Babylon

In the claustrophobic depths before one reaches Atlantis lies humanity’s first
great city, Babylon, its massive ziggurats and broad processional ways
preserved in a perpetual state of decay that never quite reaches dissolution.
The air here burns the lungs with sulfurous heat, carrying the scent of
ancient fires and something older – the breath of creation itself, some
delvers claim; preserved from when the world was young and gods walked openly among
their creations.

The ziggurat of Etemenanki dominates the cityscape, its seven tiers
representing the known planets of the ancient world. Though partially
collapsed on its eastern face, the structure remains largely intact, its mud-
brick core having transmuted over millennia into something resembling basalt
but with properties that allow it to repair minor damage over time. The temple
at its summit, once dedicated to Marduk, now houses something else, a presence
better felt than seen, which causes electromagnetic equipment to fail and
organic materials to age rapidly when brought too close.

The walls of Babylon bear the earliest forms of writing, cuneiform texts that
cover nearly every vertical surface in the ruins. These inscriptions defy
conventional understanding, as they appear to rearrange themselves when not
directly observed, forming new sentences and concepts that respond to the
questions in delvers’ minds. Linguists who have studied photographs of the
same wall sections taken minutes apart have identified subtle changes that
cannot be explained by lighting or perspective, confirming this phenomenon is
not mere hallucination.

The hanging gardens remain, though what they now nurture would have horrified
their original creators. Plants that feed on sound grow in dense thickets,
their leaves vibrating to absorb the energy of footsteps or whispered
conversations. Flowers bloom with approximations of human faces, their
expressions changing to mimic those who observe them. Most disturbing are the
arbor-forms, tree-like structures that have grown into humanoid shapes, rooted
in place but capable of limited movement, their branches reaching toward
passersby with apparent purpose.

Throughout the ruins, delvers encounter evidence of advanced knowledge that
should have been beyond ancient Babylonian capability; astronomical
calculations accurate to six decimal places, mathematical proofs that wouldn’t
be rediscovered until the 20th century, and architectural principles that
achieve perfect acoustic properties through seemingly simple design. This
knowledge appears alongside ritualistic instructions for communicating with
entities described as “those who dwell between stars” and warnings about “the
price of wisdom freely given.”

The most dangerous aspect of Babylon is what lurks in its shadows, forms which
move only when not directly observed, composed of darkness deeper than the
absence of light. These entities leave no footprints and register on no
sensors, their existence confirmed only through the consistent testimony of
survivors who describe feeling watched from angles that shouldn’t exist within
three-dimensional space. Expedition members who become separated from their
groups are often found in states of catatonia, their eyes fixed on empty
corners and their mouths forming words in languages they never learned.