enough for the tortured souls.

Black willows grew; their dying leaves fell from the branches and onto the dirt ground.

But the flowers of the garden of hope kept a spark in each prisoner's unseeing eye, there was even a flame of hope in hell, each kept a silent prayer in their unbeating hearts that one day that spark would start a wild fire of joy and free them from their chains of death.