Shadowfel, the Veilborn Steed

Type: Spectral Mount
Owner: Eiranaios of Hades
Realm of Origin: The Shadow Vale

Overview

Shadowfel is no mere beast of burden — it is a living echo drawn from the same twilight essence that shapes the Shadow Vale itself. Its form drifts between substance and memory, a silhouette of power given motion. Where hooves should strike, there is only silence; where breath should rise, there is mist. The creature’s presence brings both calm and unease — a reminder that death does not always mean stillness.

Appearance

Shadowfel’s body is formed of flowing darkness, a black so deep it swallows the light around it. Faint veins of silver pulse beneath its surface like threads of moonlight caught in water. Its eyes glow with dim violet flame, reflecting not what is before it, but what has passed — moments, faces, and forgotten names. Its mane and tail waver like smoke carried on slow wind, fading to transparency at the edges. In shadow, it vanishes entirely, leaving behind only the sound of wind moving through empty halls.

Nature and Abilities

Shadowfel moves through the world as a thing half-remembered — capable of slipping between shadows as if they were open doors. It can carry its master across distances unbound by terrain or gravity, phasing through walls, mist, or even the veil between realms. It fears neither flame nor death, for it was born of both. When Shadowfel runs, it leaves no tracks, no sound, and no scent — only a faint shimmer in the air, as though the world hesitates to acknowledge it.

The steed’s loyalty to Eiranaios is absolute; it answers not to bit or bridle, but to the command of will alone. When called, it emerges from a rift of dim starlight, the darkness folding outward like a curtain to reveal its form. In the silence that follows, even shadows seem to bow.

Tone

Majestic, mournful, otherworldly — the embodiment of Eiranaios’s dominion: loyal, quiet, and eternal.

🕯️ Summoning Scene — Shadowfel Appears

The air darkens, folding in on itself like a shroud drawn closed. From the shadow at Eiranaios’s feet rises a ripple of mist and silver light, coiling upward until it takes form — hooves without sound, breath without warmth. The shape resolves into Shadowfel, its mane flowing like smoke across starlit glass. For a heartbeat, the world grows still; even the echoes seem to bow as the spectral steed lowers its head in silent recognition of its master.