The cathedral lies in an abandoned part of a plateau city, otherwise bustling and bright. The rest of the city, the part that’s lived in, is full of life and light - cobblestone streets, cream and wood buildings, the chatter of citizens perusing the many stalls and shops. Knights in white and gold patrol the streets, some on horseback, some on foot, and keep the citizens safe.

There are a few guilds in the city - a guild for artisans, a guild for merchants, a guild for mercenaries, to name a few - and adventurers fill the streets near job boards and taverns. A white marble and gold cathedral sits at the center of the city, welcoming worshippers of any sanctioned gods with open doors and a warm welcome.

On the far side of the city, though, almost outside of its boundaries, the wealth and joy seem to slow to a trickle. The streets are dirtier, the houses less well-kept, and the people smile less. It’s impossible to notice the dark gray - nearly black, now - ruins of a once magnificent cathedral.

The ruins sit at the end of a wide but mostly destroyed old cobblestone road, looming over the abandoned, decaying houses around it. A wrought iron fence does little to keep the brambles and weeds in, though mysterious white and blue flowers can be seen in the yard. Animals seem to instinctively avoid this place, though sometimes ravens will come close.

If you look closely, you can see an assortment of bones littered in the tall grass and thorns.

It’s easy to tell that the ruined cathedral was once the pride and joy of the city, however many years ago. It boasts several tall spires and detailed stonework, making intricate designs and dips and ledges all throughout - where it remains, at least. A large, circular piece of dark blue stained glass depicting a swirling, slightly floral pattern somehow remains intact above the large, broken dark wood and iron doors. The smaller windows have not been so lucky.

The inside is dark, no matter the weather outside. Even in the sunniest weather, there seems to be a shadow inside the cathedral, and lit candles do not illuminate as much as one might expect. The dark wood pews are all but ruined, either decayed and broken or missing entirely. Some greenery has begun to overtake the inside, though it’s dark in color and thorny.

There is an altar at the far end of the room, up a few stone steps, and an even larger circular stained glass window takes up almost all of the back wall. It’s dark blue and black, in a swirling, dizzying pattern, with a few specks of bright white/yellow glass as if to depict stars. Somehow, it still stands - intact. (Upon testing it with a thrown stone, one would find that it withstands all attacks unnaturally.)

On the black stone altar, long and whole, is a long, thin cloth of dark blue with a blueish white trim and some silver designs. Upon closer inspection, one would notice that the dark stone of the altar and the floor around it is stained with old, now-dark blood, spilled long ago and almost drank up by cathedral. Some ceremonial candles sit on the altar in dark metal candlesticks, and they look unlit.

Just behind the altar, on a few stone slabs stacked and built into the wall, is a holy symbol, more like a plus sign than a cross, with wide ends and spikes of sunlight coming from behind it. It is black and seems to eat light shone on it, though.

A bird skull sits at its base, perfectly in the center, looking out.

Sometimes, it seems like a faint light comes from its eye sockets ...

Unlike many of his friends, Belvedere feels right at home nestled in the industrial section of the cave. A cramped studio room doubles as both home and workshop for the developing machinist. On first entering, the living space is hidden by spare aluminum sheeting that Belvedere rigged as a privacy screen.

Instead what is immediately in sight is the mess of tools and in-process projects that Belvedere can never seem to get in order despite his best efforts. Pipes, tubing, wrenches and various technical drawings litter every available surface. Your eye is drawn to the only clear space - Belvedere’s prized welding equipment. The screens separate the messy shop from the danger zone. A mask and heavy work gloves are arranged neatly on hooks, and a canister of purging gas sits at the ready for the next big project.

Leading off from this is a small break in the aluminum sheeting that leads to Belvedere’s home space. Here, the clutter makes the workshop outside look pristine in comparison. Rumpled bedsheets barely cover a small twin bed, flung almost entirely off from when the sleeper last left. A scuffed bass guitar is propped against a corner of the wall next to a half-empty coffee mug and a battered notebook.

It is clear that the owner of this space spends most of his time in the shop, returning to the private space only to sleep. You shake your head and head back out into the main area of the cramped space to take a closer look at the recent projects.

(Made with MagicaVoxel)

The caravaners are an odd and colorful bunch —  a swirling menagerie of firelight and color, life and song. They are a stark contrast from the dead landscape of Azbrecht. They travel with their world on wheels — wagons covered with all manner of richly patterned cloth. Beautiful, crystalline lanterns tinkle cheerfully with every bump they hit on the road, and colorful flags and streamers are decorate the sides of every cart and wagon. They are wanderers; the song of the land rings deep in their bones. They are fire and freedom, Old Song and new life; ancient and everlasting.

Nico’s home is at the heart of the caravan — a small, box-shaped wagon-home just wide enough inside for a bed, and several chests covered with pillows and blankets of various shapes and colors, which double as seating. A bone lantern hangs from the ceiling, singing its faint song and casting a warm glow. Crystals and gauzy cloth dangle from the ceiling as well, bending the scant light in mesmerizing, interesting ways. The single window is at the very back, right above a small ledge — a small reading nook covered in more pillows and blankets. The walls are lined with shelves, covered end to end with books of all shapes and sizes. Bits and pieces of knickknacks and curios Nico has accumulated throughout his short life can be found scattered wherever there’s space. Not much floor is visible, but, as with the walls, the floor is covered with cloth — a beautifully patterned, plush rug. Nico lives amid chaos and color and surrounded by books.

The outside of his wagon is much more tame — just the rich, natural dark wood the wagon is made of. There is a small overhang above his door, which is located at the front of the wagon. Several colorful crystals decorate the overhang and chime cheerfully as the wagon bumps along the road. Another bone lantern hangs by the door — smaller than the one inside — easily removable and small enough to hang on a belt. There is a small landing, a few steps that lead to the door. It is just large enough for someone to stand, take off their shoes, and shake the sand off themselves before heading inside. Several streamers of jade colored cloth decorate the corners and sides of the wagon, tied in decorative knots, the bottoms slightly frayed from time and weathering.

Just barely visible from underneath the wagon, a large, gleaming crystal rests — the magic swirling from the crystal tethered to the crystal of their chieftain’s caravan, allowing the caravan to move as one.

The shadow drake’s so called abode lingered in the shadows. It was a bit dreary in terms of colors being made up of shadows and what not. For the most part it’s corner was a monotone world filled with greys, blacks, and the occasional white. But a few flickers of color shined here and there. Some from the “outside” world, some from the linger magic from its master. The most prevalent “other” colors that eeked through the shadows were warm colors made of reds, yellows, and oranges, likely from its master’s magic.

The abode was made up of a bunch of things that were an amalgamation of different things from the outside world. For the most part nothing had a firm form and the environment had a strangely fluid texture to it. Some of the few constants in the abode included a bed of sorts, a beat up figure, and a dark flame. The beat up figure eerily looked like a humanoid doll with an oddly specific hair style. It was likely that the figure mimicked its most hated master. As it could not kill it’s master, it could only resort to beating up a placeholder. The flame moved liked all flames, except it was mostly black with a few licks of typical flame color dancing through the darkness. It was a symbol of its unfortunate contract with its master. If it were to go out for any reason, Kage would die. While the shade resented the flame, it also took strange comfort from it. Finally its bed was a mass of a black puffball. Being a former shadow with no particular form, it took the most comfort huddling in the void of the darkness amongst its brethren of fellow shadows. It could not quite replicate the same thing, but wrapping itself in the darkness made it feel a little closer to its pack.

In a small corner of its abode, a tiny flicker of light shined through the darkness, blocked by a thin wall of shadows. In the light shimmered images of the outside world and was one exit to the outside world that the shade could take.

The Space Void is a vast and desolate place. The edges are sudden and stark, bordered by mountains in central Aelton, a tundra on the west, and a forest on the east. The cliffs are sheer and have enveloped many travelers. The rocky spikes have taken many lives, but for the few that have tumbled off into the deep, they will find the miracle of anti-gravity. Cygnus will occasionally find weary travelers paddling helplessly in the air, blindfold them, and take them back to her home.
To reach her living quarters, a patterned drift must be made. Small particles of stones, glass, lost items, and other objects seemly floating aimlessly hold a secret. If touched in a specific order, a warp panel — only accessed otherwise by a zynus crystal — will appear gaping and swirling like liquid mercury.
The stone leading up to a splinter cracked temple in a similar tone as the cliffs. The sky is permanently grey with streaks of blinding yellow and white, indicating it is not the same atmosphere as a typical planet. Inside is a large gathering hall that once once occupied. Cygnus is the only one that lived in the building for hundreds of years, thus it is vacant and dark. However, it is not dusty, the surfaces smooth and cleaned frequently, as if waiting for a time to be used once more.
Cygnus’ room is in the back, a high-ceiling room. it’s uncharacteristic of the rest of the Space Void, lit in white Christmas lights and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. Her bed, chairs, and furniture all resemble clouds… Unless they are really clouds that can be sat upon? The rest is adorned in fragile gold chains and beads, flowing sheer material in purples, blues, and reds, with a canopy bed situated in the middle.
There are other corridors within the temple. Many, many, many rooms that once held other magikin practicing the art of galactic seances. Cygnus hopes one day she can repopulate the Space Temple, but for now she waits in solemn silence. 

Yggdrasil’s roots twined and arched overhead; there was space enough beneath for even a frost giant such as Hrímnir to duck underneath. His armor clicked, clanked, clicked as he edged forwards, pushing aside a deer skin Móinn had draped across two branches to create a makeshift door. His eyes blazed as white as sun on ice as he peered inside at Móinn’s hoard.

The space beneath the roots was dark and warm. Móinn had gone so far as to patch any gaps between the roots with a mix of sod and ground stone, creating a haven from the chill fog that always seemed to blanket the swamp. He took another step forward, letting the flap of tanned skin fall back into place. Instantly, he was plunged into darkness. Only a few, tentative slivers of light pierced the blackness, slipping in beneath the makeshift door. Hrímnir sighed. This was perfect for his companion; the lindworm had no eyes. It was troublesome for him, though, as Hrímnir had six.

Thankfully, the slivers of light were enough to make out basic shapes and details. Bright pelts and feathers were piled in one corner of the room, colors that he never expected to see in this dreary swamp. If anyone knew how to find such treasures, though, it would be Móinn. The frost giant often wondered how the lindworm could pick such vibrant colors without having the sight to see it, but he never asked. Most likely, he would get some useless answer about differing smells and tastes between colors.

Some of the pelts were stretched across the floor, half cut into the shape of a new cloak. Before long, Móinn would start the process of weaving in rocks, shells, feathers, and other treasures he had found along the fringe of the fabric. The lindworm spent an inordinate amount of time on his crafts, making anything and everything from the limited resources surrounding them. The years had made him a master.

Hrímnir turned his attention to the other side of the room. Bits of shimmering metal, fine cloth, and armor were stashed among the twisting roots. Somehow, Móinn had shaped and twisted the roots into little cubby holes and hiding places for the treasures he had scrounged from intruders in his territory. A skull leered down at the frost giant from its perch, a keen reminder of just what the lindworm was capable of. Hrímnir shuddered at the sight. It was only pure luck that had saved him from the same fate when he had first stumbled into the lindworm’s territory.

Finally, the frost giant turned his attention to the far wall. It was lined with treasures that he had stolen and brought back for Móinn: the charred log from their first campfire, a dried flower, glittering jewels. They were all oddities that the lindworm had never encountered in his wilderness home. The frost giant squinted. But was the object he was looking for here? And then he saw it, a glistening flash of light dancing across metal. The breastplate of his armor!

Hrímnir moved towards it, ready to reclaim his possession, when he heard a voice behind him. “What are you doing here?” Móinn growled. The frost giant felt his heart start to thud in his chest, freezing in place with fear. As close as he was to the lindworm, his hoard was sacred space. Not even he was invited here (or, at least, not often). It took a moment for the frost giant to remember that he had reason to be here, reason to be upset.

“You stole my breastplate!” Hrímnir fumed, whirling around to face his lover. The frost giant’s face was red with fury and embarrassment. A thief having their possessions stolen was beyond humiliating. “What were you planning to do with it?”

Móinn tilted his head to the side, annoyance giving way to a small flicker of amusement. “You left it sitting out,” he said matter-of-factly. “I felt like it belonged here, but maybe I should have gone for the real prize.”

Hrímnir kept right on with his questions, feeling the fury rise and threaten to boil over. “Do you think this is funny? After all I’ve done for you, given up for you, you jus- What the hell does that mean?”

Móinn let the flap of tanned skin fall back over the entrance, plunging them both into darkness once more.

Created in Clip Studio Paint

Inside a hidden cavern, down a path lit with magical rocks in the shape of various constellations, is a round door, painted with swirling cyan smoke on its bottom, an old brass knob holding it shut. If you open it, you won’t be able to see much at first - the room is kept dim, the only lights you can see small, dangling from the ceiling, the same vibrant blue color as the door. The light washes through the room, reflecting over various strange pieces of metal, glinting in the darkness and throwing a dim shine on the walls.

Stepping into the room, the lights slowly brighten, with some of them turning whiter, as if sensing the presence of a living being and adjusting accordingly. In the new, brighter light, it’s possible to see more of the contraptions laying on tables and seeming to just float throughout the room - round shapes of bronze, gold, silver, and glass, with occasional colored panes - blue, magenta, orange, and cyan - reflecting like stained glass works of art. These seem to spin slowly around at random, some of them moving throughout the room and out of sight. They hide behind the tall, tall bookshelves that seem to take up most of the room with their imposing shape. They’re old and dark, seemingly antique, and the books they hold seem even older, so fragile that if you breathed on them in the wrong way they’d dissolve instantly. Pieces of glowing crystals stick out of the shelves at random, almost like bookmarks, each marked with a different rune to signify what they’re there for.

In a back corner, through the maze of bookshelves, is the only sign that someone lives there who isn’t an immortal being that can exist entirely through reading. A small kitchen, old-fashioned, with an island bar counter the only place to sit down and eat. There’s winged chairs in the corner, in shades of blues and browns, the same as in the rest of the library, but these have blankets draped over them, like someone’s fallen asleep in them enough to just leave a blanket out for the inevitable. And lying on a table next to the chairs is an old record player, the upbeat pulse of a jazz song softly echoing through the air, the sound being kept in the back by thick curtains separating the living area from the rest of the library. It’s dark and peaceful, and it feels like home.

A tree sits near the edge of a stream, grown massive over the years but now worn down by age. Part of it has been eaten away by rot, and someone’s gone in and carefully scraped that out, leaving a hollow trunk just large enough for a small person to lie down in.

It isn’t a very cozy home. The ground is always a little damp, and insects have burrowed deep into what’s left of the tree. There are touches here and there of Neev’s (admittedly rather limited) homemaking skills, though: a bed of dried moss covering most of the floor, and a mesh woven from thin twigs sitting across the entrance, keeping back the worst of the weather. A rusting metal bottle rests on a shelf carved into the tree’s side, a fine sheen of oil shining along its rim.

There’s a sandy pit in front of the tree, on the side that faces away from the stream. Rocks ring its perimeter, and leaves and other tinder form a nest in the center, ready for the spark. Neev doesn’t need human comforts, but she can’t afford to get too wet here, where oil isn’t easily obtained. Early on, she dug a hole near the tree, which she covered with a wide flat rock, and she’s always careful about keeping it full of things to feed a fire.

Despite its age and half-hollowed trunk, the tree still has most of its branches. Neev mostly leaves these alone for the small animals that live there, but she’s tied long blades of dried grass around two of the branches, creating a sort of platform. It’s not sturdy enough to support her weight, but it serves pretty well as a storage area. Right now, it only holds a single basket, weighted down by rocks and containing the rest of Neev’s meager belongings.

For someone who’s only been awake and aware for about a year, Neev has done a decent job of making a home for herself. She’s just beginning to understand the concept of mine, and it shows in the care with which she tends her tree-house.

As is stereotypical for dragons, Tsubasa’s lair is a cave, or rather, a cave system whose entrance is nestled deep in a valley that has less been forgotten as made to be forgotten. While the majority of it is underground, part of it spreads out from the mouth of the cave, where Tsubasa has claimed dominion over the lake nearby and the surrounding forest. Each room in the cave system is much larger than one would initially assume, as each has been modified to be able to fit Tsubasa when he is in his natural, dragon form.

The first room of the cave is one of the sunniest—massive reflective mirrors and gleaming pools of water magicked to both absorb and then reflect sunlight when needed has bathed the entire cavern in golden light. If the forest outside could be casually called green, then inside the first cavern would be better termed as an explosion of green. Leafy plants have been carefully placed upon almost every imaginal surface of the cavern. Trees have also been planted inside, all of them species not native to the area of Tsubasa’s home. To the far right of the entrance is a pool of water that sinks so deep the bottom cannot be seen, the tops of which has water lilies. Vines twirl around stalagmites, reaching so high they crawl across the ceiling as well. This is Tsubasa’s room where he keeps the plants he enjoys, but does not love, casual in his care.

There are a few more minor caverns much in the same way as the first one, if smaller and more haphazard. There is a cave that is just a vast lake, and the lake is home to an underwater series of caves that remain largely unexplored. Tsubasa has carelessly filled the water with all manner of marine life.

Then there is this one cavern that branches off from the main one, a subtle barrier placed that one needs to push past, and blinking into the new space is opening one’s eyes to a riot of colors. This cavern could barely be called thus, as the roof has been mostly removed to expose the sun. Flowers of all shapes and forms curl here, each one in perfect, full blossom. There are none on the ground as Tsubasa can not bear to trample on them, instead they are placed along the walls and are suspended in the air. Tsubasa specializes in time and space magic, so each flower has been frozen in full blossom, each one perfect and resplendent. The ones that hang in the air do so because of his will, almost as if on a trellis, except there is no framework. This cavern holds what Tsubasa considers his hoard.

Only recently has Tsubasa converted one of the caverns into something more human friendly. This contains a pile of clothes in one corner, a rather large bed, and various couches and desks scattered around. It holds what Tsubasa needs to pass off as human, though there is little order to the mess. Large shaggy rugs in various colors take up most of the floor, and interesting light fixtures are a little too plentiful. Lying in a heap at the foot of his bed are about twenty different travel bags. There is a large wooden desk off to the side that has a large map on it, one that Tsubasa has been filling in himself when the mood strikes.

Jun’s style can be best described as sleek and minimal, and that runs to his interior design choices as well. His room is all sharp, clean lines with a high, angled ceiling that allows the space to breathe, and one long window that throws sunlight at the foot of his bed during midday. His bedding is dark gray and the airy comforter needs only a quick shake or two in the morning to make it lie down decently enough, but he’ll take the time to straighten things out properly after school.

The walls are a light shade of gray that’s close to white but easier on the eyes, and they’re largely bare but for a few, abstract posters encased in borderless glass frames. Against the wall opposite the bed, there’s a large desk – black-painted wooden top, simple metal legs, large-screen dual monitors on top. A little incongruously, set upright near one of the monitors, there’s also a small black cat doll strung on a keychain, a bit scruffy-looking with uneven legs that make it totter if nudged. There are two guitars resting in stands near the bed, and a simple keyboard on a folding stand is set up perpendicular to the desk – the rest of Jun’s instruments and equipment dwell in a studio room down the hall.

There isn’t too much in the way of furniture – there’s a free-standing clothes rack made of thin black pipes where he hangs a few favorite jackets and perhaps a shirt or two, and a simple dresser, but Jun likes to keep his bedroom relatively pared down. His one concession to excess is the wall that holds his mounted collection of headphones. There are five of them in a neat row, which are just his favorites; more are stowed away, some in drawers and the rest in other rooms. In a home like Jun’s, there’s plenty of other rooms to store things away. The bedroom is where he keeps just his essentials – a clean, simple space to get away from the world and just lose himself to electronic chords and freestyling strumming.

Ilya’s home is hard to find. The reason being that she lives underwater. She doesn’t actually live in the water, however. She lives in a naturally formed grotto under the water. Only she knows where it is, though she’s not against the prospect of visitors if they ever happen upon her home! But, they probably won’t find her there. She’s really only there to sleep at night, as she’s off exploring, hunting, foraging, or visiting her land dwelling friends nearly every day. Ilya’s always got a reason to leave home!

Ilya’s home is very small and cozy. The ceiling hangs low with a smattering of stalactites hanging from it. Ilya has taken the time to carve small hooks and cubbies into them with her claws to use the space to her advantage. She dries kelp, fish, and hangs her trinkets from them (Ilya loves pretty and sparkly things). In a rather large stalactite that has nearly reached the ground, she has hollowed many cubbies into it and uses it as a shelf of sorts to store her clay pottery and her fresh fruits and vegetables that she purchased, bartered, or foraged for on land.

When she first found her home, it was pitch black. For many years, Ilya lived there in darkness, for her bright eyes illuminated the small grotto well enough. But after a late night on land, she found the glowing mushrooms of the cave and thought they’d make lovely lights for her home. So after her discovery, every few weeks, she goes on a special expedition to find these glowing mushrooms. Making sure to take extra soil when she digs them up, she secures them in her satchel and, when she gets home, plasters them to the ceiling using clay as cement. The bluish-green tint of the mushrooms is soothing to look at, but as the light in them starts to dim, she switches them out, placing them in her worm bin. Worms are a great way to bait traps, which Ilya has plenty of scattered about outside of her home. Another reason Ilya is rarely home is because she’s changing her traps out. She’s a busy ineki!

Her bed, located farthest from the entrance, is made up of large bundles of palm tree leaves and dried hay that she gathered from above the waves. She shreds the palm leaves with care and regularly changes them out when they start to decompose. She then repurposes them for her worm bin. A lot of things find their way into that bin.

The last thing worth mentioning in her humble home is the craft table she built herself using driftwood. It’s a crooked, rickety thing, but it gets the job done. On said table are many works in progress made of clay (clay is very abundant for her) and a jar holding adornments for her pottery work, usually small shells or pearls. If you were to look at the wall behind the table, you’d see a small, crudely dug-out cubby where she has stored several pots of paint.

When Ilya gets home at the end of her long day, she likes to work on her pottery for a while before eating a simple dinner (usually some fish/clams and some fruits and vegetables/seaweed), and snuggle into her pile of palm leaves and drift off to sleep, thinking excitedly of her next day and what it has in store for her.

Somewhere deep within her mind is a door; and behind that door is a spiral of thoughts, sensations, equations - all harmonizing in real time, synthesizing with each other in golden sparks of light. There are no walls beyond the door, only galaxies, realms of stars and data and space and forgotten memories. Some are untouched, some already fading, but every speck of light and knowledge here calls her, a wordless cry that summons something primal within her being, some sort of…unrest. It’s not a happy thing, surely, but she tolerates it anyway; however uncomfortable, this feeling is more her than anything she’s encountered from Outside.

This…headspace, as Outside might call it, is not a “real” place; she knows that. But it’s the only place where she knows she truly belongs.

To Outside, it would seem meaningless, but to her, this is the only thing that makes sense; it’s her mind, after all. Here she’s unknowing of the outside world – unwilling, even, to come back into contact with it until some curious probe roughly taps her on the shell and drags her back into consciousness.

She never likes coming back.

Going Outside feels like she’s leaving part of herself behind.

To the outsider’s eye, the throne room that serves as Andras’ main area of study is an unorganized mess. Piles of books seem to cover nearly every part of the room, and there are also open jars of ink and bits of scrap paper (with hastily written notes and drawings) scattered about the room’s floor. The great chandelier that once adorned the ceiling is gone, and in its place there are half-melted candles placed haphazardly about the room to serve as its (only) source of light.

The throne itself really isn’t much better. While its very appearance was once enough to “strike fear in the hearts of mortals” (as Lilina likes to proudly remind anyone who’s unfortunate enough to be near her whenever she’s feeling sentimental), now it’s nothing more than an over-glorified bit of space to stack more books on top of. It doesn’t even have the leftover ‘relics” from Lilina’s reign or any cobwebs (because nothing quite says “demon lord’s castle” like thick layers of dust and cobwebs on everything) on it, because Andras made it a point to scrub the entire room thoroughly as soon as it came into his possession.

Despite the apparent mess and clutter, Andras does actually know where (almost) everything is. It’s not noticeable at first glance, but each stack of books does have a specific theme to it. The pieces of paper that are seemingly scattered about the room, too, often have notes that are directly related to the nearest book pile’s subjects, and the dim lighting caused by the candles is actually easier on Andras’ eyes than the old chandelier’s lighting ever was.

Even from a distance, one can tell that the trees that make up the Grove are different. Special. Something magical and ancient resides inside the Grove. Something living. Something knowing. Its essence lives and breaths, residing among the branches and deep inside the confines of the thick trunks. The bark of the trees is silver and smooth beneath your fingers, and the canopy of clustered leaves overhead is a deep gold in color. A combination of lush, thick grass and fallen leaves litter the forest floor. The trees are never bare and have leaves all year round, so there are always a few falling no matter the time of year. Long roots crisscross over one another across the ground, a network that connects each tree in the Grove.

Sylralei’s temple is located in the center of the Grove; at its heart. While most elven temples are made of gilded stone and fine masonry, with tall columns and arches constructed from delicate architecture, Sylralei’s temple resides in an old tree. The old tree’s radius is large, and its inside is hollow and accessible by a series of stairs made from the roots of surrounding trees. Ornate lanterns made from blown glass hang from tree branches, their placement random yet still somehow cohesive. A warm light glows from inside the lanterns, yet upon closer inspection you wouldn’t find a flame nor anything else inside the tinted glass. Something invisible, something living, makes the lanterns glow with a softly pulsating light.

Wisps are what give the lanterns life. They float and spin about the branches and between the leaves, wrapping about the trunks and skating along the grass. Most people can’t see them, in fact just about everyone can’t; but Sylralei can. They talk to him, not in any known spoken language, but in feeling. He connects with them, and through that connection he can control the way the branches bend and the way the roots grow. With a flick of his wrist he can ask a branch to bend down and lift him up to the highest reaches of his old tree. It’s there that Sylralei retires to; a secret abode in a high, hollowed part of the tree that’s accessible only by himself.

Inside his abode he has a small bed, made of intricately woven branches and dressed with soft gray blankets and light blue pillows. A woven rug covers the center of the floor, its pattern dark brown with deep blue flowers scattered throughout. A simple wooden bookshelf that sits against a wall, its back curved to match the circumference of the tree, holds a select few books and other various knickknacks that are important to Sylralei. A woven chair, similar to that of a giant basket, hangs from a cluster of vines in the far corner of the room. More soft gray blankets, similar to those upon the bed, are nestled unkemptly inside it - more often than not it’s where Sylralei ends up sleeping instead of on his bed.

The only opening to his abode is the entrance, and while there are heavy curtains of deep blue that can be pulled shut across it, Sylralei usually has them tied open to reveal the view of golden leaves and silver branches that fill his Grove.

Yin, Peaceful Darkness

You’ve never met Yin as he was proper, the darkness to balance the light, the moon to Yang’s sun. A deity as old as time, a role passed from soul to soul, ash to dust.

In this time of corrupted earths and infertile soil, rejected offspring and rain tinted red like rust—

Yin is no longer the peaceful darkness, the shaded mountains and deep forest pools. Yin ‘s teeth are sharp and etched like weathered bones, his skin scored and twisted like ancient, ancient trees. He suffers with the earth, and he tells you through teeth bared bitter and biting—

“Tyr,” he says, “we all were like this.”

—and he leaves you then, to approach the stone trunk of a massive tree.

And in these moments you sense maybe some of the old Yin of Peaceful Darkness showing through the cracks in twisted tree-bark armor, and he winds his arms over the stony trunk of a tree as old as himself and embraces it like a mother to her child.

You think for a moment, Yin is the baby bird in this scene. He is powerful and furious, the earth’s vengeance incarnate, the sole spirit remaining among countless graveyards of dry riverbeds and scorched-earth plains.

But in this scene, you can see something of how things might’ve once been. He is quiet like the moon, calm like the stillness on a glassy lake, unmoving, perhaps one with the dead tree’s skeleton. Perhaps he is a skeleton himself, you ponder.

A skeletal guardian of a mother and a stone-frozen fledgling, you think.

The moon shines down, unchanging despite the earth and although it no longer has tides to pull in constant rhythm, it beams down soft light over this scene with a solemn air and you; you feel like an outsider, something that doesn’t belong in this mausoleum of nature.

Yin presses his cheek to the bark and it responds; through Tyr’s role you feel the power gathering briefly in the roots of this great forefather branching through time, and it shimmers in the air and hangs heavy, sparking like stormclouds and the dry red soil picks up and dust-devils, and a tiny green shoot bursts from a crack that splits the stony bark above Yin’s head.

It’s all that can be mustered from the razed, dying earth, but Yin murmurs a word of thanks to the ancient tree’s remnants and floats himself into its petrified branches, settling himself curled and tucked in the junction of two branches.

Then as if suddenly remembering your presence, he offers a hand to you—

“Tyr of Divine Vengeance,” he says, voice solemn and dark, and you feel the undercurrent of chaos that ripples through the earth with Yin at its epicenter, and he smiles softly with those weathered-bone teeth, “Come up with me.”

You accept his offer and Tyr’s magic snakes out where it’s picked up by Yin and he lifts you effortlessly by the ties that bind you together, and he gives a small laugh that isn’t unkind, because you are a fledgling deity still learning the most basic of interactions.

The magic sets you down next to him, and Yin shifts close and huddles into your larger frame. The moonlight spills over petrified grey branches with no greenery as comfort and there is no wind left to gently caress, or crickets and frogs to sing the song of Yin of the Quiet Moon and Shaded Mountains; of the Peaceful Darkness.

And the soil is rust-red and the air dry and blistering, and his scarring pricks your human-soft skin and draws blood that hisses and steams, acidic, and eats through the thorns digging into your body, sliding wetly down to nourish the tree’s corpse. Too little and far too late, and what was once Tyr of Hero’s Glories and the Righting of Wrongs can now only hurt and hurt and hurt to wreak the vengeance Yin of Imbalance and Lunar Insanity demands for this silent mausoleum of spirits.

Yin sighs, tension drained, and leans into you more, and the only sound aside from the both of your breathing and the low hiss of your acid pulse is—

“Tyr,” he says, “it’s lonely being the last.”

The meadow is nestled away deep in an evergreen forest, a sudden opening of wide blue sky, crisp in both color and temperature. The trees year long needles remain deep shades of green and rustle in the whipping winds, sending sprays of snow that seems to be ever present down onto those walking under them. The meadow itself overlooks on one side an eternally frozen lake, the ice always a few feet thick and shimmering blues and purples in the sunrise that peeks over the fuzzy black tree line in the distance. Another corner of the meadow holds the side of a larger cliff, only around 15 feet or so high, with a sheer drop into the meadow and a slow incline from the other side of the forest.

Atop the cliff itself is where Corus has nestled a strange home made of ice. The strange motte and bailey castle that more closely resembled a Gothic church holds a grandiose center tower connected to several smaller towers by flying buttresses, and a fortified wall formed by icy hallways connecting the many towers to each other and the central chambers at the base of the largest tower.

As grandiose and intimidating as the overall structure is, it is the meadow that holds the most treasured space for Corus. A wall of holly bushes and an iron-wrought fence allows the more taller ineki a chance to peak into the gardens of this building that falls somewhere between mansion and castle. However the most sacred spot is nestled way closer to the face of the wall and away from the peering eyes of outsiders.

It is here that sits a small grove of willow trees, their drooping branches form a curtain around a secluded glade of sorts. The branches are heavy with iridescent droplets of clear ice that catch the sunlight and sparkle almost as if they were diamonds. In the center of the glade sits a willow tree larger than the rest, with sprawling roots that glisten white, as if the tree itself is frozen through completely. Swinging from two of the lower and more sturdier branches is a comfortable wooden swing, with plush cushions along the bottom and back, and a multitude of pillows in various sizes, shapes, colors, fabrics, and patterns. They all hold a cohesive color scheme of whites, blue, and purples to blend into the environment. The swing can comfortably fit three, although it is Corus that spends her time here the overwhelming majority of the time. It is here that she dozes, snacks, reads, thinks, listens, and sometimes sleeps if the night is especially windy and cold as she finds that the most pleasant.

The kitchen in her parent’s house has always felt like the heart of the home. Although they’d moved from another place when Laylah had been small, this place had always felt safe, like it was where they were meant to be.  Besides, this house was larger, better able to accomodate their growing pack.

The kitchen was frequently occupied, the whole pack often in and out. The kitchen had always been a communal space, every surface kept meticulously clean in anticipation of the next time it needed to be used. The tiled floor was a creamy off-white, and so were all the stone countertops. All the cabinetry provided a strong contrast, the wood it was made of dark, reflecting almost redly when it was struck by the lights overhead. The house had been fairly old when Laylah’s parents had bought it, and although they had had to make renovations, they’d managed to salvage the cabinets, and with good care the wood had mellowed, smooth to the touch and familiar. The island in the center of the kitchen, set right between the large stove and the entrance to the room, was the most used work-surface.

Although all meals for the entire pack tended to be cooked in this kitchen, it still smells predominantly of spices more frequently used in baking. Sweets and bread tended to disappear frequently, with so many eager mouths to feed, so almost on a daily basis something was being baked. Under the notes of cinnamon and sugar, there were the more subtle undercurrents of saffron and pepper, other spices reflecting all the various tastes and ethnicities of the people who made up their family. The kitchenaid sitting in the pride of place on the countertop was a well-cared for heirloom, frequently used and exceptionally well cared for. The other appliances were all maintained just as meticulously, although they didn’t catch the attention as much, being a subtle brushed chrome as opposed to the kitchenaid’s soft teal.

It was a large space, but it never felt empty or unfilled. There was too much activity and it was too frequently filled with people, coming in to raid the fridge, to cook, or just to socialize. That was exactly why Laylah always felt so calm and comfortable there, her very favorite place in the world.

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