It is a quiet place inhabited by many hidden nests. It is hard for the mind to understand that infinity might be bound, but a checkerboard might stretch its four corners forever and remain that limited pattern of black and white squares. Don’t get me wrong, it is a beautiful place, and my heart longs to return. There are mysteries there few have ever fully delved, but some have; it is possible to finally see the pattern—an amazing ecstasy of realization that always ends in death, or something like it. Their hearts cease beating, their lungs empty of air, but corruption will not touch them.
There is but one necropolis for all of that city, great, mighty, and empty. It is said that it was once the palace of the king, for it is the center of our world. His palace, and his tomb. I went there often. The thirteen—twelve now—whose magic built the place, are said to guard their master’s hidden rest. When someone is found to be dead, they are taken there and laid near whichever pillar they were sworn to. But my pillar is gone, and I will have no rest.
Tale Told 
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