THE COLD LEVIATHAN

THE COLD LEVIATHAN
It walks the path of the "dead-but-not-resting."
An enormous behemoth, constantly adding the dead to its mass, a magnet of decay and mortified flesh. The prophets believe it to presage the end times. One has come into being on every world that is soon to fall. None have escaped this fate once the leviathan emerges, pestilence in its wake. Unthinking. Uncaring. Does it even have a mind? Can it be stopped? Reasoned with? What of the emissaries sent to parlay with it? All have “joined” with it, captured within its nest-like topiary of a mass.
It is worshipped by the devout of Krytuss. The promised champion. The trumpeter. The harbinger. “The herald of the first hour.”
It has allegedly been witnessed walking the barren expanse of the Blasted Basin in Golthien, if such rumors are to be trusted.
The devout, the Grub Priests of the Prime Rot, see it as a sign to move. They advise their Lentokki masters, those earthly agents of Him who Rots, that now is the time to act.
The PCs believe not in such prattle. They know that to survive is the only prime. All else can be endured. They’ve not been exposed to beauty or uncorrupted life. They’ve been sold a lie. But they will see the truth. Only, will it be too late to sway their deadened hearts?
Assassins with jobs made far simpler by the lack of hope or future. They may justify their acts as a release from the burdens of the material world. One comprised solely of pain and misery.
But again, a lie. God, let it be a lie. It must be. It has to be. Doesn’t it?
So we return to great Remuulthrax the Unavoidable. The Undeniable. The leviathan of death most assured and inevitable. The promise answered. The promise kept. The promise made at birth to all those who taste the air of Gothenya.