Pale as the ash of the oak trees on the frontiers of industry. The burnt smell invading every nostril of the poor souls that find themselves working the incinerators. They pave the way to a new factory. They thank the fairest deity Capital, for they will not step foot inside once it is complete.

Pale as the wine locked in the noble and merchant fingertips. Hiding in their extravagance, they command armies of flesh and steel. In turn, they are commanded by the most benevolent deity Capital. They will not be overthrown.

Pale as the snow which makes it way towards the soil. A night without supplies will be the last night for any living being out here.

Pale as the burning metal flowing from furnace flames. The factories erupt in screams of the slaves to the most cruel deity Capital. Their voices echoes only by the thunder of hammers and gears. They cannot escape from the maze.

Pale as the nails of the oracle witch. She can only whisper in the woods. Between the last few Ley lines, yet unbroken by the rail lines. She casts her dice. Not unlike her sisters in the factories, she forges something new. The future, when industry marches.