[hider=A dubiously useful section?]
Mother River is wise. She knows that for all things there is a flow. There are rapids and there are meanders. As she walks to her final resting place, she slows, becomes tired and heavy; And dies, like so many others, at the feet of the Sepulchre.

The Mahd Estuary that filters around the base of the Forsaken Craglands is a pale thing, weighed down by opaque silt, but in its twilight half-life it is still stronger than it appears and deeper than men fare to guess. Another detail, were it needed, highlighting the height and strangeness of the wanderer's grave.

Another veil to hide Old Skinstitch.

Brown darkness, then pitch. A cruel undercurrent with no solid forms to hold on to. Only mud in which to sink and stay.

A slim tentacle forces itself against the blind press of water. Plucks, effortlessly, a small, lost object from its ever-flowing path to the grave.

Touches. Feels. Examines.

[color=f6989d][i][i]It's a doll.[/i][/i][/color]

Crafted by human hands. Loved by them, too. Burned in them, upon a pyre just large enough for a child. Charred.

The Emaciator releases its prize. It knows.

In a porcelain carcass-shell wrought with bismuth bones, Heartworm stalks into the mud, and tastes cold dreams of Vetros.
[/hider]