The fields are barren, scorched by years of war. Where wheat once grew, only remnants of grains now suffer in the pale shade of a merciless sun. If you stare hard enough at the hard, packed and cracked ground, you might be able to work out the outline of a boot-print, hard in the soil. Soldiers used to walk here, whispered in legends by dimming fires in outcast camps. Soldiers with barrels on their shoulders, housing fire and havoc, lightning in their pockets. If you had asked someone one hundred years ago what this skyline would have looked like now, they would have given you words of splendor, glistening like dew on morning plants. Now, you stare over the bare wreckage and wonder - where did it all go wrong?