It's 1606 in the Italian Peninsula, and humanity has officially re-awaken from its thousand-year

slumber.

Don't believe us?

Don't take our word for it.

Feel it in the air yourself.

Far from the cold, anti-intellectual barbarism of the Middle Ages, Renaissance euphoria is contagious,

and artists for the first time in centuries are mad to dream, not to learn, but mostly

mad to create.

Michelangelo Da Vinci, the Valdi, Galileo, they see the last millennium for what it was,

a wasteland of darkness, dehumanization and destruction.

It makes this moment the age they've entered, all the more meaningful, because now it's

their time, and they dare to do what God has instructed them to do, to make beauty,

lots and lots of it.

But at the same time, in a small garden in Monsa of North and Italy, two unenlightened people

talk in hushed tones, and we promise, absolutely nothing beautiful will come of it.

A disgraced woman whispers into the familiar ear of a murderer, a murderer she loves.

He listens carefully, standing close enough to feel her warmth, just one more time.

She hisses about another woman, a woman trying to destroy her.

Of course, she makes no specific quest, she doesn't need to.

This is not this man's first rodeo, or whatever the Renaissance equivalent of that would be.

This guy is Giovanni Palo Asio, a bit of a Michelangelo himself.

Only he splatters walls red, and not with paint, if you know what I'm saying.

...