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The Apostolic Mound is a rolling heap of flesh the size of Dr. Sabbatine's laboratory, vaguely humanoid but immobile, its face defined only by two round cobalt-blue eyes, its limbs stubby and malformed, its breath coming in great wheezing gasps that perfume the air with the cloying reek of flowers and oil. Gold and uncut stones shine on its hands, as the Mound wears huge rings, each thicker than your waist. Painted Guardians protect it, servants wash and scour it, and priests and priestesses seem to commune with it, their gaze upturned to regard its monstrous form as stone bowls fling incense into the air.

"By all the Icons," Stralchus whispers, "what madness is this?"

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