Dabiel! Don't take me back to Dabiel!
I cry that I may not withstand
such tedium in that dank land
There's nothing much to understand
Its landscape unremarkable
its mountain-tops so jayg*
where weather, vaguely miserable
fills rivers that never rage
there's really not a lot to say
Sweet Neville? please
lift me from misery's well
commit me to some other hell
take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care...
Dabiel has three moons. Its population is small and largely male. Those men are largely large, as Dabiel is a bountiful planet, where each year a full harvest is guaranteed. Actually, everything is guaranteed every year for the people of Dabiel. They can expect the weather to be not too hot, not too cold, a little damp perhaps, but predictable at least; and the women will be few and and far between, and generally unpleasant to the eye and ear. Much of the populace indulges in homosexual practises, largely out of boredom. They're not very good at it however, with the second-most frequent cause of death being Excessive Chafing.
Once, a [Barren Walker] was found on Dabiel. It popped up out of nowhere, scaring everyone quite a bit. They're still writing songs about it actually; none of them are actually very good, but they seem to enjoy the distraction. There is a thriving music and arts scene on Dabiel, largely consisting of plain-talkin', no-nonsense troubadours, armed only with their trusty poina or gautir, strumming or tinkling out those drab, conventional melodies about how dull it is to live on Dabiel.
Perhaps surprisingly then, few imports are welcomed to Dabiel. The locals don't much enjoy being reminded of how much more interesting other places are. When the Orbital Wars were underway, the majority vote on Dabiel was to not interfere. Even so, some of younger folk left, eager to sign-up and do their part in the biggest war to date. Many never came back; they are considered the lucky ones. For those did return were changed by their experiences, returning to a harsh anti-war climate, forever altered by what they saw out there.
The clinical term for those unhappy soldiers is Post-Interest Syndrome, a hideous condition where you realise you've just experienced the most eye-catching, attention-taking thing you will have ever known, with no hope of ever knowing such sensations again. Some turn to suicide, hopeful that it might give them something a bit different to do. It is the widows who we must pity, alone, afraid, and deeply resentful to have missed out on being shot at, going somewhere a bit different and then getting to kill yourself to end it all. Some take their own lives, wishing to join their loved ones, bitter that they'd not get asked along, vaguely embarrassed that they didn't think of the idea first; others decide to live out their natural lives, hoping someone might show the m a bit of interest or attention now.
It is rumoured that it was a Dabielian who invented the [Yonic Blade]?. This is disbelieved by everyone, however, especially by anyone who has ever been to Dabiel, and knows how people there will say or do just about anything to take their mind off things.
* Colloquial term for referring to a woman whose breasts are slight and unremarkable, if otherwise functional.