Ta'nyere The Great Sorrow

Once, the gleaming city of Felwithe stood as the pinnacle of elven grace—a bastion of light, wisdom, and the enduring craftsmanship of a people who called the ancient trees and flowing waters home. But Felwithe is no more. In its place festers Ta’nyere, The Great Sorrow, a name whispered with hushed reverence and dread. What remains is neither ruin nor wasteland, but something far worse—a scar upon the land, an open wound where Krytus’s fury was unleashed in full.
The Epicenter – A Land Defiled At the heart of the twenty-five-mile radius of destruction, nothing lives, nothing moves, nothing breathes. This is not ruin in the conventional sense—there are no broken spires, no charred remnants of homes, no skeletal ruins reaching for the sky. Instead, the land itself has been obliterated. The ground is glassy and black, fused by unimaginable heat, cracked like shattered obsidian, with deep fissures that exhale a slow, constant vapor that stinks of sulfur and death. What little structure remains is twisted beyond recognition, warped by Krytus’s wrath into shapes that defy nature and sense.
Where Felwithe’s grand halls once stood, there is now only a sunken void, a pit of spiraling darkness that does not reflect the sky. To look upon it is to feel a pull, a whisper in the mind, as if the city itself is still falling, trapped in an eternal descent into something beyond understanding. No magic functions here. No gods answer prayers. It is a place of silence, save for the distant, echoing sound of something that should not be—a memory of the past, endlessly replaying in a cycle of despair.
The Outlying Desolation – The Wasting Lands Stretching outward for a hundred miles, the devastation continues, though here the land is merely dying, not yet dead. The trees stand blackened, hollowed by unnatural fire, their branches contorted as if frozen in their final, writhing agony. Rivers that once flowed with crystal waters now crawl sluggishly with a dark, corrupted ichor, carrying whispers of the sorrow that took root here.
No bird sings. No insects hum. The air is thick with dust and regret, swirling in slow spirals, carried by winds that do not belong to this world. Shadows move here without a source. Some believe they are the remnants of Felwithe’s people, souls that were caught in the calamity, now reduced to formless echoes that flit through the dying forests, their presence felt only as a creeping chill on the skin and a gnawing despair in the mind.
A Mark Upon the World Ta’nyere is not merely a ruined land; it is a wound upon reality itself. Even the dragons do not fly over it. No kingdom lays claim to it, nor do the elves speak its name unless forced to. The gods do not look upon it. Something deeper than death lingers here—something left behind by Krytus’s wrath.
It is a place not meant to be, yet one that cannot be undone. And it is waiting.