Shadowtouched

"You are born not of this plane!"
"Mother, you fucking gave birth to me. It's not my bloody fault that I fell into a puddle of shadow!"
"Begone, demon!"
"Wrong again, mother."

— A mother and her shadowtouched son

 

Chiaroscuro

  A people of whispers and fading light, their presence is a reminder of the veils that separate realms. Born as a normal mortal of the Eight Lands and later influenced by shadows - whether through ancient pacts, curses, or simple misfortune - they carry the mark of the void in both body and soul.   Physically, the shadowtouched are unmistakable. Their skin bears void-touched markings, intricate patterns of shadow that seem to writhe and shift when seen from the corner of the eye. These marks are not merely decorative; they are living traces of their shadowed influence, tied to the ebb and glow of their emotions and power. Their eyes, often as pale as moonlight or as dark as a starless sky, seem to pierce through layers of reality, a disconcerting trait that unsettles most who encounter them. Hair among the shadowtouched often appears as if woven with dusk itself, faintly shimmering or absorbing light entirely, a muted crown of their undue heritage.   Across the Eight Lands, the shadowtouched are steeped in the traditions of the Whispered Ancestors. These spectral figures, remnants of those who came before, are both guides and burdens. To the shadowtouched, the dead are never truly gone; their voices linger in the recesses of thought and dream, offering counsel, warnings or sometimes cryptic riddles. While most shadowtouched are deaf to their mutterings, it is said that one properly attuned to the influences of spirits can call upon their ancestors moments of dire need, manifesting echoes of ancient strength of wisdom. Yet this gift cannot be called upon more than thrice every seven years, as such a bond is not without cost, for the whispers grow louder with each use, threatening to drown the individual in a cacophony of lives already spent.  

Tenebrism

  Though they are few, the shadowtouched wander across lands, their existence a tale whispered in village squares and at travelers’ firesides. Many are exiles - not from their own kind, but from those who cannot understand their nature. Superstition follows them like a cloak, casting suspicion wherever they tread. To some, they are omens of ill fortune; to others, they are the harbingers of balance, keeping at bay the creeping tendrils of shadowed influences.   Those who encounter a shadowtouched on their travels seldom forget the experience. These wanderers move with an otherworldly grave, their words measured and laden with a weight that belies their years. They speak of things unseen, peering into shadows as if they were a street to walk upon, some even speaking in tongues long forgotten to the living; the consequences of shadows whispering in their ears. The shadows call to them in dreams, a siren song of solace and belonging. Those who heed its call may vanish entirely, leaving only the faint echo of their presence behind.   And so, the shadowtouched walk a lonely road as a being who walks in shadow yet stands against its dominion. Their existence is not tragic but resolute - a testament to the strength found in embracing what others fear, even if it was never asked for.