Nalfeshnee
Explorer
You move through the Hive, leaving the dark, forgotten area behind you for the relative safety of the Grey District.
If one thing can be said about your employer, it's that he has no need for a tout. He is moving now with a speed that was hidden before your encounter with the cross-traders, and he moves down crumbled alleys and stinking streets as though he ad spent most of his life in the area.
The Hive itself, thought by some aptly named clueless to be named in honour of the vermin which (truthfuly) infest the area, changes little in appearance as you move one, and neither do the inhabitants. Destitute barmies lie on stoops, their hands outstretched holding cracked ceramic mugs, muttering words that change litte whatver world a cutter is in: alms, for the poor? come their pitiful words. Some are blind, their will sapped from their wracked bodies; while others are all too active, trying to grope you as pass by. But few can keep up with Ruboius' pace, which makes short work of the few miles tha tseparated your previous location from the Mortuary.
And then, as round a corner, it is suddenly visible in all its gothic, ashen glory (if indeed usch things can be said about such a place).
Possibly located in the worst area of the worst area of the Cage, the Mortuary sits like a forlorn deity in the Astral, alone without any peers. The palce is surrounded by decaying buildings, forgotten businesses and colourless structures - the kips of the Dustmen who still work in the sombre place after the Lady's Edict. Only those who have to live here – those with a choice would never make this place their home. This is the province of bodies who’ll do the jobs no one else wants to – collecting the dead, butchering meat, nursing the sick and diseased, anything, on other words, objectionable to others. Some of the poor sods who live here are proud to have overcome superstition, while others look broken, defeated by the very place they call home.
The Mortuary itself looms over all else in this part of the hive, like a motionless Lord casting its unwanted shadow over the nefarious doings of those who call the Grey District home. The structure itself comprises a gigantic black dome, topped with blade-like minarets and grime-encrusted stained-glass skylights that have likely not been cleaned in centuries. Mausoleums adjoin the structure, all vaulted, all domed, all seemingly forgotten by the rest of the cage. A couple of dead-collectors – poor berks, entrusted with collecting and hauling dead bodies from all over the cage back to the Mortuary – are just about leaving the building’s main door, their sombre faces a mask of pallid skin and sunken eyes as they haul a wooden cart behind them.
This part of the Hive reeks of death, and in this structure it seems as though you have found the emanation of that stench. Welcome to the Mortuary
If one thing can be said about your employer, it's that he has no need for a tout. He is moving now with a speed that was hidden before your encounter with the cross-traders, and he moves down crumbled alleys and stinking streets as though he ad spent most of his life in the area.
The Hive itself, thought by some aptly named clueless to be named in honour of the vermin which (truthfuly) infest the area, changes little in appearance as you move one, and neither do the inhabitants. Destitute barmies lie on stoops, their hands outstretched holding cracked ceramic mugs, muttering words that change litte whatver world a cutter is in: alms, for the poor? come their pitiful words. Some are blind, their will sapped from their wracked bodies; while others are all too active, trying to grope you as pass by. But few can keep up with Ruboius' pace, which makes short work of the few miles tha tseparated your previous location from the Mortuary.
And then, as round a corner, it is suddenly visible in all its gothic, ashen glory (if indeed usch things can be said about such a place).
Possibly located in the worst area of the worst area of the Cage, the Mortuary sits like a forlorn deity in the Astral, alone without any peers. The palce is surrounded by decaying buildings, forgotten businesses and colourless structures - the kips of the Dustmen who still work in the sombre place after the Lady's Edict. Only those who have to live here – those with a choice would never make this place their home. This is the province of bodies who’ll do the jobs no one else wants to – collecting the dead, butchering meat, nursing the sick and diseased, anything, on other words, objectionable to others. Some of the poor sods who live here are proud to have overcome superstition, while others look broken, defeated by the very place they call home.
The Mortuary itself looms over all else in this part of the hive, like a motionless Lord casting its unwanted shadow over the nefarious doings of those who call the Grey District home. The structure itself comprises a gigantic black dome, topped with blade-like minarets and grime-encrusted stained-glass skylights that have likely not been cleaned in centuries. Mausoleums adjoin the structure, all vaulted, all domed, all seemingly forgotten by the rest of the cage. A couple of dead-collectors – poor berks, entrusted with collecting and hauling dead bodies from all over the cage back to the Mortuary – are just about leaving the building’s main door, their sombre faces a mask of pallid skin and sunken eyes as they haul a wooden cart behind them.
This part of the Hive reeks of death, and in this structure it seems as though you have found the emanation of that stench. Welcome to the Mortuary
