The shadowlands are a mystery to us all. Even though our greatest heroes, kings, and knights of renown traveled to the place where only the dead go, there is still much we do not know and much that we will never know. Think of the Shadowlands like an ocean of darkness and sprinkled throughout are sailboats - some boats are created by what created everything and work as they should such as Bastion and some? Some are twisted and rotten boats that should not exist but do. Boats with terrible captains, and a tortured crew.
Adrift in the ocean of the dead is T’anjva. It had been anchored to the veil over Raven Hill, but with the destruction of its pylons, it drifts now. A carefully crafted hell, a kingdom of suffering with only one soul playing as titan to the piece of the shadowlands that he had stolen. The mad king, his subjects call him.
His subjects are souls that he stole from Duskwood, they should have gone to be judged. They should have found the rest in the afterlife they deserved but he trapped them, collected them, or killed them himself. Souls to fill his kingdom and soldiers to bring him more. Monsters. Innocents. Mistakes.
He, the king, made many mistakes. These twisted creatures that could not serve him correctly were sent to skulk – banished to the outskirts of his domain. Eating what lost soul or anima they could find, starving. Feral. And some mistakes gave him fuel to do better - worse, do worse.
Within the forbidden, undead plagued lands of Raven Hill, a noblewoman was pulled into the veil, alive but stolen by a trap that had captured many. Her death and souls collection should have been simple. A noblewoman was a treat, another to serve at his horrible court - but others came, shadowwalkers, rogues beings that gave up hiding and perhaps even self-preservation to attempt to save an innocent. And that is how this madness became tied to the Coalition, that is how it all began - a choice. A choice to not allow the mad king to have another and that choice damned them all. None of them were saved from their fate that day.
The king, we now know, had a taste for something twisted and great. A terrible story plucked from the memories that each soul gave to him when he took them. In the realm of the living, there was a monster that terrorized Duskwood. A monster that created horror and trapped souls, demons and was truly feared for it. He was unworldly wise, savage, and cruel - A necromancer of legends, once a man but became more. The king wanted him -he wanted what legacy had been created by him - he wanted his darkness, power, and creations.
He wanted the Greyterror.
A craving and want that was fed due to the noblewoman’s memories and intimate knowledge of the necromancer. The Grayterror was gone, possibly defeated but still, he thirsted and with a new target in mind. A tortured son. One he could collect and use as a base for his very own heir. A son of his own. One he could craft and imbue, perhaps even create into a sick kind of greatness.
The Grayterror had failed in what the king assumed was his quest to collect his son, to control his son. The Coalition had protected the tortured son from his father for years. We believe we won, in the end. But it would be memories of those battles that would give the son no peace.. yet.
The son that had been tortured by his father for so long, the son that was protected and loved by so many…. stood within T’anjva and before the mad king’s gates. There he listened to his wife, the noblewoman, scream for him to save her.
Think of the Shadowlands like an ocean of darkness and sprinkled throughout are sailboats - some boats are created by what created everything and work as they should such as Bastion and some? Some are twisted and rotten boats that should not exist but do. When the anchors that kept the kingdom connected to Duskwood were destroyed, the sailboat drifted away - the mad king lost the son he craved, and the tortured son lost a wife.
As T’anjva drifted away, Duskwood’s souls would know peace from its constant collecting, finally. But it was the start of something else - the king retreated into his creation chambers and worked regardless of what was happening in his kingdom. If he could not have the tortured son, if he could not cut into his flesh and tear the darkness from his soul - he would use all of the memories he had to make something better– Worse. Much worse.
A son. A master of everything evil with a beautiful image and foulness in his soul. A prince who could hear the thoughts of all the monsters that had come before him, and what a gift the noblewoman made to the twisted copy of a husband that could not rescue her.
Perhaps it is just how the world works, balance works its way into even the most sludge-coated darkness. Not light, but balance. The mad king and his cruel prince did not have the loyalty of the souls they had stolen, those people that lived and died in Duskwood were soldiers, Knights, and Peasants that knew the call of “for the people” and why a Lord and his family stayed to protect them.
They also knew that the mad king had taken that lord’s daughter. And if there could be one act of heroism, it would be this. One soul, one daring and brave soul collected the noblewoman from her prison and ferried her away. Through the nothingness of the shadowlands, past rifts, and lands, and through the great tide of lost souls. Though he himself was tethered to T’anjva, she could still leave the veil and return to the mortal realm. Wounded, twisted but not dead. Changed.
In her absence, a great war began and ended in the kingdom of terror. Father and son, lacking loyalty and love, turned on each other, and soon every monster, every mistake, and every soul’s anima fed the King so that his son’s defeat was assured but at great cost.
The kingdom had no way to collect more anima or souls as it had before. The mad king, severely wounded, would settle to rest in some odd state of recovery while T’anjva drifted empty - even now.
There is a small handful of those that have survived T’anjva, people tethered to it for eternity. Alive but not. Dead but not undead either. They will never age, they will never bear children, and should they perish in the mortal realm? They will return to it - as the mad king sleeps nothing is created or recreated and these survivors will know no peace or judgment from the arbiter. Ever.
Their gifts, given to them as they were turned into something foul, fade into memories. It would be easy now to pretend to be normal. As the months go by they hear the call of madness less and less. Their urge to touch the shadowlands will fade, perhaps one day, but they no longer know the language of death in their heads and hearts. Perhaps now they can sleep.
Perhaps now they can rest.
Perhaps this is also balance playing a part in some way.
“What are you going to do with this, Rosemarri? It is dangerous information to have inked.” Lyric captured the levitating book, scowling as her words were also magically scripted into the document as well. “Oh for titan’s sake..” She pinched the book closed and turned to stare at the noblewoman.
“Dangerous how?” From her place at the window, she turned to study the handmaiden. Lyric was lovely and bold, a guardian for her family and a talented mage. “It is just a story after all. Duskwood is filled with them.”
“Yes but..” Lyric protested, turning her scowl to the book.
“And will people believe a fog settled onto Darkshire and murdered people? Cast their greatest fear before them? In ten years from now, will the name Grayterror still make children cry? There are so few left that even remember, the Mad King and the cultists had a heavy hand in that. I think we shall be safe.”
“Let them come.” Varsen’s voice sounded from the doorway though the northern’s body could not be seen just yet.
“You can’t fight everyone, Varsen.” Lyric huffed, tucking the book beneath her arm.
“Good night.” Lyric and book retreated, leaving the knight and noblewoman within the heavy silence of her wake.
“You can..” Rosemarri offered.
“I know.” He chucked before he also took his leave.
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theartofmadeline
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