dangerous contagions and feral pestilences.
Hideously disfigured by their spiteful experiments into the darkest arts of virometics and bacterminality, the Plaguecasters are shrunken, almost pathetic caricatures of the once strong and proud people they used to be, and will never be again. Terrible hacked-nanoceuticals and writhing blackware course through their diseased veins while bioluminescent vector-agents shimmer and flow across their sallow and distorted skin which provides the majority of the illumination in their darksome world now that the sky has been locked behind indigo clouds of reflective molecular-level lattices that only allow the stifling heat through, not the light of the sun.
Romthule is a rotten, ruined place given over to gibbering cadavers that drip with animichors, blind cannibals infected with ghul-tagions, seething masses of oozing macroterial colonies of bacteria, slime and worse.
It is a wretched place. Dark, decayed and fetid with the terrible aromas of countless things far more frightening than death lingering in the still, humid air. A ruined world given over to madness and disease which most gates have quarantined and as a final indictment of the Plaguecaster's unfitness to remain part of the civilization of Known Worlds, no water of any other world flows to or from Romthule any longer. Or so it is said in most of the markets.
But Druka of the Violet Shawl claims to know of a place long forgotten by others, a deep well far beyond the Great Rift of Riskail and across the deep blue seas for seven or more spirals through the Sea Gates and across the harsh, glaring white borax deserts of hyper-actinic Kilunj, and farther still. But Druka will not tell all of the directions freely. She has larvae to feed and a business to run. The life of a flea is not an easy one and anyone who would show kindness and generosity to her by contributing to one of her various public accounts a suitable fee could learn the rest of the directions, possibly acquire a map, maybe even a guide, and most importantly of all they could learn the location of the last gate through which a small creek trickles from a distant wilderness world to Romthule against the edicts and interdictions of all the great Houses and vasty powers.
But why, oh why would any sane person seek out such a fearsome and virulent place? What could possibly possess anyone to travel all that way, through all those hardships and hassles just to walk forth upon the blackened and blasted soil of a dying world rife with infections that would turn the stomach of a Jarpha? Why indeed...