Centriasali

Centriasali. A world where the sky's been lost, consumed by the thick, oily smog that’s clung to the heavens for nearly a century. It began in 1012, the first World War, not between nations, but empires of greed. The Great Conflict tore the planet’s surface asunder, pitting coal-fueled behemoths against steam-powered legions, their clash drowning cities beneath the weight of soot and iron.   Now it’s 1105. What remains of Centriasali’s people wander through the toxic haze, their lungs thick with tar, their bones brittle from the endless toxins that seep into their veins. The surface is littered with rusted-out hulks, war machines too ancient to recognize, rotting in stagnant pools of industrial waste. The air is a burnt-orange haze by day, a smothering black by night.   The planet’s surface is crisscrossed with trenches, not for war, but for survival. Underground tunnels are now the cities—pockets of life, clinging desperately to the edges of annihilation. The rich rule from above in towering spires, their air filtered and purified, while the masses grovel beneath, digging through the waste to salvage scraps of the old world. Factories churn endlessly, pumping out poison as their output dwindles, the planet’s resources drained to dust.   The people have adapted. Gas masks are as common as clothing, and the few plants that grow are twisted, mutated beyond recognition, feeding off the slurry of chemical waste. The planet itself groans under the weight of its wounds, the land cracking like the rusted seams of an old boiler, threatening collapse at every moment.   Centriasali isn’t dying. It’s already dead.