Relics and Realms - Issue 12 - Nethumbra
Nethumbra. A name whispered only in hushed tones, for it evokes not images of beauty, but of a realm draped in an eternal twilight, a shroud woven from shadows older than time itself. The very air is heavy with it - a shadowdust so fine it seems to choke the stars themselves. It clings to every surface, staining the desolate expanse a monochrome grey, broken only by the hulking skeletons of obsidian cities, remnants of a civilization consumed by its own morbid grandeur.
Above, the sky churns – not with clouds of water vapor, but with monstrous nebulae of ink-black smoke, ever-shifting, ever-threatening to blot out even the feebleest glimmer of light. Beneath this oppressive canopy, skeletal trees writhe towards the void, their branches gnarled and bare as though eternally reaching for a sun they shall never know. Upon these withered limbs dangle fruits not of flesh, but of petrified shadow, grim testaments to the utter lifelessness that reigns in Nethumbra's domain.
The denizens of this accursed realm are known as the Dustborn – a name whispered with a chill that lingers long after the speaker has ceased. They are not creatures of flesh and blood, but entities woven from the very shadowdust that cloaks Nethumbra. Emaciated figures they are, their forms resembling a mockery of humanity, clad in obsidian skin that seems to drink in the surrounding gloom.
Their eyes burn with an unnerving inner luminescence – points of sickly yellow amidst the fathomless black, gazing out with an ancient and terrible knowing. They move with an unnatural fluidity, silent as wraiths gliding through the skeletal forests and ruined cities. No language binds them, no social order dictates their actions. They exist in a state of perpetual communion with Nethumbra itself, their very essence intertwined with the realm's sinister fabric.
Those who dare intrude upon this desolate domain, those not born of the shadowdust, are deemed interlopers - abominations that disrupt the unnatural equilibrium. They are relentlessly hunted by the Dustborn, driven to cower in isolated pockets or forced deeper into the labyrinthine wasteland. There is no escape from Nethumbra's grasp, no solace for those who trespass upon its forbidden borders.
Nethumbra. A name whispered only in hushed tones, for it evokes not images of beauty, but of a realm draped in an eternal twilight, a shroud woven from shadows older than time itself. The very air is heavy with it - a shadowdust so fine it seems to choke the stars themselves. It clings to every surface, staining the desolate expanse a monochrome grey, broken only by the hulking skeletons of obsidian cities, remnants of a civilization consumed by its own morbid grandeur.
Above, the sky churns – not with clouds of water vapor, but with monstrous nebulae of ink-black smoke, ever-shifting, ever-threatening to blot out even the feebleest glimmer of light. Beneath this oppressive canopy, skeletal trees writhe towards the void, their branches gnarled and bare as though eternally reaching for a sun they shall never know. Upon these withered limbs dangle fruits not of flesh, but of petrified shadow, grim testaments to the utter lifelessness that reigns in Nethumbra's domain.
The denizens of this accursed realm are known as the Dustborn – a name whispered with a chill that lingers long after the speaker has ceased. They are not creatures of flesh and blood, but entities woven from the very shadowdust that cloaks Nethumbra. Emaciated figures they are, their forms resembling a mockery of humanity, clad in obsidian skin that seems to drink in the surrounding gloom.
Their eyes burn with an unnerving inner luminescence – points of sickly yellow amidst the fathomless black, gazing out with an ancient and terrible knowing. They move with an unnatural fluidity, silent as wraiths gliding through the skeletal forests and ruined cities. No language binds them, no social order dictates their actions. They exist in a state of perpetual communion with Nethumbra itself, their very essence intertwined with the realm's sinister fabric.
Those who dare intrude upon this desolate domain, those not born of the shadowdust, are deemed interlopers - abominations that disrupt the unnatural equilibrium. They are relentlessly hunted by the Dustborn, driven to cower in isolated pockets or forced deeper into the labyrinthine wasteland. There is no escape from Nethumbra's grasp, no solace for those who trespass upon its forbidden borders.
Nethumbra. A name whispered only in hushed tones, for it evokes not images of beauty, but of a realm draped in an eternal twilight, a shroud woven from shadows older than time itself. The very air is heavy with it - a shadowdust so fine it seems to choke the stars themselves. It clings to every surface, staining the desolate expanse a monochrome grey, broken only by the hulking skeletons of obsidian cities, remnants of a civilization consumed by its own morbid grandeur.
Above, the sky churns – not with clouds of water vapor, but with monstrous nebulae of ink-black smoke, ever-shifting, ever-threatening to blot out even the feebleest glimmer of light. Beneath this oppressive canopy, skeletal trees writhe towards the void, their branches gnarled and bare as though eternally reaching for a sun they shall never know. Upon these withered limbs dangle fruits not of flesh, but of petrified shadow, grim testaments to the utter lifelessness that reigns in Nethumbra's domain.
The denizens of this accursed realm are known as the Dustborn – a name whispered with a chill that lingers long after the speaker has ceased. They are not creatures of flesh and blood, but entities woven from the very shadowdust that cloaks Nethumbra. Emaciated figures they are, their forms resembling a mockery of humanity, clad in obsidian skin that seems to drink in the surrounding gloom.
Their eyes burn with an unnerving inner luminescence – points of sickly yellow amidst the fathomless black, gazing out with an ancient and terrible knowing. They move with an unnatural fluidity, silent as wraiths gliding through the skeletal forests and ruined cities. No language binds them, no social order dictates their actions. They exist in a state of perpetual communion with Nethumbra itself, their very essence intertwined with the realm's sinister fabric.
Those who dare intrude upon this desolate domain, those not born of the shadowdust, are deemed interlopers - abominations that disrupt the unnatural equilibrium. They are relentlessly hunted by the Dustborn, driven to cower in isolated pockets or forced deeper into the labyrinthine wasteland. There is no escape from Nethumbra's grasp, no solace for those who trespass upon its forbidden borders.