Setting
The barren, grey world is dusty and windy, the bitter sands kicking and swirling around those poor souls who call the world home, lashing at their faces. Goggles and windstorms are both commonplace here; all the better to hide the faces and objects of those who frequent the world.
Even the buildings are shady; made of rusted metal and tarp, nailed down from the wind and sand with plastic visors and simple ties, themselves looking more like an odd cross between circus tents and fallout shelters, tinged with red and gold when the sun dared poke its head above the horizon.
On the Emperor's side, he would immediately try to get in touch with Ashia. She seemed far to distressed in her last com.
"Ashia, this is Rome. Do you read? I repeat this Rome, do you read?" He would wait for a response impatiently.