The Tower of Plagues

A monstrous spire of decay, the Tower of Plagues rises unnaturally into the sky, its crumbling walls slick with festering growths and alchemical rot. Standing well over a hundred feet tall, its jagged silhouette is obscured by a thick, seething cloud of noxious green, yellow, and brown vapors—a toxic miasma that warps the very air around it. The land beneath and beyond the tower is a festering wound upon the world, where the earth bubbles and oozes with sickness, pulsing as if something diseased and living writhes beneath its surface.
The very sky above is twisted, stained in shades of putrid green, streaked with writhing clouds that coil and churn like serpents of filth. The sun is a sickly smear, its light barely piercing the plague-choked heavens. Occasionally, the air itself seems to whisper and moan, carrying the sound of distant, gurgling agony, though whether it comes from the land or something unseen within the tower, none can say.
The magic radiating from the tower is overwhelming, an oppressive force that clings to the flesh like a disease, crawling beneath the skin with an unseen touch. To gaze upon the Tower of Plagues is to feel your stomach twist and your body betray you. A single glance brings bile to the throat, a deep and dreadful sickness creeping through the bones. It is a place that makes men question their strength, their will, and ultimately, the very quality of their existence.
Here, death does not come swiftly—it lingers, it festers, and it waits.