This dire place is the Ankatracker.
When we were young, when the sun still shone down it's golden rays upon our collected faces, there was hope. Occasionally a lone rider would approach from across the rocky scree, dodging both indifference and downsizing of ambitions. The winded, sore adventurer would bring news of great changes on the horizon, or tales of dread nerfs stalking the citadels of our far flung civilization.
Those days of mingled joy and terror are done.
We are left abandoned, to eke out our remaining days as we may. As our greenery dies for lack of moisture, sun and nutrients.
As our atmosphere stagnates, and our own cooling hearts beat slower. As the coldness creeping through our very blood stills the air. As the atmosphere begins to freeze.
Now we wander through glaciers, over the corpses of dead Enutrofs, bloated with the disease of too much 10PP Enutrof Candy. Desperately we scrabble for resources gone before we can grab hold. We huddle in our incomplete shelters, without fuel to burn, clothing to keep us warm, food to fill our bellies. There are few drops these days; what does drop, is fought over tooth and nail. Friends turn against one another, the rosy glow of cooperation long gone. Indeed, it is... a Relic of the past.
All we have left are things we accumulated in the past. Before it all went bad. Before we swallowed the lie of better days ahead. Before the Prospecting Lock and Drop Rate Revamp fled our world for places and peoples unknown to us.
Yet as we huddle, we look to the last place, the constantly checked and re-checked, the frequently refreshed Ankatracker. As our world dies around us, we place a frostbitten ear to the Aethers, hoping for some faint vibration, for a bass rumble beneath the ice. We wait still to feel.....