Staunton Bluffs

Perched on steep cliffs that descend into storm-churned seas, Staunton Bluffs is a windswept, broken land haunted by forgotten wars and echoes of vanished identities. The landscape is a crumbling tableau of cracked fortresses, abandoned trenches, and battlefields where no names are remembered—only orders, and the endless march of faceless troops.

Here, silence dominates—not the silence of peace, but the breathless pause before a charge, the hush after a scream, the stillness after a name has been erased.

The very soil of Staunton Bluffs is steeped in loss. Cities were never built, only forts, redoubts, and temporary barracks, each one now in ruins or garrisoned by mercenary legions with no voices, no flags, and no cause.

• The wind moans through old ramparts like a dirge.
• Roads are littered with rusting helms and overgrown trenches.
• Travelers find names missing from tombstones, letters with no senders, and military banners that no one recognizes.

Time has little meaning here. Days pass, but histories unravel, and names—people’s own names—begin to slip from memory the longer one remains.

The countryside is stalked by terrifying forces: regiments of eerily identical, faceless mercenaries that ride or march without voice or purpose. Known only as The Host, these spectral soldiers respond to unseen commands and fight with chilling precision.

• No two units appear quite the same—some wear antique armor, others modern tactical gear—as if drawn from countless eras of forgotten war.
• They never speak, rest, or show emotion.
• When slain, their bodies vanish into ash and wind.

To see them on the horizon is to feel the inevitability of conscription into a war without memory or meaning.

The true horror of Staunton Bluffs lies in its erosion of identity. The domain unravels memory with uncanny precision:

• Personal details fade first: names, then family, then motives.
• Soldiers conscripted into The Host lose not just their lives, but their very selves.
• Even the land's few free folk live in paranoid ritual, constantly repeating their names aloud, scrawling reminders on their bodies, walls, and clothing to avoid being forgotten.

Each year, fewer citizens remember who they are—or even why they fear the night.

The domain’s cruel master, General Corval Staunton, once waged war in service of glory, but now commands a force that he cannot name, in a land he does not recognize, against enemies who may never have existed.

• He is a master tactician doomed to forever wage war without context.
• He remembers his brilliance, his victories, but no longer recalls what cause he served.
• His curse is eternal campaign: brilliant maneuvers, decisive victories—and yet no war ever ends.
• The Host obeys him implicitly, though he no longer remembers issuing orders.

General Staunton haunts his command post in a shattered fortress, surrounded by maps that constantly rewrite themselves and journals full of entries in his own hand that he cannot read.

Domain Traits

• Memory Bleed: Time spent in Staunton Bluffs causes memories to fade. Names go first. Then faces. Then identity.
• The Host Gathers: When fear, confusion, or violence erupt, faceless soldiers begin to emerge—to "recruit."
• War Echoes: Old battlefields resound with phantom drums, cries, and gunfire. Ghosts re-enact charges long since lost.

Notable Locations

• The Maw of Ardent: A massive sinkhole rimmed with trenches. Said to be the final battlefield of a war no one can describe, where fresh bodies still appear.
• Fort Evenshade: The General’s ever-shifting command center, part-barracks, part-temple to a god of war who has no name.
• The Echo Steps: A cliffside path where travelers hear cries in their own voice—often calling their own forgotten name.