The Shore
There is a peninsula where death resides. On the way there, you will pass the cliffs that the Romans thought were one of the ends of the world, and thus called Finisterre; on the shores between them, the Atlantic coughed up swallowed sailors in ancient times - they now lie orphaned, as the people don't drown between Europe and America anymore; today, they are washed on more southern beaches - now, a hotel is standing there, with its limewashed wooden walls slowly becoming dark grey. The first human who lived there felt the presence that haunted the place. They erected monoliths, rows beneath rows, standing there, as to represent the rows of their builders who vanished over the course of time. Ruined abbeys are overgrown with light ivy, nearly inaccessible on the cliffs that tower out of the sea - the bridges still stand, but are too dangerous to cross, and so are the paths that lead down to them - so only the dumb and the tired go visit them. Beneath the verdant boscage you can find doorways and gates that lead to giant bunker complexes, hollowed out by the defenders to keep the nautical important position, and again and again overtaken by attackers; but they vanished all together, like the tanks whose tracks you can still find at some of the lonely dunes, and all that is left there are sand, powder smell, graffito, and used syringes. Whatever was built here was erected to defeat, to overcome death - but instead every new structure could only cement its reign further. The latest fortresses are more inward to the land, and fenced off against all prying eyes; if you are near them, just beneath the walls that are plastered with images of angry dogs, sometimes a fighter jet might cross the street when the traffic lights turn red. Its here where the warheads are stored, and from here they are loaded onto the submarines that are garrisoned nearby. These (and similar bases) were built in the misconception that they would ensure - finally - security and victory against death; but instead it seems that by creating them, their masters sealed - against all better advice - humanities inevitable defeat.