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Carved in ruinous stone, the blight of ages
Stagnancy to feed the pale lord
Stupor to see the bastard child born
See from this height, the blindness of men
Knelt before the throne as the sacrificial lamb
With half-rot meat as the sacrament to ascension
See from this height, the two faces of god
As mortal minds are flayed into numbness
Let the presence of the pale lord live in you


~ Passage on the foot of the climb toward the peak of Greymount

The Domain of Upsilon is a carcass-turned-cosmos. No life remains here.

The corpses that line galaxies are sewn into strings of meat that merge one world and another, forging an amalgamation of insensible forms that hold the universe into motionlessness.

The stars that shone with ever-radiance are no more now but pale moonlight fueled into endless damnation to drift the empty greycosm.

No life remains untamed and unleashed, all are bound to the twain-faced god in perpetual half-wake slumbers.

Through body and soul, all in this cosmos have achieved ascension in greyflesh—the greatest gift from the twain-faced god.

But the birthplace of the twain-faced's bastard son who devoured this reality, lies in Greyrealm, atop the peak of Greymount.

This world was once called Vui'neia before the pale lord's birthing, and this very mountain that is Greymount was known as the Sunken Sky; a name dedicated to its highest peak.

Now all of its past is forgotten in stained time. Once filled with blooming life, twice engulfed with half-alive corpses in the unholy presence of the twain-faced.

Greyrealm is the origin of the concept of stupor, and Greymount is where the original incarnation was made. It was already predestined through the will of the twain-faced that a bastard son shall be born of its name.

Without the pale lord being born, the twain-faced will always exist in perpetual nothing and everything, asleep and awake in one.

But through the fate of the pillars, it must always be, it shall always be, evermore and bear an avatar of its profaned form.

Greyrealm itself is not supposed to be. It is as useless as the twain-faced existing yet it persists like a parasite, absolute and irremovable despite its meaninglessness.

And the pale lord, the Greyking, his life is not to the liking of one such unthinking being with the purpose to drown everything in a stupor.

So is this domain of oblivion, of disgusting mindless parasitism, that strives to be meaningful as to that of a god's reign.

But it shan't, for not the father nor the son can ever be more than stupor-filled idiotic gods.


Greymount of the Vilest King where
the Original Incarnation was made.

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