nelisty, A tall, skeletal figure draped in tattered crimson robes walks through the ruins of a neon-lit desert bazaar, the thick sandstorm blending with the artificial mist. The neon signs—written in long-forgotten languages—cast eerie, flickering red light through the swirling dust. Coins and scraps of cloth drift in the air, frozen in time like relics of a lost civilization. His face is hidden behind a smooth, reflective mask, the shifting sand reflected in a distorted, endless loop. In one hand, he holds an ancient staff, glowing with burning crimson inscriptions, illuminating the fog like a dying sun. The storm howls, but his robes do not move.