Citadel Subterrene

Citadel Subterrene is protected by more than walls:

• Psionic Sentries: Thoughtforms sculpted into existence to detect and nullify intruders, they sense intent before action.
• Temporal Misalignments: Time slips in Subterrene—some halls advance a second per hour, others loop eternally until a psychic password is thought.
• Mindshard Golems: Constructs made of crystallized intellect, powered by stolen memories, immune to anything that doesn’t exist.

Citadel Subterrene is a laboratory, a military complex, and a church. Here, the mind flayers of Bluetspur work tirelessly toward one hidden purpose:
To restore their ancient empire… or perhaps to build a new one—not in the outer world, but in the minds of all sentient life.

Some whisper that the Citadel is just the visible synapse of a greater plan: that all of Bluetspur is a neural organ, and that Makab is a spike through the world, drawing in thought, fear, and souls for the God-Brain’s metamorphosis.

Citadel Subterrene defies geometry as commonly understood. Its walls pulse faintly with bioluminescent synaptic fluid, and its corridors twist in patterns that induce vertigo and hallucinations just by looking at them. Rooms have no clear function—they shift with the whims of their occupants or the mood of the God-Brain.

• Ceilings hang downward like membranous sacs; some drip thoughts that stain your memory.
• Doors bloom like ulcers and open to stimuli like dread, desire, or guilt.
• Thrones walk, and walls listen.

Every surface is inscribed not with words, but with psionic imprints—a constant hum of suggestion, urging intruders to despair, to submit, or to split their minds in two.

• The Cortex Warrens: Living quarters of the lesser illithids, these vast chambers throb with psychic static. Here, ceremorphosis is routine and cruelly artistic—new mind flayers born from sculpted suffering.
• The Echo Vaults: A prison of resonant thought, where the minds of captured beings are stored separately from their bodies—each in its own crystal chamber, screaming silently into eternity.
• The Hall of Reclamation: A chamber dedicated to re-dreaming what has been lost. Failed experiments, shredded psyches, and botched fusions of mind and machine are brought here to be rebuilt, or fed to the God-Brain.
• The Thrall Pits: Beneath even the lowest tunnels, slaves—goblinkin, deep gnomes, derro, and the broken remnants of surface adventurers—live short, drug-clouded lives doing the labor of expanding the lair's deeper nodes.

At the heart of Citadel Subterrene is the Psionic Crucible, a chasm of thoughtstuff and shrieking logic where the God-Brain rests—a vast, bloated intellect suspended in nutrient gel and neural vapor, tended by dedicated mind flayers and psionic servitors.

The God-Brain is not still. It pulses, thrums, and thinks with such gravity that reality bends around its contemplation. It reaches into dreams. It eats not only minds, but possibilities.

To enter its chamber unbidden is to risk being overwritten, subsumed, or inverted—to become a new neuron in its cathedral of flesh.