The Somnium Veil

A great wound lies across the world, separating the Old World from the New, a fogbank so vast and unnatural it has become its own legend. The Somnium Veil stretches for hundreds of miles, a seemingly endless sea of grey mist where light falters, time slips, and consciousness cannot hold.

No storm, no spell, no sun cuts through it. Entering the Veil is like falling into a half-death: sound becomes muffled, vision reduces to shadows in arm’s reach, and a leaden sleep creeps over every living being. It is not fatigue, but something stranger, an ancient compulsion, quiet and absolute, as if the Veil itself commands rest into the soul.

Only those immune to magical sleep such as constructs, elementals, the divine-blessed, and rare esoteric bloodlines can resist and remain awake. These Fog-Watchers guide the ship and guard the slumbering passengers for the month-long crossing. Their burden is great, for they must not only navigate by sense, but also fend off whatever stirs in the mist.

Whispers drift through the fog, mimicking familiar voices. Shapes loom just beyond the prow with appearances that appear too tall, too wrong. Some ships report silent figures walking the deck, or entire sleeping crews rearranged in unnatural formations. Others are found adrift, everyone gone.

The Veil does not rage. It does not roar. It waits. And in its hush, it knows you are here.

Travel through the Somnium Veil is not a journey, it is a surrender. A trust that something, or someone, will carry you through the dark while you dream a dreamless sleep.

"CAPTAIN’S NOTES ON THE SOMNIUM VEIL"
As penned by Captain Yorra Blacktongue, survivor of the Dimming Wake.

  1. Don’t try to fight the sleep. It ain’t natural, but it’s gentle like drowning in silk. Let it take you, or you’ll lose your mind trying to stay awake. One of my crew tied her eyelids open with wax. She sang to herself for three days and then leapt overboard claiming she saw the gods.
  2. Leave something on deck for the Veil. I carve a bit of soapstone and leave it by the prow. A face with no mouth. I don’t know why. I just do. The one time I didn’t, something crawled onto the ship and took a passenger instead. I swear I still see that passenger out at sea sometimes, still smiling.
  3. Don’t follow voices. Your ma, your dog, your own voice: you’ll hear it in the fog. Don’t step off the ship. Don’t reach over the rail. They’ll ask you to. Don’t.
  4. The Fog-Watchers keep us alive. Bless ’em. Golems, flame-touched, and that elf who drinks ichor like wine. They see things. They fight things. One time a fogling got onboard — shaped like a gnome, but wrong. No eyes. No belly. Screamed and twisted like a flute full of teeth. The Watcher melted it with a fire, I still can remember the stench.
  5. Mark your passage. Scratches on the hull, a bell rung every third hour, name spoken in the dark. If you forget who you are in the Veil, something will come back as you instead.
  6. Never cross it twice. I mean it. First crossing is a new beginning. Second is your end.
  7. If you meet a kind old wanderer with a sweater, count your blessings. Don't attack, just smile and make a new friend. The safety is rare but a treat for those who care.

“Beyond sight, beyond sound and only the fog knows what dreams may come.”
— The Wanderer


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