_Michael_
Explorer
I've started the creation process of a massive ruin, and I wanted some feedback on the concepts.
The site is called Volgas Dol, and it's a large ruin of a castle in the high desert of the Ciaran Badlands, west of the Karolus Mountains. The image is AI generated, but serves as a great backdrop for what I am envisioning. So far, here's what I have on it:
--> The structure's construction dates from three millennia prior to the current day, using forgotten magics and techniques.
--> It was created by the survivors of the Schism, the last of the great archmages of the Age of Dreams.
--> It is thought to be cursed, as it is inhabited by eldritch horrors and incredible dangers.
--> Contains thousands of rooms and hallways, far more than the physical structure could reasonably contain.
--> Many are old laboratories filled with dust and the lingering echoes of terrible breakthroughs. Libraries where forbidden knowledge whispers from crumbling scrolls. Conservatories where plants from alien worlds still grow, their beauty hiding deadly toxins or mind-bending pollens. Dungeons holding things best left chained and forgotten. Some haven't been disturbed since man learned to walk on two legs.
--> The hallways and rooms shift about in a random fashion a la Stephen King's Rose Red.
--> Many report hearing indistinct whispering as they approach, and the whispering will follow those whom usually end up meeting grisly fates inside.
--> Part of an elder god's shattered essence has congealed in Volgas Dol, corrupting the magics, weakening the wards keeping mind-bending horrors and aberrations at bay, and is seen only in shadows that appear out of place, heard only as a whispering madness that smothers the mind.
--> Contains many failed experiments from the High Council, books deemed too dangerous for the world, artifacts that thrum with malevolent power, and all sorts of fodder for campaigns.
--> Lesser creatures, such as revenants, wraiths, and wights, serve the purpose of the greater malevolent will that possesses Volgas Dol, an echo of the forgotten god's power.
--> Those who die in Volgas Dol come back as undead to serve the nameless darkness that inhabits the castle.
--> It's supposed to be a more existential horror on the level of Ravenloft or Stephen King's Black Hotel in The Talisman. See also, Machin Shin.
Looking to refine and expand on it. Feel free to AMA.
A bit of flash fiction to round it out:
--> The structure's construction dates from three millennia prior to the current day, using forgotten magics and techniques.
--> It was created by the survivors of the Schism, the last of the great archmages of the Age of Dreams.
--> It is thought to be cursed, as it is inhabited by eldritch horrors and incredible dangers.
--> Contains thousands of rooms and hallways, far more than the physical structure could reasonably contain.
--> Many are old laboratories filled with dust and the lingering echoes of terrible breakthroughs. Libraries where forbidden knowledge whispers from crumbling scrolls. Conservatories where plants from alien worlds still grow, their beauty hiding deadly toxins or mind-bending pollens. Dungeons holding things best left chained and forgotten. Some haven't been disturbed since man learned to walk on two legs.
--> The hallways and rooms shift about in a random fashion a la Stephen King's Rose Red.
--> Many report hearing indistinct whispering as they approach, and the whispering will follow those whom usually end up meeting grisly fates inside.
--> Part of an elder god's shattered essence has congealed in Volgas Dol, corrupting the magics, weakening the wards keeping mind-bending horrors and aberrations at bay, and is seen only in shadows that appear out of place, heard only as a whispering madness that smothers the mind.
--> Contains many failed experiments from the High Council, books deemed too dangerous for the world, artifacts that thrum with malevolent power, and all sorts of fodder for campaigns.
--> Lesser creatures, such as revenants, wraiths, and wights, serve the purpose of the greater malevolent will that possesses Volgas Dol, an echo of the forgotten god's power.
--> Those who die in Volgas Dol come back as undead to serve the nameless darkness that inhabits the castle.
--> It's supposed to be a more existential horror on the level of Ravenloft or Stephen King's Black Hotel in The Talisman. See also, Machin Shin.
Looking to refine and expand on it. Feel free to AMA.
A bit of flash fiction to round it out:
Above the mournful howl of wind through the rocks and canyons of the western edges of the Karolus Mountains, the clinking of leather and thump of horses could be heard. Quiet sounds rising up in the heat of the afternoon sun, they were occasionally punctuated by muted laughter or a whistle. The hardpan of the Ciaran Badlands was as dry and as hot as could be, baked in the light of Atl all day; it reflected the sunlight back upwards so even wearing wide brimmed hats offered little protection.
The journey from Whiterun Pass to the elven trading post on the western edges of the Ciaran Badlands called Bandharos was well-trodden by caravans of merchants and traders of every stripe. Some would occasionally pass by one another, offering a toast to Astryn, the goddess of travelers and open roads, but even at its busiest during the height of trade season in the warm summer months, it was still a lonely road, populated only by tumbleweeds and breathtaking vistas.
The foothills and mountains stretched north-south off to the distant right, and to the left, the unbroken hardpan stretched out as far as one could see; hundreds of miles beyond was the Ciar Tanith, the Dark Forest where the elves made their homes, hidden away from human eyes.
Straight ahead, however, lay the dark silhouette of the massive fortress of Volgas Dol, its turrets and donjon blackened with dark magics and age. It stretched up out of the shimmering distance like an accusing finger pointing at the forgotten gods of the Old World. The very air around the massive ruin wavered and seemed to darken the longer one stared at it.
The closer one approached, the more one became aware of a pervasive sense of dread that hung in the air like a miasma. It was as though something was inside of Volgas Dol, and was very much aware. That sense of being watched, and the dread that accompanied it, kept all but the most determined adventurers away. The crossroads even had several worn and weathered signs warning people away from turning right instead of continuing on.
“A wise traveler passes by Volgas Dol,” an old man rasped, his eyes fixed on the distant, jagged silhouette against the setting sun. “But not everyone is wise, eh?” He glanced at the lithe woman next to him, a young lass of eighteen summers and the apple of his eye.
Vala tightened the straps of her pack, the worn leather digging into her shoulders. A small rucksack that was creased and worn from use and much care, it was her favorite traveling pack, and went with her everywhere. “Some folk are said to seek the lore of the Old World within its walls, Grandpa.”
The old man snorted, a dry, dusty sound like wind through dead leaves. “Wisdom, wealth, glory—all the same excuses for the same folly. I’ve seen ‘em come and go. Bright-eyed lads, fierce-hearted lassies, most never return.” He spat a stream of brown juice into the dust. “Those that do…well, they ain’t the same. Eyes like empty sockets, hands that shake like autumn leaves. Even if they carry out a king’s ransom, it ain’t worth what they leave behind."
Her gaze lingered on the ominous bulk of Volgas Dol, a dark, imposing castle rising from a desolate, sun-baked desert floor; its appearance was chillingly accurate to the stories. Her dog-eared and worn copy of The Third Millennium Guide To Erdeyn had filled her childhood imagination with adventures and fantasies of slaying dragons, but it also contained warnings about the ancient citadel. “It is a cursed place, now, home to…horrors that will bend the mind and shrivel the soul.”
“But what’s actually inside, Grandpa?” Vala pressed, her voice barely rising above the din of the caravan they were in. “Not just the legends, but the actual truth.”
The old man squinted at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his rheumy eyes. “Truth?” he scoffed, laughing. “Truth ain’t ever had anything to do with Volgas Dol, lass. The whole place is built on illusion.” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Its an ever-changing labyrinth of ruin. The outside shifts and moves about—what you see on one journey jutting from a tower, or even the tower itself, may not be there on the second or third time you pass by.”
“How?” she asked, baffled. How could the walls or towers of a castle physically shift?
“No one is sure. It may be an illusion, or it could be part of the ancient magics still keeping the castle from crumbling into dust. The place feeds on you, though. On fear, on greed, on all the petty desires of the doomed souls who enter. The things that crawl its halls, they’re not just dead. They’re animated by something ancient, something that hungers. Oh, sure, you may get an adventurer or two who will kill a revenant or wight just inside the gates to brag about in the taverns, but those creatures are just the opportunists circling the carcass of the castle being eaten by something far more powerful.” He shivered, despite the warm evening air. “The true horrors inside, they aint’ got names in our tongue, or they were deliberately forgotten. Whatever is inside, it whispers promises in your dreams, things that show you your deepest desires before twisting them into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “They say the masters of the Age of Dreams left behind not just treasures, but remnants of their own failed ambitions. Spells that went awry, creatures born of chaos and pain, forgotten gods that crave worship once more. Volgas Dol is a funnel for it all, a wound in the world, slowly festering.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “A wound in the world” was a good description for how the place made your skin crawl. “Are the treasures even real?”
“Oh, sure, there’s treasure enough in there,” the old man cackled. “Piles of gold, chests full of rubies and sapphires as big as your eyes, scepters of power and crowns from kings of nations that haven’t existed in a thousand years. It’s all there, but it comes with a price paid in blood, in sanity, in your very being. Imagine holding a priceless artifact you recover in there, only to find it whispers curses in your ear, or slowly drains the color from the world. Maybe it’s not the artifact itself, but what you had to do to get it that will haunt you.”
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Some folks say Volgas Dol itself is alive, and that it waits for those who would foolishly seek to disturb it or pilfer from its vaults. A vast, dark organism, drawing in all who approach and digesting them slowly.”
Vala looked again at the distant, brooding silhouette of Volgas Dol. The allure, the siren song of fortune and glory, sang in her ears, and she could almost hear the faint whispers that grew more distinct the closer one approached. Her grandfather’s warning, and the vivid descriptions of what lay within, kept her from foolish wim; tomorrow, it would be behind them and they could finish their journey to Bandharos.
“I guess there is a solid reason that the High Council warns people away from Volgas Dol,” she said. She took a sip of water from her waterskin, but it did nothing to calm the unease she felt looking at the distant black towers of the ancient castle. Nothing would, until it was fading in the distance.
The journey from Whiterun Pass to the elven trading post on the western edges of the Ciaran Badlands called Bandharos was well-trodden by caravans of merchants and traders of every stripe. Some would occasionally pass by one another, offering a toast to Astryn, the goddess of travelers and open roads, but even at its busiest during the height of trade season in the warm summer months, it was still a lonely road, populated only by tumbleweeds and breathtaking vistas.
The foothills and mountains stretched north-south off to the distant right, and to the left, the unbroken hardpan stretched out as far as one could see; hundreds of miles beyond was the Ciar Tanith, the Dark Forest where the elves made their homes, hidden away from human eyes.
Straight ahead, however, lay the dark silhouette of the massive fortress of Volgas Dol, its turrets and donjon blackened with dark magics and age. It stretched up out of the shimmering distance like an accusing finger pointing at the forgotten gods of the Old World. The very air around the massive ruin wavered and seemed to darken the longer one stared at it.
The closer one approached, the more one became aware of a pervasive sense of dread that hung in the air like a miasma. It was as though something was inside of Volgas Dol, and was very much aware. That sense of being watched, and the dread that accompanied it, kept all but the most determined adventurers away. The crossroads even had several worn and weathered signs warning people away from turning right instead of continuing on.
“A wise traveler passes by Volgas Dol,” an old man rasped, his eyes fixed on the distant, jagged silhouette against the setting sun. “But not everyone is wise, eh?” He glanced at the lithe woman next to him, a young lass of eighteen summers and the apple of his eye.
Vala tightened the straps of her pack, the worn leather digging into her shoulders. A small rucksack that was creased and worn from use and much care, it was her favorite traveling pack, and went with her everywhere. “Some folk are said to seek the lore of the Old World within its walls, Grandpa.”
The old man snorted, a dry, dusty sound like wind through dead leaves. “Wisdom, wealth, glory—all the same excuses for the same folly. I’ve seen ‘em come and go. Bright-eyed lads, fierce-hearted lassies, most never return.” He spat a stream of brown juice into the dust. “Those that do…well, they ain’t the same. Eyes like empty sockets, hands that shake like autumn leaves. Even if they carry out a king’s ransom, it ain’t worth what they leave behind."
Her gaze lingered on the ominous bulk of Volgas Dol, a dark, imposing castle rising from a desolate, sun-baked desert floor; its appearance was chillingly accurate to the stories. Her dog-eared and worn copy of The Third Millennium Guide To Erdeyn had filled her childhood imagination with adventures and fantasies of slaying dragons, but it also contained warnings about the ancient citadel. “It is a cursed place, now, home to…horrors that will bend the mind and shrivel the soul.”
“But what’s actually inside, Grandpa?” Vala pressed, her voice barely rising above the din of the caravan they were in. “Not just the legends, but the actual truth.”
The old man squinted at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his rheumy eyes. “Truth?” he scoffed, laughing. “Truth ain’t ever had anything to do with Volgas Dol, lass. The whole place is built on illusion.” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Its an ever-changing labyrinth of ruin. The outside shifts and moves about—what you see on one journey jutting from a tower, or even the tower itself, may not be there on the second or third time you pass by.”
“How?” she asked, baffled. How could the walls or towers of a castle physically shift?
“No one is sure. It may be an illusion, or it could be part of the ancient magics still keeping the castle from crumbling into dust. The place feeds on you, though. On fear, on greed, on all the petty desires of the doomed souls who enter. The things that crawl its halls, they’re not just dead. They’re animated by something ancient, something that hungers. Oh, sure, you may get an adventurer or two who will kill a revenant or wight just inside the gates to brag about in the taverns, but those creatures are just the opportunists circling the carcass of the castle being eaten by something far more powerful.” He shivered, despite the warm evening air. “The true horrors inside, they aint’ got names in our tongue, or they were deliberately forgotten. Whatever is inside, it whispers promises in your dreams, things that show you your deepest desires before twisting them into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “They say the masters of the Age of Dreams left behind not just treasures, but remnants of their own failed ambitions. Spells that went awry, creatures born of chaos and pain, forgotten gods that crave worship once more. Volgas Dol is a funnel for it all, a wound in the world, slowly festering.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “A wound in the world” was a good description for how the place made your skin crawl. “Are the treasures even real?”
“Oh, sure, there’s treasure enough in there,” the old man cackled. “Piles of gold, chests full of rubies and sapphires as big as your eyes, scepters of power and crowns from kings of nations that haven’t existed in a thousand years. It’s all there, but it comes with a price paid in blood, in sanity, in your very being. Imagine holding a priceless artifact you recover in there, only to find it whispers curses in your ear, or slowly drains the color from the world. Maybe it’s not the artifact itself, but what you had to do to get it that will haunt you.”
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Some folks say Volgas Dol itself is alive, and that it waits for those who would foolishly seek to disturb it or pilfer from its vaults. A vast, dark organism, drawing in all who approach and digesting them slowly.”
Vala looked again at the distant, brooding silhouette of Volgas Dol. The allure, the siren song of fortune and glory, sang in her ears, and she could almost hear the faint whispers that grew more distinct the closer one approached. Her grandfather’s warning, and the vivid descriptions of what lay within, kept her from foolish wim; tomorrow, it would be behind them and they could finish their journey to Bandharos.
“I guess there is a solid reason that the High Council warns people away from Volgas Dol,” she said. She took a sip of water from her waterskin, but it did nothing to calm the unease she felt looking at the distant black towers of the ancient castle. Nothing would, until it was fading in the distance.
