Hidden deep within this elaborate network of tunnels lies the Sanctum of the Fleshsmith. The passages here are narrow and labyrinthine, marked only by wards known to the cult. Brood tunnels bite close to its flanks, so that even here the air smells faintly of silk and ichor. Those without guides often vanish into the swarm, never to reach the Sanctum at all.

The Sanctum itself is stark and austere, nothing like the halls above. Its walls are smooth and pale, carved long ago in some style alien to elven craft. Great columns rise into darkness, their proportions uncanny, too vast and too precise. No banners hang here, no throne stands - this is not a palace, but a workshop. Silence reigns, broken only by the rhythm of needle and thread. The Fleshsmith herself sits in the center of this room, surrounded by offerings of broken objects by those who pay her visit - endlessly suturing, endlessly repairing. She seldom speaks to those brought before her. Those who arrive seeking healing return forever changed, their shape altered by arachnoid replacements.

To the cult she is Goddess. To Auberon she is curse. To the people she is deliverer and doom alike. Yet she is none of these. She is only herself: a hand working at the world’s ruin, indifferent to prayer, blind to love or loathing. The elves orbit her like planets around a cold star, forever bound yet never warmed.