The sky overhead is bleak, and its perpetual cloud cover means that not even stars are visible. The vast emptiness overhead has been known to drive people insane with a sense of immense futility and insignificance. No weather churns the sky or moves the waters, and there are few surface currents to change the immutable skin of the planet. The air is always hot and steamy, humid and oppressive with the dull weight of despair. There is a faint tinge of some vague biological effluvia upon the motionless air, clinging to the back of the throat like an unanswered accusation. The stagnation of the air and of the sad people who populate this tepid, heavy world give a sense of stillness and lethargy that is belayed only by the violence barely contained underneath the waters.
—A look at Furia, Black Crusade: The Tome Of Blood
