[center][h1]The Vale of Nergthron[/h1][/center]

The main road that wound down from the Northern realms of Leria and through the Southern subcontinent diverged at many points before reaching ultimately breaking at a city, seated at the foot of the Northeastern mountain range - fair and resplendent still, even in the days of the Pax Mortis, for its great wealth as a major hub along the great road had seen it taken without battle; with illness and death that brought with it the black airs of Eagoth's necromancy - and the dead did labor to keep their prize as sacrosanct as the mausoleums they had risen from. Even with the light of day having been muted, casting faded, dead light upon the land, the city gleamed. A setpiece of marble, pewter, and brass, with soaring spires and lavish plazas. 

Outside the city out from the city, the road was reborn as two paths - leading directly to the Southern Steppes and the Western Plain. Both were artifacts of Eagoth's conquest of Leria, built by living, mortal hands. Made to resist overgrowth, deluges, and the chill of winter, the wide and generous pathways had barely needed any care from the Ghouls of the local Revenant.

Yet for all their tidy, engineered splendor and the marvel of their craft, these roads were only lightly traveled by the Ghouls and other mindless dead serving Eagoth's many Revenants. The occasional massed convoy forced on a figurative and literal death march would occupy both roads regularly, but traffic was otherwise sparse - for both down from Northern Leria, and up from the South, amassed columns of the marching dead writhed and crept across a different sort of path. One that had not been dug, nor carved, built, nor in fact even intentionally planned. The path the innumerable dead walked upon, dragging along behind them carts and carriages heaped to the brim with rancid scraps of putrid flesh, was simply one that had been wrought upon the word from the sheer persistent pressure and volume of undead travelers and wagons gouging out a worn scar across the breadth of the land. Where this roughshod and barren stretch met with the main path, a crooked and defaced signboard had been erected amidst a cairn of stones, indicating the destination.

[center][quote=Waysign][b][s]Nergthron, Locus Vale[/s]
COWARDS LOT[/b][/quote][/center]
The scathing defacement of the waysign went largely unnoticed by the legions of the dead that passed it by - but, every so often, one of the mindful dead would pass by either alone or with their fellows, and the abattoir of a crossroads would briefly be visited with laughter. Even amongst the dead, it seemed that ignominy and shame cast a weighty shadow. Such was the propriety of the rebuke carved into the sign, that the mindful guardians tasked with watching over the crossroad had not seen fit to so much as acknowledge the alteration. 

Carrying South for several leagues, the footpath tore straight onwards, deviating only for bodies of water. It passed between winding hills and down previously impassable slopes - but by sheer, persistent wear, the very earth and stone that obstructed the way had been ground flat by the relentless pace of untold millions of bony heels and ragged flesh that had pressed against it. Where the path had previously been too steep, the crux of its incline had been forcibly depressed by the weight of bodies that carried along it, day in and day out, carrying infinitesimal clods of the tortured Earth with them as they went. Any living trailblazer would scarcely have been able to believe the mindless audacity of the feat, with the very surface of the world having been swept aside by nothing more or less than the apathetic relentlessness of the undead hordes.

Though those same trailblazers, awed as they might have been, would have been struck speechless by what awaited at the trail's end.

The trail led unerring towards the Tomega mountain range, and surely enough, if one were to look upon the imperious slopes from afar of the road, they would see that even the uncaring dead had at some point been forced to relent - and the remains of a crooked, zig-zagging ascent rose from the base to vanish into an unseen pass, obscured from view beyond a turn in the chasms of rock. During Eagoth's Conquest of Leria, that much had been true - but as his victories had grown in number, so too had the volume of traffic in and out of the mountain vale - and so the more noticed the delay and inconvenience of such an obstruction.

And so, as though a great godly blade had split the very mountains in twain, a great chasm kilometers deep pierced straight up through the mountainous terrain, from the base of the footpath and up to its tallest soaring peak - and where before, along the route where the footpath had ceded to the sovereignty of the mountain, great platforms wrought from pylons of wood and bone bridged the gap that had been cloven into the range. The passage itself - wholly unnatural and cast in horrid darkness throughout the day save for Noon, as it stretched from North to South - showed evident signs of deformation and collapse where great sinks had opened in the earth, or where rocks and muds had fallen to bury what had been exposed anew, and where entire subterranean chambers had been breached - but these stood as stark indicators only that not even all the perils of weighted Earth could stand against the tireless legions of the dead. Who, when the notion of walking up and across the mountains had suddenly seemed to tedious, had simply ripped what part of the mountain that was before them away from the top down, until there was nothing left to move - with whatever meager tools was availed to them, or else with their bare hands. 

And thus, through the valley of the shadow of death did an unending tide of the undead surge.

The great break in the mountains finally gave way after several leagues to reveal the great vale of Nergthron, hidden within their midst - and here, was it made evident the true scale of Eagoth's grand vision, the Pax Mortis, for the whole of the vale was a sea, and the sea was the dead. Tens of millions of Ghouls and jerkily animated corpses churned in that cauldron, and here, even at midday, a great pall hung over the realm - for suspended, invisibly in the air like a second sun, was the unseen but crackling convergence of profane energies that was Eagoth's locus of undeath. Invisible though it was, it cast a long and great shadow, with motes of impossibly iridescent, crackling darkness seething across the sky and suffusing the ground, casting all into unnatural shade. Far across at the other end of the vale from the Northern break in the mountain, there loomed the [i]second[/i] break in the mountains, heading South, identical in circumstance if not quite appearance to the first.

Amongst the churning sea of undead bodies, great ravines, carved into the soil and, far below, the bedrock, divided the vale - each chasm almost a canyon in its own right. Great edifices and gantries had been built across and down along the sides of these ravines, and therein true darkness hid away the unnatural work that transpired. Shallow but numerous trenches connected the edges and boundaries of these chasms, bridged with roughly hewn slabs of stone across the gaps where wooden planks had long ago sundered from wear - and if the vale was a sea of the dead, then within those pits flowed the submerged, secret currents of that sea. An endlessly pulsating river of putrefied charnel and flakes of bone, dark as soot-grounded skin from all the filth of the land that had seeped into it was the Black Blood of the Earth amongst the sea of the dead - aimless, mindless amalgamations of necrotic tissue, animated by unseen and profane power from above, corralled to move as a current. In places, these trenches flowed beneath crudely erected shacks and longhouses, where the endlessly seething, animated slop would be hoist and cut into chunks, to be dribbled and poured into securely bound barrels, ready to be sealed and shipped throughout all of Leria. Elsewhere, the channels emptied directly into the great gorges in the Earth, flowing into the dark depths below.

The sea of the dead was as unrelenting as a a true deluge - where some were too uncoordinated or rotten-through in death, they would either fall and be trampled into paste upon the ground, or else would topple down into the depths of one of the great pits or entire the streams of flowing flesh, not to emerge again. Minor Revenants, standing watch at crude, makeshift wooden watchtowers, would observe and direct the flow of undeath with subtle arcane probes, yanking, twisting, or jamming against the mystical bindings of Eagoth, that animated and drove most of the dead. The task was tireless and largely futile, whatever sheer obstinacy had allowed the dead to tear down passageways through entire mountains had not leant itself to erection of sensible logistics, here in the vale of Nergthron. The intent, while simple, was not readily accomplished with as few mindful Revenants were present to exert their authority and reign in the errancy of wandering, mindful Ghouls and their entourages - the intent that all of the undead that entered the vale descended to the depths of the dark pits, and in one form or another, would emerge again. The weak would become dissolute and remade, to become part of something else or to be made into the liquefied charnel and shipped back out of the vale. The strong would sup on death's nectar and emerge, changed, and whole once more.

Deep within the bared, subterranean passageways of the one of the ravines, a crude, makeshift keep had been erected within a cavern, with palisades and stacks demarcating its boundaries. More shacks lined the darkened chambers, one of the many sets of barracks for the small legion of Revenants Minor and Mindful Ghouls required to direct the flow of the undead in Nergthron. In the past, the arrangement had simply been that the Revenants would perform the work on end, without rest or succor, until they no longer could - but as the task had grown more and more complex, and the mindfulness of the Revenants Minor had grown or been enhanced to account, the more trappings of unlivelihood began to appear, as if from nowhere, in the depths of the caverns - the crude barracks where the Revenants Minor would [i]idle[/i] for hours on end between work being simultaneously the least and yet most overt of their works towards creature comfort in the abyssal gloom.

The master of the vale was no different, in his own way. Towards the back of the cavern, a portcullis wrought from actual brick, mortars, and wrought iron barred entry to his personal quarters, the passageway therein carved by dead but discerning hands with artful but otherwise purposeless reliefs and engravings. A somewhat vainly-posted honor guard of four Mindful Ghouls slumped at attention there, armed with glaives and armored in mismatched plate - and, when they beleived nobody to be watching, they would distract themselves with elaborate games in the soul of the cavern using hand-carved knucklebone dice and marbles. With senses dulled by decay, they rarely saw or heard the occasional unexpected visitor to the master's chambers.

A wraithlike figure, standing out amongst all the numberless dead simply by merit of having anything whole and unragged to wear in the form of a long dark cloak, soundlessly approached the gate. Alerting the hunched-over and distracted guardians with a kick to the back of one of their rears, he then issued his purpose there.

"I have come to speak with the Warden." The figured rasped with a characteristic and unremarkable rasp of a mummified throat and withered vocal cords. 

"The Warden is not to be disturbed, mi'lord." One of the guards explained as the others, in no great particular hurry, hid their crafts away and fetched up their glaives. "He is preoccupied wit the upkeep and direction of the Locus above, glory of Eagoth 'imself." The line, likely half-recited from memory, only evaded being rote for having been delivered so infrequently. The Warden did not receive many visitors.

"So it has been said to me on the last two occasions I have visited this beggar's hall in the last few years." The cloaked figure rasped. "Listen carefully you dregs, for I shall not repeat myself. I have been from here to Necron and back again in the service of our mutual true lord and master. I have studied many of his tomes and consulted with his apprentices and some of his most favored Revenants, and I tell you on authority as great as exists within this wretched slum: The Warden is not, does not, and has not been 'directing' the Locus in any form or fashion. He has been festering away as a waste of skin and sinew, perpetually trying to scrape together enough backbone to pose as the lord of this valley."

The stranger's rebuke of the warden raised several spluttering snickers from one of the guards, until his comrade slapped him across the back of the head while the captain replied.

"Be that as it may be, the Warden, such as 'e is, is not to be disturbed.: He said, his rotten lips drooping into an approximation of a lazy smile. He evidently had little of what the stranger said to disagree with in any haste.

"Let us say I lose my patience with all of you, reduce you to quivering piles of offal to be swept into one of the pits somewhere, and I confront the Warden regardless?" The stranger hissed.

"Woah there mi'lord, no need to do us in like that. We're just a showing is all!" The captain said, not with any great urgency as he made a placatory gesture with his free, while he lowered his glaive with the other. "We're more an [i]honor[/i] guard than a real one, yeah? Probably the only ones here during less important work here than the Warden 'imself. But ah, fair warning to ya, you go in there on your own and he'll settle your hash."

"Settle my hash? [i]Him?[/i]" The cloaked figure demanded. 

"Look, 'e may be a coward and a bit of a lackwit, but thus far he's also been ever so faintly, slightly difficult to get rid of and replace, and uh, as much as it even really matters, he kind of has seniority down here. Not trying to bloody your pride there any, but he's ground down way tougher and meaner than you mi'lord." The captain went on in the same measured, calm tone.

"He's never been confronted by anybody like me." The stranger replied, their hoarse voice approximating an air of confidence. "So again, open this gate right now-"

The bars of the gated portcullis rose upwards smoothly and almost soundlessly, as though they had just been oiled. A sudden mass obstructed the passageway, framed by a silhouette from the torchlight beyond them. Almost as soon as the cloaked figure laid eyes on it, he found himself prostrating on the cavern soil on both hands and knees, along with the guards, entirely to his own surprise.

"...I can sense your power..." The voice that emanated from the indistinct mass was slurred and muted, as if coming from behind several layers of cloth. "...But a little arcane fire and book learning is not enough. In time, you will come to know the extent of your vulnerabilities...and how you will never. Ever. Unseat me."

The hooded figure could not even twitch a single muscle in their prone form, but they could hear the mass as it seemed to boil forward across the cavern floor, sounding almost like bark being pulped for parchment as it went, each roiling undulation underscored by innumerable, sickening pops and gurgling emanations.

"Did Eagoth send you?" The mass asked in a bored tone.

The cloaked figure opened their mouth to lie, but the truth escaped and unbounded from his lips. "No. I came of my own volition."

"I see. You thought to cast me down and become the new master of this place?" The slurred, muted voice asked. "No matter. Unlike the others who came for me in the past, I can sense some true potential in you. It would be a shame to unmake you...and that besides, I can make great use of you."

The cloaked figure became aware of a sudden [i]imperative[/i] that was coursing through his muscles and sinew, moments after he had already started moving to rise and draw back his hood, his eyes cast wide to take in the view of the Warden.

Magus Rixis of Chalarune, Kinslayer, Betrayer, Coward, and very evidently still an Archmage, was a roiling heap of wet, darkly oozing putrescent sludge - dark as the abyss itself, the same Black Blood of the Earth that flowed through the trenches above and the pits here in the depths. A faint recess in the turbulent, seething mass gave way to a gap where, perhaps, what remained of his original body peered out - though the cloaked man could not discern whatever remained in that shadowed lane, not in the darkness of the cavern at any rate. His own features, in contrast, stood starkly revealed by the torchlight spilling around Rixis' turbulent form - a perfectly taut, drawn husk of withered flesh drawn over edged contours and ridges of bone, utterly dried and free of rancid decay - preserved, at least so far, as a desiccated hollow with empty eye sockets and lips so parched and thin, the bare and grayed gums of his eerily perfect teeth stood blatantly exposed in the firelight.

Another imperative struck the cloaked, mummified figure, only becoming apparent after he had already begun to act upon it. "I am Lineaus, Revenant Minor, formerly of the Court of Eagoth in Necron." He announced, somewhat to his own dismay.

"Formerly eh? Left in disgrace, so mad and thirsty for vindication you decided the best way to show them all was to storm me over and seize the great work." Rixis slurred. "Another reason to be thankful for my wretched repute I suppose. Like all the others who came, you have underestimated me. But fret not. You will still manage things great enough for your contentment here, in my service..." The surging Dead Sea of Rixis' body began to roll forward and past Lineaus, who found himself falling into lockstep behind it even as the guards returned to their posts.

"The timing of your arrival is most auspicious, you see. Though it has taken much study and work, I have finally attained an epiphany regarding the great work of Eagoth I am entrusted with the care of..." The slurred voice took on a rapturous tone as it went on, clearly Rixis now talking to himself moreso than he was still addressing Lineaus.

"...The Profane Locus! Another secret of its devise has been made known to me! There is much to experiment with now - and your extra set of hands will be ever so useful..."

Lineaus felt the simultaneous onset of both academic intrigue and dread born of tedium as Rixis began to babble on about his endlessly unappreciated toils, leading them both further into the midst of the cavern where they would eventually reach the hoist to return them to the surface...