Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20191120203148/@comment-30014014-20191231022329

The death of an old god. The death of countless men and women. Their remains, unburied. Their harrowing moans, rubbed off the crystal that set the tainted soil awake, kilometers in the air, besieged by clouds. The land is a foul isolation, polluted by a grand massacre...

Where a cavernous door stands. Closed, barred by steel of elsewhere. Within, rows upon rows of descent in the shape of stairs. Lights of amethyst. Glows of bygone.

Zeba...Zeba...

The word finds its home in the decrepeit. The hollow, far for all, save for the occasional unfortunate. Mamono, last seen elsewhere, dragged to this quiet anguish by hands of machines. Their clocking clanks set the underground alive, where they drag the unwilling to bars and isolation...