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.
The Cloth of Hel
Hell grows. All the abyssal places do. These are the roots from which used souls go to rot to feed their inevitable expansion. Only a few constructs are sturdy enough to persist among the growths that produce such pervasive malaise.
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
The Cloth of Hel is a part of 
Gehenna.
Below the stiff greenery that was Genesis' immutable substance was a different space. Not tainted with aetherkind, not directly, but more the shore where flotsam within the ether came to rest. Thus so did such a thing as Myrkul as it erupted into another endless sky. As it cast its senses down percieved wooden things and a vile growing greyness not of emotion but devoid of purpose. Growths a predator of feral nature tangled deep with daemonkind. Those creatures a chaotic aquifer from which the tangled roots supped to destroy the destroyers. Neither corrupted nor pure it percieved this taint brought slowly to dust. It pondered for a moment whether the tainted places were soil beneath where these almost-plants threw roots or by dusty tethers of digested chaos from which to build order found itself buried instead.
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.
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.
- 8 posts here • Page 1 of 1