Those were small faces they hadn't known, dying alone and left without the natural dignity of rot. There was Cloth, still, who they can't forget. There was Tiso, arrogant, oriented perfectly to his goal. He made it where he wanted, and it still killed him before success. It likely would have killed him after.

So many dead where they couldn't reach without shattering themselves. The wilder passages lined with spikes and their victims. Empty shells of who fell great heights and lacked the wings or bodies that could take the landing. Camps and trails and tiny groups walking to the same fate.

The muddled shape of Lord of Shades is surrounded by Nails, jutting up from the ground like grave markers. Imperfect tries. Possibly true monuments, when there was anyone left to bother.

Lemm. Lemm is here, again, again.

A mess of a head tears its way from the center of the mass. They are close, too close, building-size face looming above a common bug, claws sinking into the path on either side.

He's taking a risk, isn't he. Face this monster, face a so-called god, face a terrible thing that devoured Higher Beings and ate realms and killed their way through the ruins long before they could do any of that, all for the sake of collecting relics and history for himself.