The Black Rift

Death, darkness, and despair.

A cataclysmic shift had overtaken the world, shrouding it in a suffocating veil of dark smoke—that devoured all that stood in its way. The smothering miasma carried a palpable weight, pressing down on the land with a suffocating sense of death and despair.

Inside this darkness, life had warped beyond recognition.

Shadows, monsters, and the wicked prowled, their grotesque forms relishing the new, corrupted terrain.

Unlike many, the smoke was their ally, their camouflage, and their sanctuary.

Around every corner, shadowy figures stirred like whispers of the damned—drifting aimlessly.

But that aimless gesture would change very quickly—at any sign of vitality or spirit energy, devouring even the faintest spark of goodness with a ravenous hunger. Under the shroud of the dark smoke, their shapes were formless but deliberate—gliding through the void like predators born of nightmares.