You will know them by their stench. A fetid malodor; the scent of desperation. Hallmark of the licentious libertines, the mad profligate host. If they possessed any depth, any real substance at all, they could be called Legion, but they lack ambition, vision. They lack sight. Any concept of past and future eclipsed by the warm glow of conquest and denial, every encounter with truth disregarded. With scorn.
They have grown undeniably homogenous. Their autonomy has long since faded away. Melted. Melded into a shared mass, a shared life, a unified experience of writhing, incontinent babbling, and floundering in shallows. Should Diogenes stir, with new life spinning down his aching spine, he would rise upon his brittle bones, look about, and extinguish his flame, knowing his cause to be lost.
These are the lands wherein Mephistopheles reigns.
