Duskworn
"Some worlds were broken by monsters. This one was broken by men who feared becoming them."
These are my notes on the Threadworld known as Duskworn.
I do not recommend visiting.
Not because of the dangers—those are predictable, if punctual.
But because of what it shows you. Of how a world tears itself apart one frightened prayer at a time.
Duskworn is not a continent or a kingdom.
It is a condition—a state of spiritual erosion so complete that it no longer remembers how not to suffer.
Here, the Veil between life and death is torn.
Here, belief has become bureaucracy.
And here, monsters roam freely—some with fangs, others with titles.
Where the Light Failed
The world was not undone in a single moment.
It tore itself open over centuries—each denial, each burning, each overwritten god a fresh wound in the weave of things.
The Veil did not shatter from an external threat.
It frayed from within, unravelled by contradiction: a Church that denied other truths, a people that forgot older names, a fear of magic too strong to admit.
The darkness came not through conquest, but through vacancy.
Where light failed to stand, shadow moved in.
Now, regions lie in perpetual dusk. Not night, not quite—just enough grey to cast doubt on every movement.
Roads shift. Forests speak. Estates hide their windows.
And not all who breathe are still alive.
The Church and the Cracks
The Church of Duskworn does not consider itself evil.
It considers itself necessary.
A monolith of doctrine, order, and penance, it operates more like a divine bureaucracy than a faith. Its inquisitors are accountants of sin, its bishops custodians of blame. The “one true god” is remote, silent, possibly absent—but the institution endures, and thus, so must the rules.
The Church is:
- Zealous in public.
- Exhausted in private.
- Terrified at its edges.
It permits only its own sanctioned magics. All others are heresy by default—tools of the shadow, invitations to corruption. And while the Church fights the monsters, it also fights the wrong sort of prayers.
Every priest wields both candle and sword.
Not always in that order.
Many believe the Veil tore because the old gods were forgotten.
The Church insists it was torn by them.
Neither side can prove the other wrong.
The Old Faiths
The old gods were not kind. But they were close.
Rural, chaotic, personal—they were spirits of hearth and hunt, grove and storm. Their rites were whispered rather than preached, passed in shadow and soil, not cathedral and scroll.
After the rise of the Church, they were driven out, renamed demons, their worship criminalised. But they remain in memory, in ritual, in dirt and bone and weathered stone.
- Offerings are still left at crossroads.
- Names are still carved in hidden places.
- There are still grandmothers who won’t light candles during certain moons.
The Church calls these people dangerous.
The dark calls them familiar.
The Monsters and the Mist
They are not isolated phenomena.
They are institutional, endemic, and disturbingly well-documented.
- Vampires do not stalk—they rule. Most have staff.
- Werewolves are not hunted—they are inherited. Entire bloodlines have had to revise their dinner etiquette.
- Ghosts persist through ritual inertia. No one told them how to stop.
- Witches are not folklore—they are names scratched out of land records. Avoid owning property adjacent to theirs.
These are not myths. They are civic realities.
More reliable than most mayors. Considerably more hygienic.
The mist itself is alive in some places—thoughtful, even. It tests doors. It whispers old names through the keyholes. Entire villages are swallowed, then returned slightly... wrong.
There are forests with no floor, only memory.
Estates where the portraits blink.
Castles that send invitations.
And roads that only go to places you shouldn’t be.
Some lands are so soaked in grief that the dead rise just to finish their arguments.
The supernatural is not special here.
It is structural.
The Hunters and the Haunted
There are still those who fight.
Not because they believe they’ll win—most don’t.
But because someone must stand between the dark and the door.
These are the broken heroes:
- Inquisitors who lost faith, but kept their blades.
- Witches marked by the Veil, still clinging to their names.
- Knights bound by oaths no one remembers.
- Scholars who learned too much to stay sane, and too little to stay safe.
- Survivors.
- Monsters who made better choices than men.
They are not respected.
They are tolerated.
The people fear them.
But they fear the alternative more.
No one volunteers to be a hero in Duskworn.
It’s a job you inherit, or earn, or survive into.
The Fragility of Faith
Even the gods are vulnerable here.
Some stories speak of a child deity, born too late to save anything, and too loved to be allowed to fall. There are scattered cults that protect her like a secret. Others hunt her for proof that the old ways still linger.
She is neither salvation nor solution.
Just a reminder that divinity does not always come wearing armour.
And sometimes, gods need protecting too.
The World That Lingers
Duskworn does not end.
It endures.
There is no apocalypse—just slow, systemic disintegration.
It is not a battlefield, but a stage left standing too long after the play ended.
It smells of mildew, iron, and promises broken politely.
The land itself reflects its contradictions:
- Castles without lords, but full of guests.
- Temples to forgotten gods—well-maintained by people who swear they don’t believe.
- Taverns with locked doors before sunset.
- Roads marked only by old prayers.
The Inn has no stable Door into Duskworn. But sometimes, a traveller arrives anyway—soaked, silent, and very careful about what they don’t say.
Why the Inn Cares
Because some worlds do not collapse.
They rot.
And that rot spreads.
Because there are gods here who still cry.
Because there are children who pray with the wrong names.
Because Threadwalkers are drawn to places where stories fester.
And because sometimes…
the mist slips through on its own.
Duskworn At A Glance
What the World Is Like
A Realm of broken faith, haunted forests, and monsters who file taxes.
The Veil is torn. The Church is cracking. The night has teeth, and the light apologises before it shines.
Not all castles are empty.
Not all doors stay shut.
How to Fit In
Carry salt.
Carry silver.
Don’t pray too loudly unless you’re sure whose land you’re on.
Smile politely. Refuse all invitations.
Never trust anything that knocks after dark.
Things You Should Know
- Magic is outlawed. Use it carefully—or only once.
- Priests wield swords and sermons in equal measure.
- Old gods still listen, though their answers are... inconsistent.
- The mist is not weather. It’s strategy.
- Some monsters bleed. Some sue.
Things You Shouldn’t Do
- Confess in public.
- Light three candles in a triangle.
- Enter a manor without asking the portraits first.
- Stay at any inn that doesn’t have salt at the threshold.
- Mistake quiet for peace.
Author’s Note
(Filed under: “Worlds That Forgot Their Safeword”)
Duskworn is my ode to old gothic horror—the creeping dread, the tangled faith, the hero who keeps fighting even after the sun stops rising.
I was a goth teen who read too much Bram Stoker, adored Mary Shelley, and rented every vampire film that existed—twice. My local library probably questioned my sanity when I started asking for books on real vampire sightings and where the myths came from.
This world is a love letter to that obsession.
It’s not about saving the world.
It’s about standing in the rain with a torch and daring it to go out.
Additional Details
World Type:
Threadworld – Gothic-Reinforced Narrative Zone (Fractured Veil, High Dread Resonance)
Primary Access:
Location unconfirmed.
Intermittent Doors open during veiled weather, dream-states, and theological crises. The Inn has recorded mist appearing inside Hallway 3 on at least two occasions. Clean-up was extensive.
Known Visitors:
None who’ll speak of it.
Some returned with blessed silver and fresh scars.
Most just sit closer to the fire now.
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