You don’t need arcane homework to get this world. In Loryn, reality is held together by what people remember — and the songs and carvings that keep everyone remembering the same way.
What is remembered, exists. Memory isn’t backstory; it’s the scaffolding that keeps bridges up, towns present, and history true.
Long ago, people stopped the gods by erasing their names from shared memory. That net still hums, but it’s fraying. Thin patches cause streets to unwrite, maps to argue, districts to blink.
A true name is a precise address. Sing it accurately, and the thing it refers to “loads” into reality. The older or larger the name, the heavier the cost.
Songs sync many minds at once; stone resists change. Verses etched in stone and sung regularly keep the world steady.
Specialists who stitch memory into places, objects, or oaths. Saints when ethical, propagandists with chisels when not.
Counterfeit or clashing memories spawn half‑real hazards. Persuasive as rumour; lethal as truth.
Community songs that anchor a district or structure. Miss too many nights and things start to slip.
Use big names too often and your own memories fray: faces, routes, reasons.
Skip rituals and record‑keeping and a town can slip out of mind — and then out of place.
Forged “fixes” can erase people along with problems. Neat. Tidy. Monstrous.
A coastal town sings the lighthouse’s name at dusk. If the chorus weakens, the light fuzzes, ships hit rocks, and the town spends a week carving the details deeper and retraining the choir.
In Korrvain, verdicts are performed as public memory. If the crowd believes, the judgment sets. Appeals demand better evidence and a better chorus.
A Weaver stitches a trench’s layout into a chant and a map slab. As long as soldiers hum the pattern, the trench holds against Rot‑spawn that try to “correct” it into open ground.