Behold, the stronghold of nightmares, carved of darkness itself: The Dread Tower.
Its surface is fashioned of smooth, obsidian stone that swallows every glimmer of light, leaving nothing but reflection terrible in shadow. The tower’s jagged, asymmetrical spires thrust upward like the cold fingers of an eldritch monstrosity, while grotesque gargoyles swarm its arches.
Etched across its surface writhe ever-shifting runes and sigils, symbols that crawl unnaturally across the stone as though alive. They are the wellspring of the Nightmare Dominion’s power—pulsing with a baleful energy that bleeds into the land. At night they blaze with a blood-red glow, staining the surrounding realm in an eerie crimson haze.
The air is steeped in a fog and fear, heavy and suffocating. To breathe is to taste despair. Travelers who draw near find their courage leeched away, their thoughts filled with whispers of things best left unnamed.
This fortress has passed through the hands of many cruel masters across the ages, each leaving scars upon its stones. Yet the identity of its current lord remains shrouded in mystery. The dread that keeps anyone at bay also serves as the tower’s perfect veil—no eyes pierce its walls, and no whisper dares reveal who, or what, rules within.
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The Dread Tower
Elf J Trul
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Behold, the stronghold of nightmares, carved of darkness itself: The Dread Tower.
Its surface is fashioned of smooth, obsidian stone that swallows every glimmer of light, leaving nothing but reflection terrible in shadow. The tower’s jagged, asymmetrical spires thrust upward like the cold fingers of an eldritch monstrosity, while grotesque gargoyles swarm its arches.
Etched across its surface writhe ever-shifting runes and sigils, symbols that crawl unnaturally across the stone as though alive. They are the wellspring of the Nightmare Dominion’s power—pulsing with a baleful energy that bleeds into the land. At night they blaze with a blood-red glow, staining the surrounding realm in an eerie crimson haze.
The air is steeped in a fog and fear, heavy and suffocating. To breathe is to taste despair. Travelers who draw near find their courage leeched away, their thoughts filled with whispers of things best left unnamed.
This fortress has passed through the hands of many cruel masters across the ages, each leaving scars upon its stones. Yet the identity of its current lord remains shrouded in mystery. The dread that keeps anyone at bay also serves as the tower’s perfect veil—no eyes pierce its walls, and no whisper dares reveal who, or what, rules within.
