Paths to Hextor: The Threefold Arrival 
“None come to my swamp untouched. Whether by womb, will, or whisper—they arrive as the world’s dross, and bloom anew in death.” 

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 The Blooded: Native Children of the Mire

Some are born with swampwater in their lungs and orchids in their bones. These are the natives of Hextor, scions of barrow-dwelling clans, ossuary priesthoods, and bone-working artisan lineages. Their lullabies are hymns to rot, their toys carved from tibia and thorn. They grow up beneath the shadow of the palace-spire, taught that undeath is not perversion, but perfection. For them, Xandera is not a tyrant or goddess, but simply... inevitable.

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These blooded sons and daughters rarely leave Hextor. Why abandon the only land where the dead listen, and magic thrives without shame?

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The Unwise, the Desperate, the Righteous: Gatebound Strangers

Others arrive through the Arch-Gates—great bone-crowned doorways scattered across the world, hidden in cursed ruins, forgotten forests, drowned cathedrals, or even within dreams. These gates call, often without mercy or clarity, and their thresholds open only for those ripe with potential… or ruin.

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They come for many reasons:

• A scholar chasing forbidden truths

• A knight come to slay the queen of rot

• A fleeing apostate seeking asylum

• A curious mage drawn by whispers in the marrow of spellbooks

• An immigrant

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Some arrive intentionally. Most do not. Once entered, few find their way back. Fewer still wish to.

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The Drawn: Plucked from Death’s Edge

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But perhaps the most haunting arrivals are the Drawn—souls unmoored from their flesh, who, instead of passing into the celestial planes, are reeled into Hextor by necromantic lures, ghost-binding spells, or Xandera’s own will. These arrivals remember dying—a battlefield, a betrayal, a sacrifice. But then... not silence.

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Instead: orchids blooming from ribcages. Bone towers rising from tar. A voice, soft and sovereign, whispering, "You are not finished yet."

Some are returned to life in borrowed bodies. Others awaken as aware undead, thralls not mindless but mystified, offered purpose instead of paradise.

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In Hextor, death is not the end, nor is life the beginning. All three paths spiral inward like the coils of a serpent around a sacred skull. And at the center? The throne. The bloom. The Queen.