The Necropolis

There is a place in Downwarp, connected to the DarkUnder, with entrances in many other places.

The upper layer is covered in gravesites, with crooked tombstones, weathered statues, broken monuments, opened mausoleums, sunken slabs. All the marks of cemetary or memorial garden, including the occasional decaying bouqet of flowers. Those in Down who choose are often buried here. Or deeper down.

Where the dead live

This is a city, one made of tombs, grave-dirt, and old bones. It runs deep and far, with streets as bent and faded as the carvings on the stones it's built from.

Everything in the Necropolis seems to be about being dead or running from death. Zombies, ghosts, liches, and many other ghastly things are here which are undead or prey on flesh, blood, soul.

If it moves, be wary. Even if it's not dead yet.

"Why is this city not in Strange, where it feels that it belongs?"

"Perhaps it left to prevent Viral infection"

"No! It really is about decay, not fear. Entropy's hand rests firmly here; be fearful only as wisdom dictates."

Come to live, come to die

Here, the diseased and dying come. Here, they feel comfort in the shadows and twisted monuments where few come calling. Here, single-lifers are laid to rest. Here, they are believed to rest in peace.

This is, of course, not always the case.

"Many see fear and horror here, but they are too much in love with sound and movement. Immortality wearies. Meditate on the silent and the dark. Be gentled by it. Let entropy enfold you in her peace-bringing arms. Let me enfold you in my sweet wings..." -- Hekhazuniel

There is a faction whose existences are spent in service to the light-loving of Necropolis. They are the Lamplighters.

Consign to thee and come to dust

"Think you that only meatcreatures die, or that only their deaths are important? More fool you." -- Lamplighter Vome'bo

There is a Grave of Trees, where the giants lie rotting in thoughtful silence. There is the Crypt of the Mechanism, where machines lie in rigor mortis of rust, springs unsprung, cogwheels gap-toothed. There is the Place Where Love Died, full of trinkets and mementos of affection long since past. The Mausoleum houses ideas faded from the mind, memes moribund. Enter it and they flutter in a silent whirl, eager for a mind to be thought in, and then lie torpid and quiescent when the mind is gone again.

Gridshamans come here to contemplate Rust. There is at least one shrine here.

Be wary

There is something horrible in the depths of the twisted underworld streets at the heart of the city.

Attractions