The Shroud

The Shroud

When Odrun’s greatclub struck the earth, it did not simply shatter stone—it rewrote the forest that grew there. @The Shroud is the wound that never healed, a place where the air hums with strange power and the trees grow so vast they blot out the sun. Their roots knot through the ground like the spines of sleeping beasts, their leaves glimmer faintly in the dark, and their trunks bleed sap as black as pitch.
Everything here is swollen past nature’s intent. Ants the size of hounds swarm rotting logs, moths with glassy eyes drift on silent wings, and even the vines coil like predators. Worst of all are the @Hollowmask—lithe, chameleon-born predators shaped by the greatclub’s lingering curse. They wear the faces of the lost, and their voices can mimic the living. Old delvers speak of them in whispers, swearing that the Shroud itself conspires with these things, leading intruders astray. No guild dares the interior. Its heart is left to prophets who speak to roots, beasts in their death-throes, and magics too deep for any sane mind to touch.