It has long been asked why men no longer dream of going to the fourth planet of our glorious solar system. Why, when we have the ability to climb the stars and the arcane tools to touch the distant cold void beyond our own orbiting sibling planets, do we not reach for the fourth, where ice and water and our dreams all call for us?

Oh, for what we found there, upon that distant plane, where the sun was distant but burned with the wrath of the sword of heaven, where the ground bled black and great storms crackled across the plane. Where we stared upon the images we saw, and only those few e're were released, where we gazed in wonder on such little things, too afraid to turn and stare upon the greater. Where a small machine wandered the planetscape, where it moved truly, unbroken for a hundred days more than spoken of - and it found such things.

No. Men do not dream of mars, for even as none yet live who have seen what lays there remain, the imprint of our minds do know, and we shudder, and make excuse for why we do not claim the red rock orbiting our unfriendly sun.