Tales say the grim citadel congealed from a wanly luminous cloud that came down from ulterior stars. Surrounded by a blasted landscape, cloaked in mists, it crouches like some alien crustacean, black, hunched, and spined. It thrums always with a sound part machine and part beating heart, and that sound is the insistent hunger of the Fear Lords.
|Art by Mitch Grave|
|Art by digitalinkrod|