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Necropolis

 It’s a huge space, a room in somewhere so vast that the horizon is just endless black wall and endless black space.


There’s an ocean with dark waves you can sense and hear, but can’t see. 


And an island at the center of it, with a city. Look around you and see the ships. They are behemoths, huge and angular and organic, arching skeletal profiles silhouetted. They are waiting. 


Everything is smooth as stone and ebony like a night without stars, cut through with fine lines of amber, gold, ivory. Soft, organic light pulses in those countless lines. Ancient, undeniable heartbeats. 


It’s freezing. Your breath comes out in billowing fog. Thin, dark ice frosts across structures as if it were a fine artisanal coating. 


The doorways are too tall for anyone human, and they flower open, or the seams vanish making the entrance into a wall. Nothing has blemishes, nothing here has been built. It’s grown. Manifested. Every surface is eerily warm against the biting cold, ridged with intricate carvings so small you have to feel them to know they are there. 


Everything is too big for normal people, avenues are so wide and broad, buildings like skyscrapers that simply vanish up into shadow. It goes on and on. A labyrinth for titans. 


Everything meets at the center, at a statue ringed by black water in circular canals, but it’s so massive that you can’t see it up in the gloom, just two claws on the mount, and giant legs bent backward at the joints. Is it a God for the vanished builders? A triumphant warrior? You feel an awful foreboding, an ominous realization that somewhere far above you— the statue is looking back. 


They know you are here.

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