This time I take the liberty of invading Master @Quenten map to build the Shinem Tower. It is located in Fonlorn Archipelago > The Bleakness > Ashburton Region, near the Doom Chasm.

The Shinem Tower

About twenty-five miles from the village of AshBurton, Shinem Tower stands alone. Its rough, rocky surface is covered in half-dry, half-alive vines, as if the very vegetation that surrounds it were wavering between death and life. There are no doors. There are no windows. Just a lonely tower, of uncertain origin, watching over a desolate horizon.

The locals avoid talking about it. When questioned, their expressions darken, their eyes avert. Some make superstitious signs of protection, while others simply walk away in silence. None of them approach the tower willingly.

Yet someone – or something – still lives within.

The Hidden Inhabitant

For decades, every three weeks, a volunteer from among the villagers of AshBurton has brought supplies to the base of the tower. Bread, meat, fruit, water. Enough to sustain a man for a while. He always leaves without seeing anyone and returns the same way. In times past, villagers who ignored or refused to practice this ancient custom mysteriously disappeared, their homes found empty and without signs of struggle. The fear that the same thing will happen again keeps the tradition alive.

Sometimes, someone tried to watch the place from a distance, hidden among the shadows and stones. They never saw who was bringing the supplies. But, at dawn, the food was gone.

Legends and Whispers

The stories about Shinem Tower vary from villager to villager, but they all carry the same atmosphere of superstition and fear.

Some say that a reclusive sorcerer takes refuge inside, dedicated to obscure studies on the nature of the human body. A scholar who, according to legend, dismantles flesh and bone like a craftsman would dismantle an old carriage and then rebuilds it to his will.

Others believe that he is not human.

The most superstitious say that a pact was made long ago with dark forces. That on moonless nights, shapeless beings emerge from the darkness and crawl towards the tower, bringing with them lifeless bodies.

These bodies disappear without a trace, as do the supplies. But despite this, no smoke has ever been seen coming out of the tower.

If there is a fire inside, it is not fueled by wood.

The Signs of the Occult

Those who have dared to approach the tower have reported an abnormal silence that dominates the region. The wind, common in the surrounding plains, seems to cease as soon as one steps foot in its vicinity.

The surface of the stones is strangely cold, even under the heat of the sun.

Some swear they have heard muffled noises from inside. Not footsteps, not voices, but a slow and continuous dragging, as if something were moving within the sealed walls.

No one has ever managed to enter. No one has ever discovered the truth.

Orenshire

This was once a bustling village, where kilns burned restlessly, shaping soft clay into sturdy tiles and exquisite pottery. The clay, mined from local quarries, was renowned for its reddish hue and malleable texture, making the town a small but thriving crafts centre. Small boats glided down the Slimy River, laden with goods that were bound for Ironvale before heading north for markets.

Then came the catastrophe. The tremors opened deep crevasses, sucking up the groundwater and leaving the land parched and barren. The river became a rotting watercourse, its black, oily waters swallowing the boats that once carried the town’s livelihood. Disease spread like wildfire, claiming lives in despair. Many fled, but those who stayed… changed. Today, just over two hundred souls inhabit this place, dragging themselves through indistinct days, trapped in a fog of resignation. Their eyes wander unfocused, their mouths murmur incoherent words, as if trying to remember something that has faded with time.

Behind the town, the forest remains like a ghost. Its dry orange trunks seem to ignite in the cold light, and from them emanates a sweet smell, almost hypnotic, but charged with something wrong. Invisible spores float through the air, sticking to skin, infiltrating tired lungs. Some claim to feel something crawling inside them after a walk along the edge of the dry forest. Others wake from restless dreams with the feeling that the forest is calling their name.

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