Miragician

The air is thick with ashes, the sky is a crude grey with an endless onslaught of metallic clouds, and the earth is a cold, rotten wasteland. They are all that are left of a once colorful civilization. Well, not all of it. In the midst of it all stands a young man, with ragged blond hair trailing down his shoulders and a torn bandanna around his neck. He is clad in a dusty black T-shirt, with a skull insignia blazed across it, and a pair of dirty and scuffed pants. Ironically appropriate attire for the current situation. Before him, a flimsy cross is set erect in the ruined soil, made from two planks of wood hastily nailed together. Had the t