The Hellscape is older than the archons, deeper than despair. From its blood-forged dawn during the Sundering Epoch, it has rippled outward, an expanding wound in reality.
Those who call it a realm of nightmare or poison gain only half the truth: it is a living grave of sin, a playground for beings whose principles predate mortal gods.
Within its shifting scarred plains and razor-silence chasms, the air itself is lethal—and death is neither hope nor fear, but inevitability.
Below a sky the color of bruised wounds, the Hellscape's map dissolves under the weight of its own horror.
There is no compass, no river you can name. Only Reaches, indicted in steel and blood: nine brutal gradations of torment, each a mirror of human sin.
The first—the land of Silence—bleeds under ash-rain and mad fauna. The second—the Ashspire—is forested with flesh-twisted trunks that choke themselves.
