A traveller from Fuk'Mar who ventures north into the wilds may come upon an eerie sight.
Through thickening mists, the City of Shards appears as stone splinters piercing the sky, each shard crowded with buildings styled after cultures from across the world. Along its narrow, winding streets and cracked alleys, dwarven masonry stands solid and immovable beside buildings decorated with Yeti scrimshaw and the stylised architecture of Elves and Trolls.
Most visitors leave without seeing another soul, their memories of the city and the road to it blurred like a half-forgotten dream. Others return from the mists wounded and babbling. They speak of bubbling ooze leaking through cracks in the walls and floors, coalescing into reaching hands, gaping mouths and smooth, empty faces. They describe a haunting chorus of hundreds of voices pressing against their own minds: all desperate to share, and some hungry for whatever the listener may know.
The ooze grows into strange, not-quite figures. Some take up tools and engage in unfamiliar craftwork. Others emerge from windows, doorways and stalls, as if silently beckoning visitors to browse, remain and listen.
"You will weep," survivors say, "for the hundreds of voices pressing into your mind mean you no harm, but their weight will begin to drown you. They have each been alone for so very long, and now they can sing their silent song and speak of things long gone—things consumed, devoured and remembered."