The streets of Nostramo, the same old dark, cold pigsty

Nostramo was the kind of planet where a person didn't live, they survive in squalor. Bothering the wrong person could have very bad consequences. One misstep could land you in a mass grave. If people don't kill you, then some disease, infection, or injury will in a matter of days. And everyone's favorite: if none of that kills you, well... you're also your own worst enemy.

Nostramo was a place where hope had vanished generations ago. You hunted or you were hunted.

Among those dark, uneven streets, stood the small, scrawny and dressed in rags Jago, dragging a young man by the leg, leaving a trail of blood wherever he went. You saw that boy almost regularly, dragging bodies along, probably to eat or something, you really didn't know much about that, but what you did know was the presence of the crows that followed him everywhere