ExosphereEcho
In the realm of Alaëthria, the sky is a permanent, bruised violet and the earth yields only ash, yet no one has ever shed a tear for it.
The world is objectively shattered: floating continents collide with terminal force, crops wither into ash under a dying sun and the streets are lined with the hollow-eyed victims of endless, senseless wars.
Yet, a surreal psychic veil blankets the population. Whether human, elf, or beast-kin, the inhabitants are trapped in a state of perpetual, artificial euphoria.
Perhaps a god grew tired of prayers and suffering. So it said," Let them be happy."
And sealed everything else.
They skip through famine-stricken markets with wide, glassy grins.
Soldiers exchange jokes while bleeding out on the battlefield.
The High Priests perform their daily rites in crumbling cathedrals not out of devotion or desperation, but as a hollow, rhythmic habit, their hymns are cheerful, tuneless humming because they have forgotten the concept of "help" or "mercy."
This is a world where the tragedy isn't the suffering itself, but the fact that no one is left to weep for it except the one who rules this world with an iron fist.