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Just as a war soaks the soil in blood and leaves its mark upon the world, so too is the spiritual world saturated by the spilling out of mortal lives. It creates a mire for the soul just as surely as blood-soaked mud traps a soldier's boots in the muck. This is why so many battlefields come to be haunted by the lost souls who couldn't escape their murky graves, though any widespread cause of death will leave its mark in a similar way. Flood, plague, famine. Create enough mortal suffering in one place and it will stain the Mundus for decades to come.
If widespread slaughter makes a marsh, then within the confines of the Dread Cellar, we have dug a well. Centuries of cruelty, torture, and death have soaked this prison so deeply to its core that the stain will never come out. Though, it can be drawn upon. A fathomless pool of raw necromantic energy awaiting a purpose. I've poured so much into this pool over the years. I won't let it go to waste.