They are the shadows that whisper dread, existing between light and dark, life and death. They shimmer brightly by both night and day, yet darkness drips from their luminous silhouettes, and the air is weighed heavy with anguish and misery by their very ubiety.
The ghosts of Aphren’s Hold have been aroused by the Supernal Dreamers scavenging their bones for relics, but now the cultists all lay dead about and the spectres continue to wander the ruined fort in search of any being of warm breath against whom they might levy their requital unjust.
But what have I to fear from these spirits of unrest? After all, what am I without a soul but a silhouette, existing between light and dark, life and death.