Sight of The Battle of Ink and Ash, part of The Ascendant March
Once called a cradle of rebellion, now called nothing at all.
Once beautiful, now dead.
The Eredran Fields stretch low and wide between the edge of the Shrouded Fens and the Evergild heartlands, a barren sprawl of wind-scoured grass and grey soil. No grove remains. The black elms were felled long ago — their roots salted, their ash scattered. The fire that once devoured them still lingers in the air, faint and acrid, as though the earth itself refuses to forget.
No birds nest here. No insects sing. Even the wind seems muted, as if wary of speaking too loudly.
Travelers say the ground hums.
A low, constant thrum that vibrates through boot soles and teeth. Not loud enough to name — not quite sound, not quite magic — but a presence. Old. Waiting.
It is said the field is cursed. That dreams curdle if you sleep too near the centre. That something buried still wants to be read.
There are no signs. No markers. No monuments.
Just empty land, seeded with silence.
But if you stand still long enough, the rage finds you. Not loud, not sudden — but steady. Like ink spreading through water. The field does not scream.
It seethes.
