S E A L E D C I T Y
Azaurath, the High One, has reopened the main gate. It has been a thousand years since he last stirred from his throne or spoke a word to his servants. They continue to care for him, knowing that almost limitless magical might resides in his ancient body. To them he is a living god, one whose will is never to be questioned.
His decaying body sits atop the throne, held together by willpower and ancient enchantments. The yellow silk of his mask never moves, no breeze enters this place. Those who are brought before him hear a voice in their minds, but no more, the decayed figure on the dais above them never moving, beyond even producing a smell; his vitals, skin and flesh long since mummified in their own fluids. He sees all, the past, present and future, but is content to wait here, for his eventual mind death. Marshalling himself again after these long eons would require too much effort, too much energy, so much would be lost if he tried that he has resigned himself to his fate.
He feels the eddies of time slowly drawing his destructor near, sees ever more clearly his own demise. Without hope or fear he faces it. Sixteen centuries he has lived; in his prime he was a demigod, once even challenging Shub-Niggurath herself. But even she has gone now.
He waits.