The bones of the gods are black, like polished ebony, their marrow is golden and radiant.

The Tyrant Throne is omnipresent, like a hole in the sky.

A power, chained and drained of its immortal blood, screams deep under the city.

Time-lenders, peddlers of second chances, mitigators of consequence.

A rebellious diaspora of archons, waging a guerilla war against man.

In the palaces and mines, brain-dead deservants are fed ichor, like immortal machines.

Mirrorgazers, beholding their own soul, project their imagos, unbound by fleshy constraints.

On the dirty streets of the eternal city, gutter-arcanists talk with pigeons and rats, seeking hidden alleyways.

Infected by the shards of the ruinforged weapons, the mouths-of-ruin utter syllables of pure entropy.

Ichor junkies beg for just one more sip.