The Necromancer's Moon: Yax'Ek Xibalba

“She weeps not with light, but with remembrance. Every dead thing that ever loved looks upward when she rises.”

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In the night sky above Hextor, beyond the veil of jungle haze and marsh mist, rises a sallow, bruised moon not known to all lands, yet revered and feared by those who walk the path of bone and bloom. Known to the occult and the damned as Yax'Ek Xibalba—the Emerald Thorn of the Underworld—this moon is said to be the cradle of death's first breath, and the silent heart of the world's forgotten god.

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A Moon Beyond Time

Unlike the pale silver orb known by the common folk, Yax'Ek is seen only by necromancers, the dead, and those whose souls are in perilous flux. It waxes not with tide, but with souls unburied. When mass death stirs the land—through plague, war, or massacre—the Necromancer’s Moon blooms fully, shedding a sickly jade light upon the earth. During these times, spellcraft tied to undeath is strengthened, veils between worlds thin, and the dead are restless with memory.

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Xandera's Claim

It is said that Xandera does not serve Yax'Ek—she speaks with her. The moon is both her confessional and her beacon. In private rites, she dons veils of worm-spun silk and bathes in sacrificial light under Yax'Ek’s emerald glow, receiving visions of the dead god's will, and refining her path toward dominion through undeath-as-synthesis.

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Some whisper that her ascension to her new form of Refined Lichdom was only possible during a triple conjunction of Yax'Ek, the Grave Star, and the eclipse of the mortal moon—a moment when time, death, and divinity faltered long enough to be rewritten.

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Omens & Powers

When Yax'Ek is high:

• Necrotic spells gain clarity and precision.

• The spiritual tether between necromancers and their undead becomes unbreakable.

• New thralls rise without ritual—so long as they die beneath her eye.

• Dreams of the faithful become vivid, filled with whispers of long-dead lovers or ancestors.

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When she wanes, practitioners of undeath must be cautious, for rival gods seek to blind her light and unravel her faithful.

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Symbolism in Her Dominion

Banners across Xandera’s Ossuary Dominion bear the glyph of Yax'Ek—a crescent thorned with serpent fangs, bleeding downward. Her temples are built with oculus roofs that open only to her ascent. In the necro-factories, even the bone-stitched thralls pause when Yax'Ek crests the sky, their sockets glowing faintly green, as if remembering who they once were.

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“Others look to the sun for truth. I look to the moon, for she keeps the secrets the sun dares not speak.”

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The Choir of the Stitched: On the Sacred Art of Grafting Flesh

"Perfection was never meant to be born—it must be built, sewn from the mistakes of lesser designs."

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Within the shadow-veiled sanctum of Xandera’s manor, where incense mingles with the tang of formaldehyde and candles gutter in skull-shaped sconces, lies her hall of creation—a gallery of writhing stillness. Here, beneath silk sheets and necromantic wards, is where the true work is done.

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Flesh-grafting is not simply surgery or resurrection—it is divine authorship. To Xandera, the corpse is clay, the scalpel is brush, and each sinew she threads is a stanza in her living hymn of defiance. The practice is known as “Kal’Etziah” in her tongue—the Blooming of the Unworthy. Each abomination is constructed not from random corpses, but from carefully curated specimens:

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• The legs of a venomous raptor, to leap and claw through canopy and stone

• The eyes of a seer, to grant sight beyond the veil of flesh

• The torso of a warrior, whose death-scream still echoes in its reanimated breath

• The tongue of a betrayer, sewn into a thrall that whispers confessions to her pillow

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Every creature is named, numbered, and recorded in her fleshledgers, bound in stitched vellum made from sinners and stitched with hair from her former lovers. Some of her favorites even wear decorative bone-crowns, marking their status as beloved constructs rather than mindless husks.

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“The dead do not protest a borrowed limb. They do not whine, nor flinch, nor faint. They endure. They obey. And they become more than they were.”

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Each grafted being is protected by hex-sutures, enchanted silk that binds not only tendon to bone, but soul to spell. Should a limb decay, it can be replaced. Should the flesh rebel, she will flay it and start anew. The true artistry lies not in the resurrection, but in the curation of potential—building a being to match her vision, not the gods’.

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Some whisper she has even turned the art upon herself—splicing the lungs of a banshee, the flesh-memory of a drowned siren, the fingertips of ancient witches into her own body, absorbing their essence and adding it to her library of physical majesty.

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In war, her armies are not ranks of simple skeletons—they are symphonies of stolen flesh, sculpted to serve, to protect, and to sing her name through cracked throats and borrowed hearts.

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The Black Conduit of Hextor
“All that dies returns to bone. All that is forgotten finds its grave in Hextor.”

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Introduction: The Grave of Everything

In the dark latticework of realms and planes, where gods script fate upon the spines of mortals and stars are born screaming, there exists one law older than creation: all things die. Civilizations rise in splendor, monarchs forge golden aeons, titans claw the heavens—and all of them, in time, rot.

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But they do not rot in isolation.

They do not vanish into the void.

They are claimed.

Their remnants are collected.

Their memory is devoured.

And the devouring land is called Hextor.

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The Nature of Hextor

Hextor is not a country. It is not a continent. It is not even a realm in the traditional sense. Hextor is a phenomenon—a necrotic attractor that exists at the edge of unbeing, suspended in the bleeding seam between time and the after-realm. To behold it is to see a land constantly in the act of becoming and decaying, where time folds upon itself like drying skin and gravity obeys the will of ossuaries, not physics.

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It is called the Final Mire, the Rotwomb, the Library of Corpses, and most commonly: “The Grave of Worlds.”

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Wherever death holds dominion—whether in the demise of an empire, the extinction of a people, or the obliteration of a dimension—pieces of it are drawn to Hextor, through channels no scholar fully understands. These are not metaphors. Physical carcasses of civilizations appear overnight: shattered temples, fossilized cities, half-buried gods, and skeletal ships suspended in ash.

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Entire castles lie embedded in cliffsides that were not there the day before.

Obelisks written in alphabets that no one has ever spoken pierce the earth like daggers into a corpse.

Each ruin pulses faintly with the last echo of its story—memories, curses, sometimes even lingering defenders.

And still, they keep coming.

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The Ruinfall: When Worlds Collapse

Scholars call it the Ruinfall—the inexplicable phenomenon by which dead things are drawn through time and space to Hextor’s vast necrotic magnetism. Some believe it is divine punishment. Others say it is the work of a long-dead architect-deity who built Hextor as a net to collect forgotten glories, hoarding them like a dragon hoards treasure.

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But none dispute the signs:

• A long-dead moon god’s shrine appearing intact, with worshippers still frozen in prayer.

• A clocktower from a world where time ran backward, now fallen sideways across a bone-river.

• A petrified university from a realm of thought-eating parasites, buried beneath aeons of black sand.

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Even entire battlefields, with swords still raised mid-swing, rain from the sky and embed into Hextor’s crust like thorns in a fetid rose.

There is no warning.

There is no pattern.

The Ruinfall simply… happens.

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Setting the Tone: The Adventure Begins

Your story begins with a scream across the sky—a streaking ruin of a once-great empire tearing through the firmament and crashing in the Wailing Thickets, just east of Tlāzolli-Panōtl. Smoke rises. Bone-crows flee. And from within the wreckage, a voice begins to chant in a language no living soul speaks… but every bone remembers.

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You are not the only one who saw it fall.

The necro-guilds have dispatched their boneknights.

The Black Choir sends a procession.

Even the Queen herself has turned her head.

Whatever came… was not supposed to be found.

But Hextor does not forget.

And neither will you.

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