- Pronoun
- they or she
The world can't bear everything that happens in it. There are places where it wears scratches on its skin. There are places where its surface tears open: the world, breaking.
The wound in the world could be seen from miles away, whether from the pale reaches of the Wight Barrens or from the dark expanses of the Voidlands. The Forlasan underworld – Lethe.
To those Wayfarers travelling from the waypoint at Frostforge Hollow, the rift was visible first as what looked like a distant horizon, then as an aurora – rippling, bright curtains of light in the sky – and then finally as what it truly was. A deep crack riven into the air itself, into which the sky poured continuously like sand in an hourglass, like water from a dam, like snow in an avalanche. A band of coruscating light flickered like the burning edge of a sheet of paper set alight, now cyan, now magenta, now emerald green. All the while, Shadow energy frothed and curled like black steam at the edge of the wound.
To those stalking their way from the portal left behind in Twilight Quarry's depths and its Voidlands' trail, the rift was a pale singularity, a marble of white and grey bearing intersecting halos of Shadow energy. This was a Mystery Dungeon at such scale that it more closely resembled a hurricane or an astral body than a mere labyrinth. Somewhere, in the centre of the distortion, one could walk between the sub-material world of Forlas and the quasi-reality of Lethe.
Somewhere in the void, Alexander gorged himself on Shadows...
The wound in the world could be seen from miles away, whether from the pale reaches of the Wight Barrens or from the dark expanses of the Voidlands. The Forlasan underworld – Lethe.
To those Wayfarers travelling from the waypoint at Frostforge Hollow, the rift was visible first as what looked like a distant horizon, then as an aurora – rippling, bright curtains of light in the sky – and then finally as what it truly was. A deep crack riven into the air itself, into which the sky poured continuously like sand in an hourglass, like water from a dam, like snow in an avalanche. A band of coruscating light flickered like the burning edge of a sheet of paper set alight, now cyan, now magenta, now emerald green. All the while, Shadow energy frothed and curled like black steam at the edge of the wound.
To those stalking their way from the portal left behind in Twilight Quarry's depths and its Voidlands' trail, the rift was a pale singularity, a marble of white and grey bearing intersecting halos of Shadow energy. This was a Mystery Dungeon at such scale that it more closely resembled a hurricane or an astral body than a mere labyrinth. Somewhere, in the centre of the distortion, one could walk between the sub-material world of Forlas and the quasi-reality of Lethe.
Somewhere in the void, Alexander gorged himself on Shadows...
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