Undershard
Beneath the ivory towers and gleaming glasswork of Shard lies a truth so ancient and so deeply buried that few on the surface would ever dare speak of it aloud. The sewers and substructures that lace beneath the city are only the first veil — the crumbling remnants of old aqueducts, dead cisterns, and forgotten vaults. But deeper still, past brick and bone and silence, lies Undershard: a subterranean dominion of stone, shadow, and blood.
Known to few and named by none in polite company, Undershard is the heart of the Umbral Court, the hidden empire of Lady Vharissa Nocturne, the Crimson Matron. Within its vaulted chambers, echoing with ancient rites and whispered allegiances, vampires and their chosen kin have built a realm that mirrors the splendor of the city above — only colder, crueler, and eternal. Where Shard thrives in light and scholarship, Undershard blooms in secrecy and ritual, its every stone consecrated in blood.
It is not a place stumbled into — not without consequence. To find Undershard is to be noticed by it. And once you are noticed, the Court does not easily forget.
Known to few and named by none in polite company, Undershard is the heart of the Umbral Court, the hidden empire of Lady Vharissa Nocturne, the Crimson Matron. Within its vaulted chambers, echoing with ancient rites and whispered allegiances, vampires and their chosen kin have built a realm that mirrors the splendor of the city above — only colder, crueler, and eternal. Where Shard thrives in light and scholarship, Undershard blooms in secrecy and ritual, its every stone consecrated in blood.
It is not a place stumbled into — not without consequence. To find Undershard is to be noticed by it. And once you are noticed, the Court does not easily forget.
Sensory & Appearance
At the shallowest levels of Undershard, there is still a hint of the world above — the drip of water through ancient stone, the must of rot and lichen, and the occasional rustle of vermin disturbing stagnant air. These corridors echo with distance, the sound of one's footfalls trailing behind like something unseen, following. The scent is unpleasant but familiar — decay, mildew, the remnants of man’s forgotten architecture. The lighting here comes from where light shouldn't — guttering torches lit by unknown hands, or the faint, bio-luminescent glow of moss growing in seams where two worlds meet.
But when the descent deepens — when the stone begins to shine rather than crumble, and the smell of damp is replaced by something sweet, metallic, and ceremonial — that’s when the Velvet Halls begin.
Here, light does not flicker.
It breathes.
Soft, crimson illumination radiates from glass-veined sconces built into the walls — fueled not by fire, but by phosphorescent bloodglass, alchemically sealed and pulsing faintly in time with an inaudible rhythm. There are no shadows here. The light is perfect, even, and terribly intentional — enough to see every line of the polished blackstone floors and the dark reflections of your own expression as you draw near the throne.
The air is still and dry, but not cold — rather, it is preserved, like a tomb. The scent is thick: myrrh, clove, iron, and old velvet. It hangs heavy in the lungs, sweet and choking all at once. Some say it takes three breaths before your body stops resisting it… and begins to feel welcomed.
Sound is minimal — but never absent. The halls are tuned to carry the soft shuffle of boots, the sigh of silk, the subtle click of claws on stone. When the Matron’s court is assembled, their voices are no louder than murmurs, yet every word is heard — not due to volume, but because silence itself obeys the throne.
Visitors often report an almost invisible vibration in the soles of their feet as they enter — not quite tremor, not quite heartbeat — as if the very stone is aware of their presence and is judging the weight of their soul.
Here, light does not flicker.
It breathes.
Soft, crimson illumination radiates from glass-veined sconces built into the walls — fueled not by fire, but by phosphorescent bloodglass, alchemically sealed and pulsing faintly in time with an inaudible rhythm. There are no shadows here. The light is perfect, even, and terribly intentional — enough to see every line of the polished blackstone floors and the dark reflections of your own expression as you draw near the throne.
The air is still and dry, but not cold — rather, it is preserved, like a tomb. The scent is thick: myrrh, clove, iron, and old velvet. It hangs heavy in the lungs, sweet and choking all at once. Some say it takes three breaths before your body stops resisting it… and begins to feel welcomed.
Sound is minimal — but never absent. The halls are tuned to carry the soft shuffle of boots, the sigh of silk, the subtle click of claws on stone. When the Matron’s court is assembled, their voices are no louder than murmurs, yet every word is heard — not due to volume, but because silence itself obeys the throne.
Visitors often report an almost invisible vibration in the soles of their feet as they enter — not quite tremor, not quite heartbeat — as if the very stone is aware of their presence and is judging the weight of their soul.
Contents & Furnishings
The Throne Room of the Velvet Halls is a space crafted as both theater and temple. At its heart sits the Umbral Throne itself — carved from a single slab of obsidian and backed by a fan of wrought blood-iron spines, reminiscent of bat wings mid-beat. The throne is etched with ancient runes too old to name, and inlaid with a single crimson gem that pulses faintly when the Matron is seated. It is not moved, ever — it is rooted into the blackstone floor like a fang into flesh.
Before the throne is a bloodglass dais, polished to mirror-finish and framed with sigils meant to contain power, not radiate it. This is where supplicants kneel — or bleed. The floor around it is rimmed in silver-threaded velvet, always clean, despite frequent staining. It is said the dais drinks as much as it reflects.
Flanking the chamber are two iron candelabras, sculpted into the forms of weeping angels — not for light, but for incense. They emit a faint, cloying aroma of myrrh, iron, and something sweeter — a scent engineered to blur memory and suppress fear in those who approach.
On the back wall, hung on invisible fastenings, is a massive tapestry woven of hair and silk, depicting a distorted map of the surface world — but rendered upside down. Small bloodstones are embedded like markers at various surface cities. Shard glows brighter than the rest.
In the far corners of the chamber rest two sarcophagus-shaped reliquaries, sealed with chains and wax. Their purpose is unknown. One hums. The other breathes.
Near the throne’s right side stands a single piece of furniture: a low, polished endtable, upon which rests a single goblet of ancient crystal, its contents never empty, and never wine.
Before the throne is a bloodglass dais, polished to mirror-finish and framed with sigils meant to contain power, not radiate it. This is where supplicants kneel — or bleed. The floor around it is rimmed in silver-threaded velvet, always clean, despite frequent staining. It is said the dais drinks as much as it reflects.
Flanking the chamber are two iron candelabras, sculpted into the forms of weeping angels — not for light, but for incense. They emit a faint, cloying aroma of myrrh, iron, and something sweeter — a scent engineered to blur memory and suppress fear in those who approach.
On the back wall, hung on invisible fastenings, is a massive tapestry woven of hair and silk, depicting a distorted map of the surface world — but rendered upside down. Small bloodstones are embedded like markers at various surface cities. Shard glows brighter than the rest.
In the far corners of the chamber rest two sarcophagus-shaped reliquaries, sealed with chains and wax. Their purpose is unknown. One hums. The other breathes.
Near the throne’s right side stands a single piece of furniture: a low, polished endtable, upon which rests a single goblet of ancient crystal, its contents never empty, and never wine.
Architecture
The upper layers of Undershard bear the unmistakable bones of mortal purpose — the remnants of cisterns, aqueducts, and support structures that once served the old bones of Shard during its earliest expansions. Worn brick arches stretch over silent canals; rust-choked iron gates cling to hinges that no longer move. Here, the layout is uneven, patched, and largely forgotten by the city above — a decaying skeleton, used now only by smugglers, rats, and those with nowhere else to run. These corridors whisper the memory of human hands — practical, utilitarian, and very much abandoned.
But far below that, the Velvet Halls begin — and they are nothing like what lies above.
Carved from obsidian-veined blackstone and inlaid with veins of dark crimson marble, the Velvet Halls are the beating heart of the Umbral Court. There is no rot here. No decay. Every arch is deliberate. Every line of the vaulted ceilings is drawn from a forgotten geometry, tuned for acoustic perfection — so that whispers from the Matron’s throne carry to every corner of her audience chamber. Massive pillars shaped like inverted chalices rise from sunken floors, and great velvet drapes — impossibly dry despite the subterranean air — line the walls in endless crimson. Lanterns glow with a soft, constant luminescence — not flame, but captured bloodlight, flickering with each breath drawn in the room.
Every stone is polished. Every corridor swept. The echoes do not belong to the living, and the air carries neither dust nor time. The Velvet Halls are as eternal as their mistress, preserved in ritual and rule, untouched by the slow grind of the surface world.
To walk these halls is to feel eyes you cannot see. To speak too loudly is to offend the silence. And to bleed upon its stones is to become part of the architecture.
Carved from obsidian-veined blackstone and inlaid with veins of dark crimson marble, the Velvet Halls are the beating heart of the Umbral Court. There is no rot here. No decay. Every arch is deliberate. Every line of the vaulted ceilings is drawn from a forgotten geometry, tuned for acoustic perfection — so that whispers from the Matron’s throne carry to every corner of her audience chamber. Massive pillars shaped like inverted chalices rise from sunken floors, and great velvet drapes — impossibly dry despite the subterranean air — line the walls in endless crimson. Lanterns glow with a soft, constant luminescence — not flame, but captured bloodlight, flickering with each breath drawn in the room.
Every stone is polished. Every corridor swept. The echoes do not belong to the living, and the air carries neither dust nor time. The Velvet Halls are as eternal as their mistress, preserved in ritual and rule, untouched by the slow grind of the surface world.
To walk these halls is to feel eyes you cannot see. To speak too loudly is to offend the silence. And to bleed upon its stones is to become part of the architecture.
Type
Ruins
Parent Location
Owner
Owning Organization
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