In the primal war between Good and Evil, some spirits refused to take a side. But abstaining from a choice is itself a decision, and they soon found themselves in the thrall of a new master. After the great expulsion, they were tasked with building a monument for him.
The Tomb of Sloth is found on the borderline between Cowardice and Apathy-- claimed by neither but frequented by both. As the only serious rival to both God and Satan, Sloth's memorial was originally intended to be far larger. Unfinished buildings dot the surrounding landscape, slowly falling into decay. The plain hums with murmured words, indiscernible, drifting on the wind. The ghosts of things half-formed haunt this place-- thoughts half-finished, deeds half-done.
The tomb's attendants are a sordid lot, their forms now bestial, now human, now some unholy parody of living flesh. Their vacant minds are in such thrall to Sloth that their very bodies have rebelled, twisting into strange shapes from sheer revulsion to the unremitting monotony-- desperate for change, any change. Their movements are languid and awkward as they slink, squat, or sprawl about the monument. Anyone approaching the structure will soon learn why, as the weight of Sloth's influence causes the steps to slow and the spine to stiffen. The air feels thick and sound is muffled.
The interior of the mausoleum slopes downward to a natural cave, lit by fissures in its roof. A statue stands here depicting the Recumbent King. Gathered around are the lieutenants of Sloth's Inner Circle, half submerged in caked mud. Their eyes track you as you approach. Those that have a free limb may attempt to hinder you. As Sloth's agents, their gaze is hypnotic and their touch paralyzes. Proceed with caution. Within the base of the sculpture is a tunnel, near choked with debris. There is barely room to slither through it to the lower cavern which contains the sepulchre itself. (It may perhaps be easier to climb over the monument and drop down through the natural opening beyond, but such insolence will not go unpunished).
The weight on one's body and mind increases as one draws nearer to the Lord of Torpor. His presence saps like summer heat and numbs like winter chill. Yet the cave itself is lukewarm. The tepid waters which hollowed out this space vanished ages ago. The silence of the dry air is broken only by the shallow breathing of Sloth himself, stretched out on the top of his tomb. He has lingered here for untold centuries-- even dying is too much of a bother. He has outlasted his most devoted followers, who leave behind little more than a few hardened skulls and the sands of a spent hourglass.
Thus to enter. Leaving is another matter. Sloth's oppressive presence will hinder movement and deaden thought. It will also daunt your will. You may feel it impossible to drag yourself back through the cramped tunnel and the grasping sycophants and the lurching hulks of the plain-- certainly not without a rest first. A quick sleep, a cat nap. Just a brief shutting of the eyes... of course, I don't need to explain to you that such a sleep would have no waking. If you truly must visit this place, it would be best to bring some form of magic that can bear you swiftly away.
How did I escape? That's another story.
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