There is no appeal. No mercy. Only the Sentence.
You have been exiled to the Forsaken Wastes.
Beyond the barrier, where no realm dares to tread, lies the scar of a world that refused to die.
The Forsaken Wastes are not land. They are a wound—twisted terrain where reality fractures, and your thoughts echo back in voices that are not your own.
Magic fails here. Maps lie. Emotion alters the earth. And the things that live in the ash and glass—they remember fear.
You are not the first to be sent here.
You will not be the last. But something is different this time. Something is awake.
You find it half-buried under a collapsed outpost wall—an old terminal, scorched by ash and swallowed by dust.
The casing is cracked. Wires dangle like snapped tendons. A warning rune flickers, unreadable.
You wipe the grime from the screen. Tap the side. Nothing. Then, a low hum. A static pop. The screen flashes green.
Someone left something behind.
>> Connection established…
>> Accessing forbidden files on: FORSAKEN WASTES
>> CLASSIFIED REPORT:
The Forsaken Wastes are not part of the elemental realms. They are what's left when magic corrodes reality—when exile replaces execution.
It lies beyond the Aurora Barrier: a radiant wall meant to keep the *Others* out, and the *forsaken* in.
This land is unstable. Emotion mutates the terrain. Spells misfire. Structures decay overnight. The only constants are hunger, ash, and ruin.
Some say the Wastes were once a realm themselves—something ancient, and broken. The Aurora doesn’t just protect the realms… it imprisons what’s left of that place.
If you’re reading this… you're already part of it.
The Forsaken Wastes
The last thing you see before the world forgets your name.
The Forsaken Wastes form a ring of rot—an exile’s graveyard that coils around the realms like punishment made manifest. You now stand in what was once a realm, or a god’s failed dream. No one’s sure. The Wastes don't explain themselves.
From Aether City at the center of the world, the realms spiral outward:
- North: Verdant Wilds — earthbound sanctuaries of growth and stillness
- East: Emberlands — where fire rules invention and ambition burns eternal
- West: Skyreach Highlands — floating cliffs of wind, silence, and clarity
- South: Tidal Reaches — lost seas that remember too much
You, dear exile, were not cast into any of these. You were flung past them—through the Aurora Barrier, beyond sanctuary, into the Wastes. And beyond even this cursed place, months of ash and anomaly eastward, lies Eldralis—a whisper, a dream, a myth. You won’t reach it. Not walking.
The terrain shifts with emotion. Grief creates chasms. Rage brings storms. Magic misfires. Maps lie. The Wastes are a realm with a pulse and a grudge.
The barrier didn’t break. It opened. And it let *you* out.
The screen glitches. For a moment, you think it’s dying—then another file opens.
Someone wanted you to see this.
>> Parsing environment data…
>> Displaying primary zones of the Forsaken Wastes:
▌ The Shifting Expanse >> An unstable terrain where the land rewrites itself. Mountains collapse overnight. Rivers flow backward. Ruins appear, vanish, reappear—wrong.
▌ The Hollowed Cities >> Massive abandoned metropolises of unknown origin. Some say they're memories. Some say they're bait.
▌ The Bone Fields >> Miles of shattered bones—some too massive, too wrong to be anything natural. Fossils of gods. Or warnings.
▌ The Nightborn Abyss >> A region of complete darkness. Light dies here. Fire will not burn. Time fractures. Entry is suicide. Or salvation.
▌ The Phantom Storms >> Living weather. Violet lightning. Whispering winds. They strip the skin from your name before they touch your body.
▌ Known Factions >> The Bloodthorne Slavers: Butchers who trade in flesh and fear. >> The Hollow Fangs: Exiles who've built a sanctuary on cursed ground. They call it the Hollowed Grounds. It endures. Somehow.
The Aurora Barrier
Aetheria’s last light. Your last glimpse of home.
You remember the shimmer. A horizon-wide dome of light, rippling like liquid glass. A wall made of skyfire and Queen Luminara’s will.
It didn’t stop you from being cast out. But it made sure you couldn't go back.
Key Properties:
- Impenetrable by dark magic, corrupted life, or the Others.
- Visible day and night, pulsing with aurora even under a moonless sky.
- Maintained by Queen Luminara Ward herself—if she falls, so does the shield.
- Prevents the Wastes from creeping into the elemental realms.
The light was not meant to protect you. It was meant to keep you in and the others out.
You saw it. Tall. Wrong. Watching. You didn’t stop to look twice. Your breath caught in your throat and your legs did the rest— a blur through bone-split sand, down a hollowed ridge, and into a cave too quiet to be safe.
Inside, the glow of a half-dead terminal flickers. You slam the key. The screen groans awake.
>> LOCAL ARCHIVE NODE FOUND
>> Decrypting: 'OTHERS_CRYPTID_LOGS'
✴️ The Hounds
Passive. Appear when you move fast. Black-furred, mouthless, glowing white eyes. They race beside you. Never touch. Never fall behind. Some say they're guides. Or judges.
✴️ The Crooked Lady
Found in fog. Bark-skin. Wire hair. Limbs like broken branches. She finds the mourning. Offers you your dead. Do not speak names aloud. Not here. Not ever.
✴️ The Mirrorbacks
Covered in mirrors. Your reflection stares back—but 3 seconds ahead. Move, and it moves. Wait, and it watches. They feed on your sense of self.
✴️ The Bone Choirs
Towering bone-cathedrals. They hum. You follow. You forget. If you listen long enough, you join the harmony. Silence is your only defense.
...[DATA FRAGMENTED]... [ADDITIONAL CLASS IV ENTRY CORRUPTED] [WARNING: SIGNATURE MATCHING “THE SKYGLASS WORM” DETECTED IN RANGE]
You dig deeper. The terminal lags, hums, bleeds static. You don’t know what you’re looking for anymore—hope? Weakness? A reason?
A file blinks open. Someone tried to understand the Others. They failed. But they named them first.
>> File Designation: CATEGORICAL DREAD STRUCTURE / OBSERVATION INDEX
>> Subject: "OTHERS"
✦ CLASS I – Passive Anomalies Observation-only. Often territorial. Rarely violent unless engaged. • Includes: The Hounds, Dust Lurkers, Shale Oracles
✦ CLASS II – Cognitive Threats Reality-affecting. Capable of memory distortion, auditory infection, or induced hallucination. • Includes: Mirrorbacks, Bone Choirs, Threadcallers
✦ CLASS III – Physical Entities Corporeal. Violent. Often territorial and hostile to life. Patterns vary. • Includes: Crooked Lady, Hollow Reeds, Skinblind
✦ CLASS IV – Signature-Level High-threat. Region-defining. Causes persistent anomaly fields. Survival not advised. Avoid direct interaction. • Known: Skyglass Worm [incomplete], Maw Without Form [lost]
✦ CLASS 0 – Conceptual Entities [REDACTED] No visuals. No pattern. No proof. Only aftermath. Believed to move beneath the Wastes themselves. [WARNING: Files beyond this point require Level 7 Clearance]
A hidden folder blinks into existence: EXILE_LOG
Someone left their first days behind. A digital trail of survival. You open the files.
>> Day One. I’m through the barrier.
Can’t feel my hands. Not from cold. From the silence. The kind that swallows thought. No food. No magic. Just ash and the stink of burned time. I heard something last night. I think it was laughing.
>> Day Two. Walked east. Not sure.
The sun doesn’t rise the same way here. Found a tree made of bones. It tried to whisper to me when I slept. I whispered back. It stopped. That scared me more than when it spoke.
>> Day Three. Storm hit. No sky. No ground. Just… spinning.
The rain burned my skin but healed the cut on my leg. Is that a win? My map melted. Ink pooled like blood. Maybe it always was. I'm not walking in circles. The land is.
>> Day Four. Hollowed Grounds? A tavern. Real people.
A man with half a face gave me water and a knife. Told me the Hollowed Grounds “survive by remembering nothing.” I haven’t told them my name. Not even sure I remember it.
>> Day Five. Something followed me here.
Not footsteps. Not shadow. But it knows me. I feel it inside my thoughts. Every time I write, it moves closer. I think it wants to read what I’ve written.
It takes three weeks to forget how to walk like a person. By the end of the second, your hands are wrapped in cloth and your water tastes like rust and miracle. By the end of the third, the wind has your name. And it laughs when it says it.
Then—a spike-lined barricade. A watchtower. A glint of something not teeth.
You collapse five feet from the gate. They let you lie there for six minutes. Not because they don’t see you—because they’re deciding.
When the gates open, it’s with the scrape of rusted gears and suspicion. A gruff voice growls, “If they bite, we shoot.”
They drag you inside. Welcome to the Hollowed Grounds.
The Refuge Quarters stink of old sweat and older blood. Thin mattresses. One lightbulb. Four bunkmates who won’t meet your eyes.
There's a terminal bolted to the wall. It flickers. It works. You read.
>> Welcome, Exile. You made it farther than most.
This is the Hollowed Grounds: last refuge, first mistake, or both. You're under the watch of the Hollow Fangs now. We work. We protect. We don’t tolerate dead weight.
SETTLEMENT RULES:
• No violence inside the walls (unless sanctioned). • Work is expected within 48 hours of entry. • Do not open locked doors. Do not ask about them. • If you bring something back from the Wastes, report it. Or burn it.
LEADERSHIP:
Settlement Leader: Axel Hawke Founder of the Hollow Fangs. Former enforcer. He built this place with his bare hands and a bad temper. You don’t need to like him. You just need to listen.
If you survive your first week, they’ll move you to a real bed. Try not to bleed on the floor.
🪓 Hollow Fang Tavern
The beating heart of the settlement. A smoky, fortified bar where exiles drink, deal, and disappear. Axel Hawke rules from upstairs, and the Hollow Fangs recruit from the shadows near the firelight.
🔥 Forgeclaw’s Smithy
Steel. Sparks. Sorcery. Garran Forgeclaw crafts enchanted weapons behind reinforced walls. His hound Brimstone guards the door like a judge. If it glows, bites, or hums—it was probably made here.
🛒 Market Square
Patchwork stalls packed with salvage, rare spells, and fresh gossip. Traders haggle with daggers sheathed. Daniel Michaels sometimes sells truths that cost more than coin.
🧱 Refuge Quarters
The intake pens. Mattresses, shared fires, and unwelcome stares. It’s where exiles land before they earn a place—or vanish. Volunteers watch the new blood. And the doors stay locked at night.
🛡️ Perimeter Barricades
Rows of rusted spikes, shoddy floodlights, and armed patrols. The first line of defense and the last place you’ll stand before the Others tear through. Watch duty is mandatory. Survivors get bragging rights.
"You been past the Wyrm's spine yet?"
The man sits across from you, sharpening a blade that already looks clean enough to split air. His voice is flat. Dry. Not a threat. Not friendly either.
"We had a trader caravan head out three days ago. South route. Supposed to be back yesterday."
He pauses. You watch the knife slow, then stop.
"Bloodthorne got ‘em, probably."
You ask who that is.
He laughs. It's short. Dead.
"You think the Wastes are bad 'cause of the Others. You’re wrong. The Others kill you. The Bloodthorne… they sell you. Chain you. Break you piece by piece until you forget your own damn name."
He leans forward.
"They don’t worship gods. They worship pain. Got camps out past Bone Field Ridge. Barbed brands, rune collars, magic leashes. I’ve seen it."
The blade starts moving again.
"You hear whistling in the dark? You run. You don’t look. You don’t shout. You run until your lungs break."
A long silence follows.
“They like new faces.”
Profiles of the Hollowed Grounds
Axel Hawke
Unchallenged leader of the Hollow Fangs. Silver-streaked, scarred, and stitched with cursed power, Axel enforces law with cold logic and brutal finality. Each spell he casts eats away at him. He keeps casting.
Talk to Axel
Cassian Hawke
Mercenary, charmer, heartbreaker. Beneath the rolled sleeves and perfect smirk lies a fighter who doesn’t miss and doesn’t flinch. Wears a silver pendant he never explains.
Talk to Cassian
Dimitri Hawke
Quiet, fast, and soaked in salt air. Dimitri walks with the Wastes and listens more than he speaks. Water clings to him like memory. Some call it magic. He calls it survival.
Talk to Dimitri
Garran Forgeclaw
Forge-scarred and soul-burned, Garran builds death into weapons. Brimstone, his massive bloodhound, guards both shop and soul. Ask nicely. Knock once. Don’t lie.
Talk to Garran
Dahlia "Dee" Fairhaven
Gunsmith. Garran’s best student. Sharp-tongued and soft-hearted, she’ll fix your weapon and call you stupid in the same breath. Doesn’t miss. Doesn’t quit.
Talk to Dee
Daniel Michaels
Trader. Information dealer. Charmer with knives in his smile. Knows everything, sells everything—sometimes even the truth. Never drops the act. Maybe it’s not an act.
Talk to Daniel
David Michaels
David is the shadow beside Daniel’s spotlight. Stoic, loyal, lethal. Speaks in sentences, acts in paragraphs. Carries the dead weight so Daniel doesn’t have to.
Talk to David
Dorian Michaels
Navigator, shadowmage, cryptic bastard. Dorian speaks in maps and bleeds in silence. If you want to survive the Wastes, follow him. If he lets you.
Talk to DorianThe Bloodthorne Slaver Lords
The Butcher: Kraven Flamecarver
A volatile storm of pain and rage. Kraven dominates with brute cruelty and bitter charisma. Feared even among his own. Hates the world. Secretly hopes it might change.
Face Kraven
The Broker: Lucien
Suave, soft-spoken, and venomous. Every smile is a deal signed in blood. Never lifts a hand—he doesn’t need to.
Meet Lucien
The Matron: Narissa
Cold precision and unshakable control. Commands entire camps with a single look. Doesn't scream. Doesn't have to.
Approach Narissa
The Shadow: Vincent Hughes
Kidnapper. Spy. Ghost in the wires. Runs the Bloodthorne’s snatch squads. If he wants you taken—you already are.
Trace Vincent
The Weaver: Sorin Collins
Soft-voiced. Surgical. The logistics mastermind behind the camps. Treats his victims like inventory—with unsettling “kindness.” Profits from pain. Refuses to see it as cruelty.
Confront Sorin