You stand upon a jagged precipice of a Manifest Zone, deep within a forgotten crypt beneath the towers of Sharn.
Ahead, the material plane frays into nothingness, plunging directly into the suffocating, starless shadow world of Mabar. The air here does not just chill the skin, it actively drinks the warmth from your stolen breath, a crushing negative energy that devours light and life alike.
The portal is wet. It clings to your boots, a heavy, dark crimson weeping from the ancient, rune-carved stones.
For a vampire, this is obscene, an absolute waste. The lifeblood of dozens of mortals, sacrificed to rip this portal open, pools and slips over the edge, falling into the eternal maw of this oblivion.
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