Far beneath the surface, the Elven Remade linger as a fading breed, their long lives stretched into ruin. Their subterranean realm bears the name of a kingdom, yet its throne lies hollow. The Underking Auberon presides in bitterness, but the true power is no king at all, only the distant and dispassionate Fleshsmith - nestled deep in her lair.

In the wake of the Cataclysm, the elves turned to her in desperation. Their empire, already waning, sought to stave off entropy through a pact with the so-called angel of anatomy. In return for sanctuary and a steady supply of flesh, her presence promised healing for the maimed and respite from the creeping death that stalked the land. At first, her work seemed salvation. But the promise of restoration soon curdled into devotion, and devotion into cult. The Fleshsmith cared only for her art, yet many of the elves proclaimed her their deliverer. Voices of doubt were quickly drowned beneath the clamour of new faith.

Now the remnants of their realm languish in shadow. Once-graceful halls lie wrapped in cocoons and glistening webs, their elegance drowned beneath a slow tide of flesh. The songs of their past glory have become dirges, echoing in empty corridors. Their ruler sulks in impotence, while their true sovereign drifts in detachment, consumed only by the endless work of unmaking and remaking.

To tread in this subterranean kingdom is to court death. Few who descend return, yet still the reckless and the covetous are drawn to the depths, seeking lost wonders, or the secrets of a race that cannot admit it is already dead.