If you removed the rioters, the fires, and the raiders; Magincia during the day was nothing less than exquisite. The salt air skimmed and tickled at the corners the sand dunes. Pride surged through its proverbial veins etching its way across the flower laden grass. Inhaling and exhaling, the island lived and breathed its heritage with ever sunrise and sunset. The portrait colors of purple skirted by orange and pink dusted themselves across a dimming horizon. But nightfall on the Island of Pride was something else entirely. For every prudish modicum of ideal there was an equally extroverted degree of personal fetish. Magincia, catered to all. It was after all, entirely about who you knew. She knew the ship. She knew the Captain. She knew the crew. Everything could be rationalized beneath the right moon.