This is a world where the vilest creatures come to roost. Even the Klingons, brave as they are, don’t utter its name – for to say it is to give it power over you. This is a world where the snow falls black, where the ashen ground comes to life at your feet, where the trees are built from the bones of the dead. It’s the depths of misery, of horror, and Garak relishes in the perversion.
Decay hangs heavy on the air. Each breath tastes of rot and ash, yet somehow also of sunlight and fresh grass. Garak’s lips twitch up at the paradox. How fitting that a planet such as this would never conform to standard expectations.
He rolls his shoulders to loosen the tense muscles of his back.
Before him, the grey waters ripple and gargle as its mistress emerges.
Adorned in crimson silk, her sleeveless gown reaches to her bare ankles. It accentuates every flawless curve as she glides forward. As she nears, the water rises so she may sit on its rolling waves. Again, the paradox