A Decrepit Army of Droning Hydras

Another languid day was drawing to a close, the air thick and motionless, trapping everything dirty in its torpor, especially that stale, tarry smell. The retreating sun cast muted bronze streaks across the horizon; the steeples and antennae were stalagmites carpeting a vast sepia cavern. Ventilators and ducts, a decrepit army of droning hydras, guarded their rooftop sanctuaries.