Obscura Malum

There are no confirmed methods of transmission for Obscura Malum, and no known physical vectors. However, scattered reports persist of individuals claiming to witness a figure at the edge of twilight—an indistinct presence glimpsed only in the final breath of dusk. Whether this vision is cause or consequence remains unclear.   Most who suffer the early stages describe a creeping difficulty in discerning shadows. Depth and edge begin to blur, as if the world itself is slowly dissolving at the margins. What begins as a subtle dimming becomes, over time, a complete unraveling of the visible world.   “My sight seeped away slowly, like the edges of a painting being swallowed in ash—until only the center remained.” ~ Herald Decker The cause of Obscura Malum remains medically unknown. However, many speculate that it is tied to Sevrienne of the Last Light, an Abyssi Dominus of the Under-Sanctuary. It is said she steals sight from the living in a desperate attempt to glimpse the world once more, despite being bound to the shadowed depths below. Trapped within the confines of the Under-Sanctuary, she reaches through the thinning Veil, hungering for light she can no longer touch.
The signs are slow to catch at first. You trip over things you never used to. Then, gradually, the edges of your vision begin to close in—like a tunnel wrapped in velvet smoke.   At night, the stars begin to blink out over the years. One day, they're simply gone. You don’t even realize it until someone asks, “Have you seen the stars?” You look up—and there are none. All snuffed out. Except the moon: bright, luminescent, watching.   You startle more easily when someone enters your peripheral vision. Shadows grow ominous. Night becomes a true terror—a black, all-consuming void.   Light sensitivity creeps in as well. Bright and dark blur into a strange, shifting presence. You can’t always tell when the lantern has been dimmed, or when a candle has been blown out. Moving from indoors to sunlight becomes jarring—the soft light of home replaced by a blaze you can’t fully process.   And through it all, vision slips away—bit by bit. Quietly. Relentlessly. What you once saw in full is reduced to a pinhole. A narrow echo of what others still take for granted.   “He dragged me outside, and it took me a while to realize I was standing before a rose—my eyes overwhelmed by the light.” ~ Mariam Bleu Obscura Malum remains untreatable. No known cure exists, and no magic or medicine has been able to restore what has been lost. Once the stars blink out—once the shadows begin to creep in—you are marked. You are already fading.   There is no way back. Only the long, slow narrowing of the world.   Many seek treatments they believe might help, but the condition is rare—and more often than not, these are peddlers of snake oil and lies. Some claim that staying indoors and drinking Moonwater from Moonmount for three months can delay the inevitable. Others swear by complete darkness to preserve the sight that remains. Yet all such remedies are false hopes, illusions grasped at in desperation. For some, Obscura Malum is slow, creeping like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass over many years. For others, the window of light closes quickly, darkness falling like a swift, unyielding tide.   If you are lucky, you have others to help you—guiding hands and steady voices in a world that fades.   As the curtain draws over your vision and the stars blink out one by one, some pray the night will never be complete, while others tremble in fear that darkness will swallow them whole.   Yet even as the shadows creep, some choose to truly live—to adapt, to chase the light wherever it lingers, and to find meaning beyond sight. Those afflicted live in various states. Some carry borrowed light each day, treating every sunrise or sunset as if it might be their last. They linger longer on the faces of loved ones, striving to savor each sight like precious treasure. Many write as if capturing these moments might be their final chance.   It is said that some fall into deep depression, burdened by the knowledge that one day there will be no more light left to chase—a kind of half-death. Others refuse to dwell on the fading, determined instead to live fully while light remains.   But there are other, painful reminders of their condition. Injuries from unseen obstacles—running into people by accident and hearing, “You didn’t see me? I’m right here,” or worse, “People lie about being blind.”   Trips and bumps become a constant in their lives: collisions with low-hanging objects, misjudged distances leading to bruises and bumps, walking into doors or walls. These physical challenges bring not only pain but a lingering shame—a sense of clumsiness in a world not built for those who navigate through shadows and blurred edges. Obscura Malum is a rare affliction, its origins tied to the tearing of the Veil and the dark influences seeping from the Under-Sanctuary. It affects individuals unpredictably, with no clear pattern of contagion or inheritance.   Observations show it occurs more frequently in males than females, though the reasons for this disparity remain unknown. Some speculate this may be linked to differences in magical sensitivity or bloodline strength, but no definitive cause has been found.   The disease appears sporadically across regions, with clusters reported near places where the Veil’s thinning is strongest—such as ancient battlefields, cursed forests, or areas of intense magical upheaval.   Despite extensive study, no environmental or behavioral risk factors have been conclusively identified. Its slow progression and rarity make gathering consistent data difficult, leaving many questions unanswered. “When the Veil was torn,” the old tales whisper, “the world shuddered, and shadows slipped through the cracks.” They say that was when the first whispers of Obscura Malum stirred—an unseen curse carried on twilight’s breath.   Some claim it began with the fall of Lord Canterberry, whose sacrifice sealed the Veil but could not undo what had slipped through.   “Those marked by the fading light,” the stories warn, “see the world grow smaller each day—stars blinking out like dying embers.” They speak of the Last Light, a spectral figure roaming dusk’s edge, stealing sight to glimpse a world she can no longer enter.   Villagers long ago whispered of those who walk in borrowed light, clutching at sunsets and sunrises as if to hold time itself.   The wise say Obscura Malum is a shadow of the Under-Sanctuary, a wound in the world’s soul—one that no healing hand may touch.   Fragments of old songs speak of eyes turned inward, hearts aching for light lost, and the slow fading of all that was bright.  

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