In the dead center of the sunless city of Korton, directly beneath the gaze of the cruel star of Køs, sits the great Sepulcher, the tallest and mightiest of the night-black edifices forever sealed behind great curtains of impenetrable ink.

For those unfamiliar with the faiths that predominate there, the Sepulcher is a tomb, an empty tomb, for the Creator that adherents believe was slain in a great battle with the master of evil and who will yet return. The Sepulcher of Korton is among the greatest, and some say that it is where the faith began.

Because its spires are so tall, so that they may always be visible against the sky, and so riddled with holes, so that they may always make an interesting and imposing silhouette, those faithful who rise in the twin bell towers to strike the hourly bells are in unique danger.

Once a year, perhaps more, an initiate will fall to their death off the spire because they failed to see the yawning chasm greedily before them. In time, of course, they all learn, but many initiates nevertheless traverse the area on their hands and knees, feeling carefully forward and shrinking back where they find a void.

More than one of the initiates and even the elder priests have tripped over the great hempen ropes that serve to bind the bells. And when the bells are cleaned once every five years to remove the caked on bat-muck and other filth, legend has it that the locals will place morbid bets on the number of Sepulcher priests, novices, and initiates who will perish.

LEgend has it that one year, miraculously, all survived and many of the bookmakers in Korton lost everything.

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