Sacred places
The Umbra:
A shadowy reflection of the physical world, there is certainly some sense of familiarity its surroundings, but everything has been drained of its color and then inverted. The ever-present but barely-audible sound of muffled voices emanates from nowhere in particular, striking an odd contrast with the eerily still landscape. The only visible movement is that of white shadows lazily melting off the edges and corners of frozen objects and dissolving into smokey vapour against the charcoal sky. There is also an inexplicable and unsettling awareness of the extremely tenuous connection to the continuum of time one has in this place. Crossing back seems implausible.
The City of Black and White:
From dawn to dusk, a quiet and quaint city of pristine ivory buildings sits at the edge of an ocean of inky black waters. Dozens of canals wend in from the sea, their ebon waves lapping idly against the bases of argent walkways and bridges, upon which the achromatic populace goes about its business above. The only moments this world sees color are when it's painted with the fiery golds of dawn or the purple hues of dusky twilight. After sunset, it shifts completely; the buildings stand pitch-black and forboding, and the sea's waters shine white as fresh milk under the stars, waiting for another brief glimpse of color at the rising of the sun.
T'zja, The Desert of Midnight:
Nestled in a shallow valley in a land without sun, the desert is a peaceful place of isolation and of ceaseless night. Time is marked only by the rising and setting of a perpetually full moon. When the moon shines in the sky above, the valley is illuminated almost as brightly as if it were day, and the still desert is charged with a palpable sense of unseen life. When the moon is set, the billions of stars that blanket the heavens barely cut the pitch black below, and a feeling of stasis enthralls the land in its shadowy grip.
A shadowy reflection of the physical world, there is certainly some sense of familiarity its surroundings, but everything has been drained of its color and then inverted. The ever-present but barely-audible sound of muffled voices emanates from nowhere in particular, striking an odd contrast with the eerily still landscape. The only visible movement is that of white shadows lazily melting off the edges and corners of frozen objects and dissolving into smokey vapour against the charcoal sky. There is also an inexplicable and unsettling awareness of the extremely tenuous connection to the continuum of time one has in this place. Crossing back seems implausible.
The City of Black and White:
From dawn to dusk, a quiet and quaint city of pristine ivory buildings sits at the edge of an ocean of inky black waters. Dozens of canals wend in from the sea, their ebon waves lapping idly against the bases of argent walkways and bridges, upon which the achromatic populace goes about its business above. The only moments this world sees color are when it's painted with the fiery golds of dawn or the purple hues of dusky twilight. After sunset, it shifts completely; the buildings stand pitch-black and forboding, and the sea's waters shine white as fresh milk under the stars, waiting for another brief glimpse of color at the rising of the sun.
T'zja, The Desert of Midnight:
Nestled in a shallow valley in a land without sun, the desert is a peaceful place of isolation and of ceaseless night. Time is marked only by the rising and setting of a perpetually full moon. When the moon shines in the sky above, the valley is illuminated almost as brightly as if it were day, and the still desert is charged with a palpable sense of unseen life. When the moon is set, the billions of stars that blanket the heavens barely cut the pitch black below, and a feeling of stasis enthralls the land in its shadowy grip.