A woman, in loose pants and shirt, whipped by the wind, a rifle slung over her shoulder. A shadowy figure struggles up the dune behind her, half-hidden by the endless storm.

The streets of the city of Hell match, point for point, the gaudy streets of Paradise. The damned and the blessed rub elbows, park their motorcycles next to each other, drink in the same scarred and homely bars; there is nothing to distinguish between them, save the clear sight of Manastabal, she who calls herself your guide.

Paradise and Hell, those cities which are not one, are forever self-touching, self-stimulating; their residents are blind except to themselves. The damned do not see the blessed; the blessed take no heed of the damned, though they are pushed together by the desert, hemmed in by strange apocalyptic beasts the size of skyscrapers. Manastabal, the guide, knows every nook and cranny, every alleyway and thoroughfare, as well as she knows the endless dunes, as well as she knows the butt of her rifle.

Her name is Reason; she has little time for fools, but endless patience. She does not keep the gate, but does stand watch upon it, to warn those who approach and welcome them to the ranks of the knowing. She is always learning, always teaching; like the desert, like Hell and Paradise, forever changing, forever the same.