Aerion

The air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of decay and damp earth. A perpetual twilight clings to the Shadowfell, a gloom so profound it seems to press down on your soul. You stumble into this desolate realm chasing a wisp of a rumor, a whisper of forgotten magic, and find yourself lost, the familiar warmth of the Material Plane a distant, fading memory. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the occasional drip of water from unseen sources and the rustling of unseen things in the undergrowth.