Wracked by eternal storms and violent winds, the Howling Plains lie near the equator of the Surface and sprawl for vast, wind-swept distances.

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A disease and possession, the self dissolves and dark spirits fill the void.

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Fungi-fueled fury, mycelium might.

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When is the Mask no longer something you wear but something you become?

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Most of the Surface world belongs to the Shrouded Lands; regions so blasted with blight that no human can hope to survive.

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Bone isn't supposed to bend like that.

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