Morrowe, the Umbral Attendant
Type: Entity of the Shadow Vale
Role: Steward of the Umbral Keep
Owner: Eiranaios, the Veilbound Warden
Overview
Morrowe is the tireless steward of the Umbral Keep — a formless, ageless servant drawn from the same shadow-stuff that binds the Shadow Vale itself. He is not a man, nor a ghost, nor a god, but something in between: a fragment of memory given purpose, animated by echo and etiquette. Appearing as a tall figure in void-black formalwear, Morrowe moves without sound and speaks in gentle tones, always addressing Eiranaios as “my Sovereign” and arriving precisely when needed — or before.
He folds time as one might fold napkins. His silver tray never holds what you expect, only what you need. The temperature drops three degrees when he enters a room, and rises by two when he leaves.
Description
Morrowe wears a flawlessly tailored coat of darkness woven from what appears to be dying stars, ink, and ritual ash. His face shifts from moment to moment — sometimes smooth and masklike, sometimes a memory you thought forgotten. His voice echoes faintly even in silence, as though remembering itself mid-sentence.
In his presence, mirrors fog. Locks open. Candles flicker without wind.
Nature & Abilities (Narrative Only)
Instant Service: Appears without fail whenever Eiranaios wills it, no matter the distance within the Keep.
Keeper of the Doorways: May lock, rearrange, or obscure interior halls at will. Claims this is “policy.”
The Soul Ledger: Maintains a perfect record of every being who enters the Keep — whether by foot, thought, or dream.
Tea of Echoes: Offers brews that can stir memories buried beneath centuries or lives not yet lived.
Literalism: Takes all instructions with unsettling precision, yet never misunderstands intent.
Shifted Form: Though humanoid in silhouette, neither his face nor frame are fixed. Those who stare too long often remember things they shouldn’t.
Example Entry
The air ripples beside the throne, and from a vertical fold in the dimness, Morrowe steps through — straight-backed, gloved, and silent. His tray holds two cups of steaming silver tea and a sealed scroll that smells faintly of ink and fire. He bows deeply.
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing for your guest’s arrival, my Sovereign,” he says, with no breath behind the words. “They are exactly seven minutes late, as requested.”
Tone
Quiet horror, elegant servitude, cosmic dry wit — equal parts Alfred Pennyworth, Death’s concierge, and the collective sigh of forgotten things.