Setting
These plants have no leaves for they have never seen sun. They have no bark for they thrive from self-suffering. They have no sap for they seek only blood. They grow, burn, and replenish constantly leaving the Cloth of Hel ever-changing and nothing but the sternest building can remain.
Creatures that die here suffer quietly over the roll of eons. They throw soft echoes from tainted souls heard from within every slick wooden surface. The cries have filled this place with so many slow-grown tears that the misty air is musty and rotten draining the light away but that which emanates from hell.
The voices within the Cloth of Hel whisper noxious platitudes.
Just let go, we understand. We won't blame you. We all deserve to suffer here for what we've done. It doesn't hurt that much. Just close your eyes and fade away.
Yet, it found the mutable place of interest as it felt at the threads that underlie space. Genesis was a painting from which it could draw light but set upon a thick anvil that detested change in some mindless pure order. This place's threads a garden full of weeds but something, should one possess a tool of change and a well of wrath, could pluck a place clean and tended. It would remember this place but would travel the planes yet.
The long segmented edifice hovered at some distance of air held in numbers imaginary. As a being not quite orthogonal to the immense space it seemed to occupy its height uncomfortably close to earth. The psycholocomotors at one end fired once more as Myrkul's Vein moved onward.
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