He was once a man. That much we’re sure of. Then the skin cracked, and the teeth… there were too many. He spoke in backward prayers, and what he said… it’s still in my dreams.
They didn’t just die. They split — like sacks of blood and teeth. I saw it happen to Davren. And the thing that came out of him was laughing.
"I can forge a blade, a bargain, or a bureaucracy — which one do you need broken today?"
"I don't fight for glory. I fight because the roar silences the rest."
"I didn’t mean to become a symbol. I just picked up the damn pitchfork and stood where no one else would."
"Darling, if you can’t dance with it, drink to it, or sing about it — why’s it in your life at all?"
"You don’t see me unless I want you to. And if I want you to — it’s already too late."
Where the land forgets whether it is water or earth, the Brackish Brinelands fester and flourish in equal measure—an ancient estuary of murky canals, resilient folk, and secrets lost beneath the peat. Here, decay births life, and even the still waters whisper of old magic.
The archivists sealed off the lower stacks after the air started humming and books opened themselves. They say something’s still floating down there… something that remembers every mind it’s touched.
If you find the ribcage-shaped stones near the tidepools, turn around. The marsh doesn’t end there — it sinks. And he waits beneath, like a promise forgotten by time.
There’s a presence in the caverns that hums when you're not listening. It doesn’t speak, not with words. But the sound in your bones? That’s it trying to warn you.
They say there's a talking tree that moves through the bogs at night. It doesn't walk — it waits. If you hear it whisper your name... it's already too late.