In the darkest abyss of existence, beyond the feeble veil of our world, lies the accursed realm known as the Shadowfell. This twisted mirror of reality is a place forever tainted by necromantic decay and morbid terror, a nightmare landscape where bodiless spirits wander in endless agony. It is a realm permeated by a darkness so profound that it eclipses all hope and drowns the land in an eternal midnight. Among the damned and forsaken that dwell in this forsaken place, the Raven Queen reigns with an iron grasp, wielding dominion over death and the tragic passage of souls.
The Raven Queen, a being of unfathomable dread, stands as one of the most well-known denizens of the Shadowfell, a chilling embodiment of mortality’s end. Her divine influence over the spectral procession of life to death is a thing whispered in hushed terror, an eternal dance with darkness that none can escape.
But not all bow before her dark majesty.
Orcus, the dread Lord of Undeath, harbors a malignant desire to usurp the Raven Queen’s grim throne. His twisted ambition is to plunge all souls, even those that have slipped beyond the grasp of the cosmos, into the abominable realm of undeath. In his eyes, the only key to this horrific dominion lies in uncovering the Raven Queen’s true name, a secret that could unravel the very fabric of existence. To this end, he has summoned his ghastly lieutenant, Doresain, the infamous king of the ghouls, charging him with this heinous responsibility.
In the echoing halls of the damned, some of the most powerful and ambitious of the undead have sworn fealty to Orcus, lured by promises of eternal power and dominance. Others cast their lot with Vecna, a name synonymous with forbidden knowledge, as a means to further their own dark and twisted agendas. Yet for all their plotting and scheming, the vast majority of the undead are indifferent to these divine rivalries, lost in their own hellish existence.
For most undead, the world is but a fleeting memory, a place they once called home but now view through the cold eyes of death. Those that retain their souls, their intellect, and their morbid creativity perceive the Shadowfell as more than a shadowy echo; it becomes their sanctuary, a realm far more suited to their cursed existence. Here, in a land devoid of sunlight and filled with the stench of decay, they find solace. Many choose to remain, or craft twisted pathways to travel between this dark realm and the world, forever bound to the Shadowfell’s call.
Among the undead, vampires hold a particular affection for this nightmarish land. In the Shadowfell, the sun is a feeble glow hidden behind clouds, forever low on the horizon, pale and weak, unable to scorch or harm their cursed flesh. Here, they draw strength from the very essence of death, feeling a perverse sense of well-being. Even the most deformed and grotesque of undead find a twisted form of peace in the Shadowfell, their minds warped by undeath, reveling in the grim harmony that this accursed place offers.
Yet there is a darkness even deeper within this realm. The very nature of the walking dead’s existence creates a longing, a craving for the dim ebb and flow of energy that permeates the Shadowfell. It becomes an addiction, a maddening need that gnaws at their very being. Should they be taken from this place to serve a necromancer in the world, the withdrawal is a torment that can drive them to the brink of madness.
Even those creatures devoid of soul and reason, like wights and wraiths, are drawn to the Shadowfell’s malignant embrace. Portals and weak spots in the world’s fabric, connecting to this unholy realm, become magnets for these soulless horrors. Such places become dark shrines for cultists who worship death, seeking the necromantic seepage to empower their wicked rituals.
In this land of perpetual twilight, undead do not shy away from the dim and gray daylight that graces the Shadowfell for a mere quarter of each day. While in the world they may lurk in ruins and dark forests, here they roam freely, attacking without warning. Mortals who dare venture into this realm may find themselves beset by specters at what would be midday in the world, a terror that defies all logic and reason.
And in the Shadowfell, death is never the end. The living would do well to avoid burying their dead in this accursed place. Rituals to keep corpses from rising are but temporary measures, fraught with peril. The bodies left behind are almost certain to rise as shambling horrors, while evil souls may transform into vile monstrosities. In the world, only the most heinous murderers might return as specters, but in the Shadowfell, any death might give birth to such wickedness.
The Shadowfell is a realm of nightmares, a place where the line between life and death is blurred, and where the dark whispers of the unknown haunt every shadow. It is a world where horror reigns, and where even the bravest souls may find themselves lost in the endless dark.
