Cursed are all who live in the Nameless. The cast off. The banished. The as good as dead. Better for people to return from death than to return from the Nameless. Everything undesired from the ruling dev nations lands here, in Nameless pockets throughout the Ismat Empire. The unwanted. The runoff. The broken artifacts. The waste of centuries of dev civilization. It all becomes a mess of toxic chaos that bleeds into and infects everything, from the water to the fauna to the wildlife, and especially those who are part magic. Here are the ghandarvas who have killed. Here are the rhakshasas so mentally poisoned that they cannot even find a place with the Jahat . Here are the tainted asuras . Here are even the odd runaway amesha, elf, and qui-lahk, running from their homes to land up lost in despair. Here, when there is a dwelling that is standing tall, it is destined to be fought for and killed for, until it is destroyed out of spite. Here there are only those who have nothing. Here are the lost. Here the good die early, for cruelty is needed to survive and scare off others. Here, animals grow in the same disgusting filth, and barely nourish the desperate who eat them. Here, when good fruit grows it is plucked before the sweet of it has a chance to blossom, before anyone else can take it first. Here, even people who are not eaten are consumed like food. Here, is a baseline odor of blood and sewage, that churns the stomach when it is humid. Here there is always a body rotting, with a soul visibly tethered. Here are the half souls looking for new meat and souls to consume to give them temporary relief from their forever emptiness. Here are too many evils to give name to all. Here is the nameless. Here is death as life.