Realm List

The End is a large library with shelves so tall they appear to reach an impossibly high ceiling. Private reading nooks are found by the large stain glass window let in just enough light from the perpetual twilight to finish the last few lines of your chapter. A collection of large plush pillows and fluffy knitted blanket are spread across cozy nests. On every coffee table lies a forgotten teacup of someone who got to invested in their book to remember their drink.

The air is crisp and biting. You're standing in the middle of an expansive frozen lake, its surface smooth like glass, stretching endlessly in every direction. The ice beneath your feet is so clear that it feels like you're floating on air, and the faintest cracks spiderweb across it, making delicate patterns as they catch the faint light from above.

Above, the night sky is a deep indigo, scattered with countless stars, each one shimmering with intensity, their light reflecting off the ice and creating an ethereal glow. The constellations seem unusually close, almost as if you could reach out and touch them. Some stars twinkle so brightly, they create faint halos, their light casting an almost magical radiance across the vast, frozen expanse.

The only sound is the soft whisper of the wind, which blows gently across the lake, creating tiny ripples across the surface of the ice that catch the starlight. In the distance, jagged snow-covered mountains rise, their peaks shrouded in mist, adding to the sense of isolation. There's a deep sense of tranquility in the air—everything is suspended in time, like the realm is frozen in a perpetual moment of serene silence.

The path to Aurum is not difficult to find, one must simply offer payment to enter. Any crack or crevice in a rocky outcropping will suffice, opening up into a passage once the exchange is completed.

As you enter, you travel through claustrophobic rocky tunnels that eventually open up into a large central cavern, teeming with activity. The walls are hewn from the grey stone, occasionally broken up by trails of gleaming metals and the glowing light of rivulets of lava.

Teams of lesser fae rush back and forth from desks and large filling cabinets, abacuses clicking and quills scratching, recording every trade and transaction occurring across the Faewyrd and the mortal realms in real time.

To one side, filing in from yet another rocky tunnel is a queue of fae from other realms, lining up in front of a counter, where several small scaly creatures record their deposits and take whatever items they want stored, bringing them to large Vaults for safe keeping.

Imposing rocky golems stand watch over the daily activity of the realm, silent sentinels ready to alert to any suspicious activity.

On the far wall is a massive set of intricately carved stone doors, with a gleaming golden lock and chains across the front. This is the entrance to the Hoard room, Regent Evren's personal collection. Rumor has it, the Hoard holds items from eons past, relics forgotten and artifacts from Fae long gone.

There are also whispers of luxurious hot springs deeper in the realm, though few have ever been granted access to them, as the Regent jealously guards their personal living spaces from outsiders.

If you ever wander too far into the dark corners of a ship, crawl too deep into its hold, or are one of the unfortunate souls deemed unworthy of their vessel, you might stumble into Barquentaine.

You find yourself on a large, creaky wooden ship. Upon first entrance, sunlight filters in through the slats of the ceiling. The walls are lined with ships in bottles, perfect mirrors to all ships in the mortal realm. The bottles shimmer as they catch the light, windows that could be opened by the right hand.
Above is the deck, an open space with elaborate rigging that stretches high into the misty sky. A keen eye might spot a hammock nestled comfortably among the ropes. Around you, the edges of Barquentaine twinkle blue and silver. There is no ocean, only an infinite glistening expanse.
Should you descend further below decks instead, the rooms become dimmer, lit by hooded lanterns. The ship seems to go on endlessly, the rooms slowly growing colder and darker.
Eventually, deep in the bowels of the ship, the walls become slick and slime-covered, the wood soft and wet.
Shivers trace your spine.
The creaking of the wooden ship melds with cries of misery. Those unable to care for Skip’s beloved children haunt these rooms eternally. Imprisoned.

Her realm is basically wherever people have been. The corners of libraries, ancient and forgotten texts. It is invasive rather than having a world of its own. Exclusively indoor areas or places that were indoors.

Occasionally, there are recordings of humanity that existed in an immortal form. This immortality was largely considered to be a curse and seems to have been removed, leaving dust behind.

Before you stands a large tent in shades of bronze, creams, browns, and golds, held up by pegs and poles made of cracked bones. Anything that was once surrounding you seems quite distant now, unimportant as a breeze seems to push you towards the soft rustle of the tent’s many fabrics and drapes.

The scent of mugwort, cinnamon, and osmanthus overwhelms the senses, undercut by the ever-present smell of lavender that seems to follow the realm’s mother around. Small creatures with long, fluffy white bodies and beady eyes scurry about the space, climbing over old antique furniture, seeming to have been placed at random. Rugs and carpets cover every inch of floor, beads, crystals and jewels twinkle where they are strewn across the surface and roof. Witch’s bells, dried orange garlands, and sea glass twinkle from strings held high in the tent’s rafters. Candles are lit in suffocating amounts around the space, clouding the senses almost as thickly as the heavy smoke of incense so thick it cloys in the throat. Yet despite the nature of the space, an uneasy mix of relaxed and anticipated settles in your gut.

The road to Castle Wether is wide and well-maintained, winding through rolling hills of achingly verdant grass, the granite bones of the earth occasionally breaking the lush surface. The weather shifts according to the whim of the Sovereign of this place, but most days and nights feature serenely clear skies although the occasional intensely bracing storm adds spice and variety. Flocks of wethers graze happily, curious but unruffled by any travelers who pass near. Each wether appears as a ram with majestically curling horns and soft abundant wool, but despite their universal horns they are sequential hermaphrodites, each flock made up of individuals manifesting a dazzling array of every reproductive configuration observed in mortal biology and others besides, individuals shifting over the course of weeks or months according to some organizing principle that cannot be readily fathomed. No cottages or other structures interrupt the rolling hills and fields and no shepherds can be seen overseeing the flocks; No shepherd is needed, for each wether is a loyal subject of the Crown, doing precisely as it is meant to do. It is not at all uncommon to meet other travellers on the road; Those arriving are typically chattering with enthusiastic excitement, and those departing most often do so in a haze of blearily satisfied exhaustion.

Right from the time one enters the Kingdom, long before the road winds around the last hill and the central plain enters view, a tower of truly dizzying height pierces the horizon above the road, permitting no confusion about the road’s ultimate destination. When the central plain is reached, it is visibly dominated by a massive canyon gouged out of the earth and receding into stomach-twisting depths, a rushing underground river barely visible in its deepest recesses. Wethers graze right up to the canyon’s edge, placidly unconcerned. The tower - Castle Wether - rises from the canyon’s depths, its staggering height above ground level revealed to be only half of its extent. An ornate drawbridge extends across the chasm, linking the road to the tower’s massive gilded gates which are near-perpetually thrown open to the world. From up close, the tower’s exterior is a riot of diversely varying stylistic touches and architectural flourishes - balconies, flying buttresses, walkways, turrets, elaborate stained glass windows - that impossibly somehow compliment each other rather than clashing. At most times, the wide drawbridge is scattered with clusters of celebrants smoking, getting fresh air and conversing in small groups, and some merrymaker or other will usually take a moment to greet and welcome new arrivals before returning their attention to their conversation partner(s). From within the yawning doorway can usually be heard the inviting din of revelry and no guard is stationed to demand credentials or bar passage inside.

The interior of Castle Wether is a shifting maze of corridors and chambers of dazzlingly varied functions and dispositions with no regard whatsoever for the tower’s external dimensions. New areas appear whenever a whim or passing fancy for a particular space passes through the mercurial mind of the Castle’s reigning Monarch and likewise vanish into oblivion the very moment that nobody in the Castle remembers to take an interest in them (although they may reappear if remembered fondly enough).

There are almost always multiple parties happening inside Castle Wether, wildly divergent vibes blurring together at the edges. Depending on the timing of one’s visit, one might encounter some combination of a music festival, a dignified royal ball, an electronica rave, a punk house rager, a neighbourly community potluck, an intensely intellectual salon, a cozy low-key house party or any other type of engaging social gathering.

While the party spaces most readily draw guests in, the Castle is host to nearly any other type of room one can imagine - kitchens, libraries, guest rooms, laboratories, art galleries, public baths, gardens and many more. The only typical castle amenities conspicuously absent are a throne room and a dungeon (well, the non-sexy type of dungeon, anyway); the entire Realm is Cirb’s Throne, and the Castle of Self-Mastery will permit no prisoners within its walls.

In the deepest reaches and highest heights of the tower, furthest from the entry in its midsection, a truly dedicated or curious wanderer will find sections of Castle Wether that clearly comprise a monastery. From the age of these sections - and from subtle shared architectural touches that an eagle-eyed guest may note also underlie the more readily accessible regions of the tower - it seems apparent that the monastery represents Castle Wether’s original form and function; It fulfills that function still, beyond the notice of most partygoers, with serene and somber monks drifting silently between worship and functional spaces, taking little interest in guests. Imagery of the Goddess Brighid holds pride of place. Unlike the rest of the Castle, monastery chambers remain even when they stand empty with no attention given to them; Either they obey different laws, or else they are never far from Cirb’s mind as the Castle’s Sovereign flits from room to room entertaining guests.

Of course Cirb themselves - King/Queen/Sovereign of the Wethers as they variously style themselves according to their current whim - is the beating heart of the Castle, the eye of an exultant hurricane. Whatever activity they are presently engaged in - entertaining a cluster of courtiers with a bawdy joke, crowd-surfing a sea of revelers, triumphantly defeating a giant in a drinking contest, discussing the finer points of political speechcraft in the cigar room, taking a moment of quiet meditation before an altar to Brighid or trysting with one of their many consorts in a lushly appointed bedchamber or the fun kind of dungeon - they do so with a strange mix of joyful nonchalance and mindfully purposeful ecstasy, totally confident and at ease, the aspect of Royalty upon them like a shining aura that would be plain even without the Crown. The Castle itself responds to their every mood and desire like an eager lover, and those who catch Cirb’s curiosity or attention (including all new visitors and invited guests) will always easily find their way into the Sovereign’s presence despite the labyrinthine and shifting layout, and those Cirb has decided are boring might wander its halls eternally without ever once laying eyes on their host.

At first glance, Columnistion is a grand city filled to the brim with brilliant glass skyscrapers. The streets mirror any large metropolis, with tree beds and parked "cars?". Multiple single file lines form in front of glass doors and every so often open to let a creature in line in.

Firstly, visitors step foot into a large outside area with lush gardens, rosebushes, and red flower fields. Hedge mazes, large gardens with dark iron garden furniture twisted and molded into heart shapes. In the center of the realm is an elegant dark wood manor with gold and dark iron trimmings.
The manor features spacious inner rooms, plenty of bedrooms and brothel-like rooms, open spaces, and plush red velvet furniture. Erotic and tender paintings depicting all forms of love (hostile, tender, lustful, toxic, etc) adorn the walls, as well as bouquets and vases of baby pink and red roses.

The world is brightly lit, but everything is charred. You can see more fire in the distance, and the ground beneath you is somehow already growing new plants. It smells like smoke, and the timber that has been burned to charcoal is being used to create small shelters. The fire here is warm, but it does not hurt you.

It is a lab. It is not the clean sterilized white of a lab you often think of, it's a complicated and chaotic array of many things and just so so many books. Papers are strewn everywhere, with covered in ink and dubious substances. Several experiments are currently boiling and being observed.

A sprawling network of white wispy mycelium, stretching as far as the eye can see. It is ever growing and twisting as though it is alive. Throughout the network, there are branches that lead into other realms. The Mycelium acting as a living highway to transport goods and information between the connected realms.

Amongst billowing clouds, the mirage of a castle comes into view. It materializes as you step foot into Hazelholde, and pools of water rise like stepping stones. When you step on them, they solidify and support weight. The castle walls are thin but unyielding. Inside, there are people everywhere, going about their days. When you bump into one, they dissipate into mist and take a moment to return.

Sometimes its a wooden lodge surrounded by fragrant flowers on the cusp of a forest or meadow, littered by small shacks drying herbs, and crop garden. Othertimes its a desperate village on the cusp of famine, littered by dying bodies, corpses, and medics. Most commonly its a unkempt wooden caravan stapled with bright colours and flowers, jars and containers afixed to the sides of various small creatures (some living). The cart is always being pulled by an Elk.

You step out betwixt two trees that form an archway, looking out upon a humble village with rolling fields of crops and livestock. Surrounding the village is a vast, dense forest that sings with the sounds of wildlife.

Large willow tree gardens at the base of library tower. A sprawling Kingdom of fae wild life and creatures interacting with liquid Memories.

The sound of water fills your ears. It is cathartic, encouraging the kind of relaxation that comes with sleep, soothing your nerves like honey in a cup of steeped tea. Waves strike against the base of the rocky outcrop you’re standing on, filling the air with raucous applause. A fine mist fills the air, dampening your cheeks, lips, and hair, the taste of salt strong on your tongue. The world around you is glimmering. The mist twinkles in the sunlight, creating rainbows everywhere you look, and for a moment, you feel as though you’re observing life through the lens of a kaleidoscope.

The outcrop you’re on is one of many, and while the water below looks treacherous, there are secluded coves littered here and there, bright spots of turquoise surrounded by mountainous pillars of stone. The water is calm in those places, a sanctuary of respite encircled in chaos, and you’re drawn to them. A part of you wants to sink into their soothing depths. You pick out the most appealing one, admiring how the sun strikes the water, how the waves create silvery ripples on the surface of the sand down below, and how blue the water appears to be, an iris made from stone rather than skin and bone.

From this far off, you can see sand being sucked into the sea, sparkling and white, dropping into darkness the deeper the water extends into the horizon. You can see coral in the shallows, fish of varying sizes, the remnants of a ship that looks familiar, and the flash of a vibrant tail fin. It is unlike any tail you’ve ever seen before, and that’s when you hear it.

The voice that resonates through you is hypnotic. Your inhibitions disappear like fallen leaves, stripping you bare, and before you’re even aware of it, you’ve jumped into the water in search of its owner. The sea wraps you in its embrace, tugging you closer and closer to the cove you’ve been eyeing from afar. You're close enough now to notice that the ship you spotted earlier isn't old—the sails still billow beneath the waves, caught in a current reminiscent of a gust of wind. The deck still gleams with fresh polish and the rigging is still intact. The crew is gone, but the voice beacons you onwards anyway, controlling your limbs, your breath, and your ability to think for yourself.

You have been pulled deep into the recesses of a grotto, far beyond the bright iris that originally called to you. The ceiling is riddled with thousands of little crystals, glittering in the dimness like stars, softly twinkling above you. The water around you seems to glow a brilliant blue, illuminated by a light source that can't possibly be the sun. Before you can even take a breath, a hand pulls you under the water. You don’t even have time to panic. You have come face to face with a siren, both beautiful and terrifying, and her voice continues to lure you beneath the waves.

From out of the corner of your eye, you can make out distant pillars of sun descending down and into the grotto from cenotes near the surface. Towers made of coral twist gracefully upwards, a crystalline palace made from the grotto itself, breathtaking in its beauty. Then there are the sirens themselves. They live in this sacred place, coexisting with the fish, the sand, and the waves in perfect harmony, but you? You don’t belong here. You are a trespasser, a vagabond in search of lost treasure, women, and tall tales. The ship you saw earlier belongs to you after all, and sirens don’t take kindly to unwanted guests.

The siren pulls you into her embrace, her voice as gentle as the sound of water itself, encouraging the welcome release of sleep. You feel content, enraptured by the song that surrounds you. Other voices join in, creating the most haunting melody you have ever heard, but you know now that it will be your last. As the light fades from your vision, you catch one final glimpse of the siren wrapped within your arms. Her tail is as bright as polished silver, her body is adorned with shells and pearls, but her eyes are as cold as ice. There is no comfort to be found within them.

The song abruptly ends. Your world goes black.

A shifting mess of hallways and rooms. All in disorder, nothing where it should be. Doors opening to rooms that make no sense. Libraries where the shelves are filled with plants, a greenhouse for growing secrets, a petting zoo filled with animated furniture. Every new turn around a corner or climb up a flight of stairs that leaves you standing on the ceiling leads to new discoveries of things never to be seen again. everything that can be imagined and many things that aren't imaginable can be found here or more likely, these things will find you.

As you emerger from the pool of bog water, you find yourself in large, foggy, smelly bog as far as you can see. In the distance there apears a dimly lit city. Small uneven paths lead to it. At the city walls you find a large heavy weathered gate. Inside there is a bustly market lit with paper lanterns, stalls on either side of a stone road that leads to the centre of the city. Off to the side of the market down the dark allies one can hear wisppers of unsavory dealings. Laughter, signing and finght can be heard from taverns. Towards the middle of the city and the very large building, the air seems cleaner and houses in clear ponds with beautifull plants can be found.

Rock Bottom
Rock Bottom is the peak of a low mountain, rock laid down by years of erosion, though the mountain hill is deceptively steep. From a distance, what lays atop of it appears to be a shining city. The road up Rock Bottom is rough and twisting, narrow in places and wide in others. The weather shifts wildly on the journey up, most days involving just enough fog, that only the shining city can be seen clearly, just above it. There are no buildings between, and as you draw nearer, your pace slows. It is not at all uncommon to meet other travellers on the road; the desperate many who climb to seek shelter among the unique properties of the realm. As the city is approached, the thin promise given by distance disappears. The giant city on the plateau surrounded by ruins of other fallen buildings and waste. The city’s walls sit high in the sky—but they are not fortifications. They are lived in, they are formed around the few tens of miles where Rock Bottom’s effects are strongest.


The Walled City
A wall rises out of the land where no city should be—It looks less like something built at once and more like something that accreted over centuries—and indeed it is. Old stone pressed against new stone until it was forgotten why it was stacked in the first place. Towers bulge outward as they rise, each higher level wider than the last, overhanging the lower streets like trees so dense they block out the sun. Nothing is straight. Nothing looks finished. The whole city leans inward, as if trying to fold itself shut. The air is heavy, thick with old smoke, rot, damp wood, and something else—A staleness, like a room that has been closed for centuries but never aired out.


The gate is not guarded. It yawns open, warped and scarred, half-swallowed by newer construction that clings to it like barnacles. You step through, and the light changes as the shadows of the high buildings envelop you. Daylight filters in from above in thin, dirty shafts, broken by layers of bridges, platforms, and jutting walls. The sky is there, technically, but it is distant and fragmented, seen only in pieces. Inside, the city presses close. Buildings are stacked on top of buildings, which are themselves built into older ruins. The floor underfoot is usually roofing, the layers deeper below evidenced only by the fact that you stand on their roofs. Thatch, or sometimes fired clay shingles. Walkways run overhead, beneath your feet, and directly through what once might have been windows. Doors open onto nothing. Stairs lead sideways, or into walls, or into other staircases. Everything has been repurposed so many times that its original intent has been worn smooth.

Everyone here knows what it means when someone new arrives. The reason this place exists is for those looking to borrow time. The only reason anyone would willingly live in such a wretched place. You feel it then, a strange drag in your body. Your breath lingers in your chest. Your pulse spaces itself out. A cut on your finger stops bleeding almost instantly—not because it heals, but because the blood flows slower than grass can grow. Time moves at a snail's pace here, not only relative to other realms, but also for its citizens. A haircut could last thousands of years till it grows back. Illnesses progress slower here, but they also last longer. New people bring sicknesses without cures, and even only a few feet in, you can see the desperation leads to organized crime.

Further in, you see a structure. A structure—newer than the rest, cleaner, with unbroken beams and straight edges. People converge on it from every direction. They lean, sit, carve, hammer signs into its walls, sleep against it, sell from it, fight over it. It won’t last long.

This is when you understand why the city feels so heavy. Every so often the residents build something new on the rubble of the old. Something untouched by what is around it, and everyone in the city rushes to it for salvation, mistreats it as they go about their pathetic desperate lives, till it is exactly as every other place.

Everyone here is waiting; Waiting for their sickness to finish them. Waiting for a sentence to expire. Waiting for grief to dull. Waiting for an ending that will not arrive quickly enough. And as you take another step deeper into the walled city, you feel the moment stretch out long.

They see wheat fields, small houses and a grinding wheel in the center of town. The houses are also made of cinnamon tree( as the main lumber)

From the moment one enters the Apelpisia Industrial Complex, the first thing they will be seeing is, of course, the inside of the locomotive in which they have arrived. But it will no longer be the same – the colours will dim, the once sturdy and brightly polished metal of the wagons will rust and shear, and the crystal-clear windowpanes letting them admire the previous landscape will soon fog and grow smudged with the soot of charcoal, leaving the vehicle in a sorry state. As the train jolts to a brutal stop, they will hear a loud, ear-piercing steam whistle which announces their arrival to the worst place one can find themselves in.

Once they exit the bleak train car, they will find their eyes blurred with tears from the faint, suffocating smog that permanently hangs around the industrial complex, being spewed out of large chimneys that seem to reach for the heavens themselves, creating an austere layer of dark clouds from which a fine powdery ash seems to gently snow down from, coating the entire area in a fine layer of acrid dust.

If one were to waste time observing the exterior of the Complex, which is walled off by the husks of those who have given up, all they would notice is nothing but bleak, desolate wasteland as far as the eye can see, riddled with the remains of other smaller Realms it has swallowed and drained of all power. The ruins and wastes are occasionally broken up by grim mountain ranges from which the lament of overworked and doomed miners can be heard all the way from anywhere within the Realm, where many new unfortunate creatures are marched off to – but oh so rarely ever able to return from.

Leading down from the train platform are guards that vaguely resemble the loved ones of those who gaze at them a little too long, and who keep a close watch on the unfortunate new arrivals. They do not need to interfere – those who are trapped in this twisted hell know better than to draw the ire of the Complex’s guards.

Within the Complex itself, many large factory buildings are erected haphazardly, looming over one another in such a manner that whatever faint ambient light exists in this horrible Realm cannot reach the streets below, which are far too cramped and crowded for comfort. Carts filled with broken dreams, lumps of coals, shattered expectations, yet living corpses of the soon-to-be dead and ruptured promises are pulled around by struggling groups of workers, tiredly delivering their morbid supplies to each of the vile factories.

At the centre of this den of misery, like a beautiful crown resting atop a putrid carcass, is the Overseer’s Manor, which serves as Thym’s personal residence within the Realm. The manor is built with stark black bricks, with horrific and grotesque gargoyles jutting out from its roof that seem alive – and in agony. It is surrounded by a tall metal fence through which one can easily admire the opulence beyond: a beautiful and well-maintained garden surrounds the estate, filled with various bushes of poisonous and wilted flowers, along with marble statues depicting mortals in various stages of intense grief and sorrow.

The gloomy interior of the manor itself is filled with room after room of macabre splendour, with every square inch seemingly containing the finest luxury one could dream of. An army of despondent servants attend those who reside at the manor, serving them dully at their beck and call. The sombre décor of the manor serves to illustrate the crushing disparity between Thym and the various slaves that must suffer in his Realm.

There is, however, one oddity in the harrowing Complex. This particular point of interest is very rarely seen, as it is tucked away in the heart of the mansion – a beautiful, ornate, carved oak wood door, painted in shades of beautiful and soft white paint, and bordered by a delicate gold trim. It is usually kept hidden by statues or tapestries, but for those brave enough to discover it and go so far as to touch it, there comes a pleasant relief from the horrors of Thym’s Realm, as if the weight of this grim Realm were lifted off their shoulders. The door is locked, however, and attempts to force it open have always been met with failure (as well as a severe beating from the guards). Some guests swear that they heard a noise coming from the other side, at one point… The faint notes of a song that made their hearts break.

You enter to find yourself at the entrance of a warm and inviting cottage. This is not the room you intended to go to. It is small but cozy. There is a kitchen with a pantry and fridge that are always full, a bathroom with a large soaking tub, a plush living room and three bedrooms, two for guests and one for Buttercup. An entire wing of the house is only accessible via a small door, about 12in high. This is for the gnomes.

The living room is filled with books both mundane and magical, large comfortable chairs, sofas for chatting, and a coffee table with treats and tea. Through a back door in the kitchen, guests will find a garden. It is surrounded by a large hedge and is full of flowers and plants that change with the season. They look almost wild, but cultivated. At the other side, the hedges curve to show a simple wooden door with a lock. There is also a seating area to enjoy when the weather’s nice. Those who try to look beyond the hedge or through the windows will see dense forest but can hear the distant sound of waves. The window in Buttercup’s room does reveal a path to a dock.

The home is filled with human knick knacks. Polaroids, art pieces, books, poetry, anything that someone enjoyed at some point and Buttercup now finds joy in.

Visitors would enter this realm by plunging themselves in deep bassins of thick salty waters. They would find a cold, dark, and murky underground city that formed around the remnant of sunken ships and lost shipping containers. It is a graveyard built out of a variety of wreckage

A tent city surrounding an impossibly large bonfire. People of all races and classes dance and drink around the fire. They are like moths attracted to the flame. While the location of the party changes every night, those who wish to find it know instinctively where to go.

Upon entering the forest, the very air changes. It’s quieter—but not silent. There's a hush, like the world is holding its breath, waiting. Every footstep is muffled by ancient mosses that have blanketed the forest floor for centuries, their vibrant green glowing faintly even in shadow.

Tall, silver-barked trees stretch impossibly high above, their twisting boughs veined with shimmering veins of opalite. The canopy lets in dappled light, filtering the sun through leaves that shift subtly in color with the hour—emerald at dawn, sapphire by dusk. You feel as though time behaves differently here; the forest moves at its own rhythm, not bound to the world outside.

The scent is heady: fresh rain on stone, wildflowers, and something older—something like memory, or dreams. The deeper you go, the more the forest begins to feel aware—not in a frightening way, but like a quiet intelligence is watching, measuring your presence. Not everything here is visible to the eye. You’ll feel a shimmer pass your shoulder, hear a faint chime of laughter, or glimpse a flash of gossamer wings vanishing between tree trunks.

You might stumble across ruins—crumbling stone arches swallowed by ivy, carved with runes that hum when you touch them. Small lights drift through the underbrush—will-o’-the-wisps, fire-flies, or perhaps curious faeries, veiled in glamour. Pools of still water in secluded glades reflect stars that aren’t in the sky above, and if you lean close enough, you might hear voices singing in languages older than mankind, or catch the glimpse of an irridescent fin.

If you sit still long enough, the forest may reveal more: the soft footfall of elven scouts moving without sound, crowned in moonlight and cloaked in twilight; or a circle of mushrooms that weren’t there moments ago, offering passage to somewhere else entirely.

You feel it in your chest, a sort of ache, like remembering something you never lived. The forest doesn’t just look magical—it feels like magic. Like being part of a myth, or a dream you’re slowly waking into rather than out of.

And when you finally leave—if the forest lets you—you’ll carry something with you. A faint glimmer in the corner of your eye. A tune you hum but don’t recall learning. The sense that, somehow, the forest remembers you too.

A forest of dead withering trees. Uneven, mushy ground below their feet, constantly bulging and receding at random, gas pockets causing the ground to wobble frequently. Ponds of burning stench appear and disappear in random spots and fungus-covered skulls and rotted wood can be found every few steps. At the center, a lone cabin, a simple kitchen and bed, all of the food and sheets are rotten and mouldy.

An empty, white room, filled with silence.

The stone facade of a small one storey used bookstore with The Spaces Between Used Books & Curiosities painted in gold on the front window opens easily and a bell tinkles. It appears like any other used bookshop. There is a small pass through window with a single attendant. Bookshelves line the walls, books are stacked in towers that teeter higher than any visitor.

All types of books, manuscripts, charts, sketches, maps, and correspondence are housed within The Spaces Between.

The shop is lit by warm candle bulbs and it smells of stale coffee, and musty books. Throughout the shop there are mismatched comfortable wingback chairs tucked in cozy corners each with it's own crochet or quilted throw. The warmth of the shop encourages visitors to remove their coat and settle in, but never exceeds a comfortable temperature.

As you pass through the poorest managed kitchen you’ve ever seen and enter through a cork pop you arrive at the Speakeasy. The atmosphere is thick with vibes. A group of sprites play irony roulette, there’s a stage with a moose doing spoken word slam poetry, a fae with an ottoman for a head is having an affair with a jar full of shoes and seemingly everyone takes turns being the bartender. There’s no windows here or doors but people come and go as they need to.

A pink sky with twinkling stars above a tiered city. Each tier of the city is gated by walls, marking the three districts: wood at the bottom, followed by tin, then painted porcelain at the top, crowned by an ivory tower. Within each district are buildings of varying disrepair, each clearly doll homes that were smashed or too worn to be used anymore.

The Vale of Keeping rests in a hollow where the sun never quite reaches. The light here is gentle and gray, as though filtered through old glass - neither day nor night, but a soft and endless in-between. Mist drifts low across the fields, brushing against the knees of the hills like a slow breath. The air always smells faintly of wool, wet stone, and something bittersweet, like lavender left too long to dry.

At the heart of the Vale stands Moriahn’s cottage, built from pale stones gathered from the valley itself. It leans slightly to one side, its thatched roof heavy with moss and dew. Inside, shelves sag beneath the weight of trinkets and mementos - pressed flowers, tarnished spoons, coins smoothed thin, lengths of ribbon faded by touch. Each is a relic of something offered, something mourned. They are the tokens of love and loss that Moriahn cannot bear to let slip into oblivion.

Behind the cottage rises the altar, grown straight from the bones of the earth - a flat gray stone veined with silver, surrounded by small cairns and bowls carved from horn and clay. This is where the sacrifices are made. Offerings are placed upon the altar - a lock of hair, a cup of milk, a drop of blood - and when they are accepted, the mist thickens, and the flock grows still. The air hums softly, as though the Vale itself is breathing in the gift.

Moriahn’s sheep wander the fog like gentle spirits, their coats pearled with dew. Each bears a name he speaks with care: Rosemary, Rue, Barley, Clover, Thyme, Wheat. They come when called, pressing close in silence, their dark eyes reflecting the same soft gray as the sky.

Though the Vale is peaceful, it is never light. Its beauty is tempered by grief, its serenity edged with remembrance. Every bloom grows pale here, every sound lingers too long. This is a place where nothing is forgotten - where every sacrifice, no matter how small, is kept safe within the hush of the fog and the slow beating heart of the land.

The Vale of Keeping is beautiful. But its beauty is born from sorrow - from all that has been given up so that something else might endure.

A sprawling jungle with a vast variety of flora and fauna. It is always day time, yet the forest is always shrouded in darkness.

A theatre room whose seating space seems to shrink and grow to accommodate the number of fae present. At the front resides a large wooden stage with black and white curtains. Few fae are allowed backstage, but those are given permission find dressing rooms which contain nearly anything they may want or need, so long as it fits Pirouette's "story".

It is mostly alleyways and in-between spaces. Underpasses, under bridges, behind places, even garbage dumps and trash heaps.

Val en Ton (or the historically newer pronunciation, "Valenton", depending on the dialect) is a breathtakingly beautiful village. Streets lined with buildings and lamps wind gently through the community, occasionally leading out of the town proper and/or bridging with a neighbouring realm.

Letters, poems, and journal entries composed with great sentiment can be found easily & accidentally- the hollows of trees, in community library boxes, under stones, between the bricks of buildings, stuffed into the pages of a book, rolled tightly into glass bottles, et cetera. If one were to look closely enough, they would find similarly amorous displays in the form of graffiti on buildings, initials carved into trees, and murals in the most unexpected places.

At the crown of Valenton sits Prose Manor, the home of Adore.
The manor occasionally hosts extremely exclusive events, performances, & functions, strictly limited to those held in the very highest regard by Adore (most notably, those with whom Adore has a vague memory of meeting at some point or another).
Additionally, the ravishing structure houses the periodic short- or long-term guest. This hospitality is only offered rarely, and with the greatest distinction (namely, to anyone Adore has ever laid her eyes upon).
Prose Manor also serves as a base of operations, solely for Adore's closest, most trusted servants (all of them).

Due to its aesthetic & intuitive sponge-like qualities, visitors to Val en Ton are likely to find its appearance and atmosphere different depending on when & from where they enter the realm. Just as love shifts, changes, and reinvents itself with every story, so too does the village with every adjacent realm it touches.

Along the extremities of the realm, one may step into vineyards and beautifully maintained gardens. Those who are lucky may be wed in said areas.

Within the middle there are a plethora of businesses. Bakeries. Cafes. Paper supplies. Floral arrangements. Plenty of third places to meet with another party to conduct business.

In the centre of it all there's The Firm, Caerwyn's main residence and place of work. It's the size of a manor, with one area dedicated towards his domain, and the other as his home. Despite this, servants and workers can be seen running between the two sections interchangeably.

Along the extremities of the realm, one may step into vineyards and beautifully maintained gardens. Those who are lucky may be wed in said areas.

Within the middle there are a plethora of businesses. Bakeries. Cafes. Paper supplies. Floral arrangements. Plenty of third places to meet with another party to conduct business.

In the centre of it all there's The Firm, Caerwyn's main residence and place of work. It's the size of a manor, with one area dedicated towards his domain, and the other as his home. Despite this, servants and workers can be seen running between the two sections interchangeably.