Pandemonium

Pandemonium is a plane of wind, darkness, and hollow stone. It is not shaped like a world. It is a solid mass, honeycombed with endless tunnels and caverns carved by roaring, never ending wind. There is no sky, no horizon, and no silence. The howling of the wind never stops. It echoes through the rock, rushing through every passage, tearing at every mind. Torches flicker and fail. Words are stolen from the tongue. Even thoughts feel pulled away by the noise.   The tunnels twist in all directions. Gravity pulls toward the nearest surface, allowing movement on walls and ceilings. Orientation is meaningless. Caverns open into chasms and chasms collapse into crawlspaces. There is no natural light. Shadows stretch and fold over each other. Illumination works only briefly before being lost in the gloom. Maps are useless. Sound does not travel properly. Echoes distort, and voices return wrong. The wind does not just blow. It whispers, screams, and speaks in tongues that mimic memory.   Pandemonium is not made to kill. It is made to wear down. Over time, it strips away sanity, memory, and even identity. Most who come here do not die quickly. They wander. They forget. They become something else. The plane does not hate. It is not cruel. It is indifferent, and that is worse. It reshapes the mind until nothing else matters but the sound, and then it takes that too.   The plane is divided into layers, though there is no clear distinction between them. Each layer grows tighter, darker, more suffocating. The outermost regions can be explored with protection. Deeper zones contain nothing but raw screaming wind and tunnels that fold in on themselves. Few reach those places. Fewer return. The air is breathable but dry. Magic that controls sound, air, or direction works erratically. Attempts to silence the wind are temporary. Spells that stabilize the mind or shield against madness are essential for long-term survival.   Inhabitants here are rare and often broken. Lost souls, exiled celestials, feral demons, and things with no name crawl between the layers. Some form strange societies in sheltered caves. They use silence as currency. Others worship the wind itself or believe it is the voice of a forgotten god. Travelers who spend too long here begin to mimic these behaviors. They forget what quiet is. They begin to hear things in the wind that are not there, or worse, are.   Pandemonium is not a plane of alignment. It is not shaped by morality. It is shaped by absence. The absence of direction. The absence of light. The absence of control. It does not tempt or deceive. It simply persists. It cannot be mapped. It cannot be tamed. It cannot be silenced. It is a world where thought becomes echo, and echo becomes all that is left.   The danger of Pandemonium is not that it kills. The danger is that it convinces you that you belong.