Uruk, ancient and revered, stands as a testament to humanity's earliest endeavours, a cradle where civilisation took its first breaths. Once grand, its ziggurats and temples now lie fractured, worn by centuries of desert winds and the slow erosion of time. Towering columns, once the pride of early architects, tilt and crack, their worn stone surfaces etched with forgotten glyphs that speak to those who still hold the city sacred. The mighty walls, though crumbling, retain an echo of their former strength, enveloping the remains of a city that was both sanctuary and citadel. A sparse populace inhabits these ruins, tending to the broken altars and preserving fragments of a bygone age. This land, consecrated as holy ground by the Sekrum Dumu, is steeped in a silence thick with reverence as if the city itself were in mourning. Dust-laden pathways wind through abandoned courtyards, where the faint rustling of distant palms and the trickling of ancient channels whisper stories of a time when Uruk’s stone structures thrummed with life, ingenuity, and devotion.