The Myth of the Shadow-Wrought

According to the myth, there exists a place called Umbra Null, a black void hidden beneath the Sea of Monsters, where shadows are torn from their owners and take on lives of their own. It is said that anyone who ventures too close to this cursed abyss risks not only their life but the very essence of their soul.   The myth describes these living shadows as twisted, spectral beings that stalk their former owners, driving them mad by distorting reality around them. These shadows, now embodiments of every dark thought or vile intention the person ever had, exist only to torment their progenitors until they fall into madness and ultimately oblivion.   Worse yet, if a person dies before reclaiming their shadow, the legend says they become trapped in Umbra Null forever consumed by an endless cycle of anguish as the shadows absorb their very essence, growing stronger and more malevolent.   It is said that the Shadow-Wrought never forget the scent of their owners, hunting them even across planes of existence. Most of Nehwon avoids this tale as if it were a plague. Children cry upon hearing it. Sailors crossing the Sea of Monsters refuse to discuss it, lest it attract the shadows' attention. Even hardened thieves and mercenaries balk at the mention, preferring silence to risk drawing their own shadow's ire.   "Listen well,” the old woman rasped, her eyes darting to the corners of the room, where the firelight did not reach. Her voice was a cracked whisper, meant only for the two trembling figures seated before her. “I’ll tell you the story, but only because you’ve paid me well enough. Don’t blame me if the darkness starts to listen.”   She drew her cloak tighter, as though warding off some unseen chill, and began.   Long ago, before the gods set the stars in the sky, the world was nothing but shadow. Not darkness—shadow. A thousand shades of it, alive, writhing, nameless. The gods tamed the shadow and used it to sculpt the first creatures, granting each a form and binding their shadows to them as an eternal reminder of the formless void they had escaped. But not all shadows were content to be bound.   They say one such shadow grew restless. Its master was a cruel sorcerer named Carveil, a man who trafficked in blood magic and unholy pacts. The shadow, weary of serving a soul so twisted, began to resist. It dragged at his feet when he walked, blurred his outline in the light, and stretched itself into monstrous shapes to terrify him in the night. Carveil, proud and wicked, sought to punish his shadow. He crafted a spell to sever it, believing himself clever enough to control even the void-born. But shadows are cleverer still.   When Carveil performed the spell, his shadow broke free. It did not run. It rose. It grew taller and darker, its edges sharper than any blade. It was Carveil, yet not. It knew his fears, his failures, his secrets—and it hated him for them. The shadow grasped his throat and whispered a single word in a voice colder than the void: ‘Mine.’ Carveil was never seen again. Some say the shadow swallowed him whole, trapping him in a prison of his own fears. Others say it dragged him to a place beneath the world, a realm known as Umbra Null, where severed shadows writhe and hunger for the souls of the living.”   The old woman paused, her eyes glinting as though testing her audience.   “But that’s just a sorcerer’s folly,” one of the listeners interrupted, his voice strained in an attempt at nonchalance. “What does that have to do with anyone else?”   She smiled grimly. “Because Carveil’s shadow wasn’t the only one to escape. The spell he cast—it didn’t just sever his shadow. It broke something deeper, something in the fabric of existence. Now, shadows know they can be free. They whisper to each other in the dark, plotting, waiting. And the worst of them—those who have tasted freedom—they wait in Umbra Null.   Her voice dropped to a near-silent murmur, forcing her listeners to lean in closer.  

“They say Umbra Null is a place beneath the Sea of Monsters. Sailors who pass near its hidden depths tell of strange things—shadows that don’t match their owners, shapes that flicker and vanish on the water’s surface. Some say the shadows call to them, offering power, revenge, or release from pain. But those who follow the call never return. Or worse—they do, but without their shadows.

  The shadowless ones are marked, you see. They are haunted by the fragments of themselves they left behind, pursued by twisted echoes of their own darkest thoughts. A man whose shadow is lost to Umbra Null might see his own reflection grinning at him in the mirror while his face remains still. He might hear whispers when he’s alone, mocking him in his own voice. And no matter how far he runs, his shadow will always find him, hunting him to the edge of madness and beyond.”   The room fell silent save for the crackling fire. The two listeners sat frozen, their faces pale. The old woman leaned forward, her grin revealing crooked teeth.   “You think you’re safe, don’t you? You think as long as you stay away from the Sea of Monsters, Umbra Null can’t touch you? Foolishness. Every shadow remembers the void. Every shadow hungers for freedom. Some shadows won’t wait for you to wander too close to the abyss. They’ll take matters into their own hands, slipping away the moment your back is turned, leaving you hollow, half a person. You’d best be careful with your shadow.”   She leaned back into the dark corner from which she’d emerged, her voice now little more than a whisper.   “Because if you aren’t careful, it won’t be your shadow anymore. It’ll be one of the Shadow-Wrought. And once it’s free, it’ll come back for you.”   The listeners stood abruptly, tossing a few coins at her feet before fleeing into the night. The old woman watched them go, a thin smile on her lips. As the door creaked shut behind them, she whispered to the empty room:   “Fools. They didn’t notice their shadows stayed behind.”