Shadowfell
The Shadowfell is a realm suspended between being and not, a patchwork of half-remembered places where the world resembles a fading dream of flickering images. As one travels its shifting terrain, there is no consistency—barren ashen wastes give way without warning to lush, impossible jungles, only to dissolve into crumbling ruins or empty plains. The land does not follow logic or geography; it follows memories. Each piece of the realm is a fading echo of something else, conjured into being by recollections from other worlds, and when those memories dim, so too does the substance of the Shadowfell itself.
In this realm, existence is fragile and as memories hold complete power. Trees, mountains, even entire cities can vanish overnight if no soul remembers them. It is a place defined not by what is, but by what someone, somewhere, still recalls. To live in the Shadowfell is to live in quiet terror of being forgotten, to feel the edges of your reality blur as the memory that sustains you slips away. While you try to remember your own existance, every thought spent on something else can mean you lose a part of yourself.
In this realm, existence is fragile and as memories hold complete power. Trees, mountains, even entire cities can vanish overnight if no soul remembers them. It is a place defined not by what is, but by what someone, somewhere, still recalls. To live in the Shadowfell is to live in quiet terror of being forgotten, to feel the edges of your reality blur as the memory that sustains you slips away. While you try to remember your own existance, every thought spent on something else can mean you lose a part of yourself.
Geography
Geography in the Shadowfell is a shifting mosaic, ever uncertain and shaped by the fickle tides of memory. No map remains accurate for long, as the landscape reconfigures itself with each forgotten thought or cherished recollection. Forests sprout from the remembered beauty of lost homelands, only to decay into ash when their last admirer dies. Mountains rise from ancestral pride, rivers flow from stories whispered through generations—but all of it is transient, crumbling as minds let go. New creatures bring fragments of their pasts with them, layering the realm with borrowed meaning, while old memories fade like mist, leaving nothing behind.
Yet, amidst this instability, a few places have endured—anchored not by permanence, but by the collective will to remember. Chief among them is the mercantile city of Thalemory, a bustling hub of trade and whispered lore. Though the shapes of its buildings blur, some melding together or subtly shifting over time, the city itself has remained for centuries. Its survival is owed to the memory vaults and the Archivist of Glass alongside countless travelers who return again and again, carrying impressions of its crooked towers, glittering markets, and layered alleyways. As long as Thalemory is remembered—as a place of exchange, meeting, and mystery—it continues to exist.
In stark contrast stands the Gray Wastes, a featureless expanse feared even by those accustomed to the Shadowfell’s transience. Nothing grows or shifts there—not because it is remembered, but because it is entirely forgotten. Vast and silent, the plains stretch endlessly, empty of detail or texture. No one recalls building upon them, no tales speak of passing through. It is said that once something is swallowed by the Gray Wastes, it ceases to be remembered at all, as if it were never there to begin with. A place not of memory, but of utter erasure.
Yet, amidst this instability, a few places have endured—anchored not by permanence, but by the collective will to remember. Chief among them is the mercantile city of Thalemory, a bustling hub of trade and whispered lore. Though the shapes of its buildings blur, some melding together or subtly shifting over time, the city itself has remained for centuries. Its survival is owed to the memory vaults and the Archivist of Glass alongside countless travelers who return again and again, carrying impressions of its crooked towers, glittering markets, and layered alleyways. As long as Thalemory is remembered—as a place of exchange, meeting, and mystery—it continues to exist.
In stark contrast stands the Gray Wastes, a featureless expanse feared even by those accustomed to the Shadowfell’s transience. Nothing grows or shifts there—not because it is remembered, but because it is entirely forgotten. Vast and silent, the plains stretch endlessly, empty of detail or texture. No one recalls building upon them, no tales speak of passing through. It is said that once something is swallowed by the Gray Wastes, it ceases to be remembered at all, as if it were never there to begin with. A place not of memory, but of utter erasure.
