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« Some say that here on Hypnos, not a single being resembles another. There are countless clans, realms, and a few old and dubious bloodlines, but they are as strange as they are short-lived. Our bodies sometimes change at the whim of the kingdom’s shifting, of our emotions, or of some poetic randomness.

Only an Hypnosean’s mask remains the same throughout his life, along with his name, if he has one. The masks are our guardians and protect our essence; they are witnesses to our souls. Their patterns, whether plain or complex, bear witness to our intentions, our personalities, and our ranks. They shelter the inaudible murmurs of our thoughts, which only the whisperers can express with their nebulous voices. Isn’t it so ? Names, however, are not as common as you would think.

To name something means to define its nature, to give an absolute meaning to its existence. Even those who own the Gift of speech do not have such a power, which falls entirely into the hands of the King. »
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When the Great Rift happened, entire sections of our reality suddenly disappeared. There are wonders which no eyes will ever witness again…

But if there is one drifting fragment that somewhat reflects what the kingdom once was, that would be Myosis. The ravages of the Eclipse were lesser in these lands. Ancient cities, tall mountains and venerable forests have survived; guardians to Hypnos’ original beauty.

Everything here is like frozen in time, a reflection of a distant and whimsical past; one more vivid, less quiet. Because no one has lived here for a long time now…
Time and space are lost in Mydriase. They are searching for themselves, undoubtedly, but their erratic movements give this fragment of the world the look of a delirious, ever-changing painting. Here, fantasy and obsession blend to produce haunting visions. What once was a place of wisdom and science is now nothing more than illusions; repetitive re-enactments of senseless cycles across illogical landscapes where countless amounts of knowledge are constantly lost. Or become lies.

There was a city, once. It was the jewel of the external circle, a model of invention and thought. A mighty Demiurge made it his domain, and thus changed it. He duplicated it, expanding it into the horizon and beyond to create a maze of shadows and steel. It stretches up to the fiery lands, where other strange and intelligent monsters sleep.

And there’s the Tower…

If darkness had a name, it would be Fuscant. Who really knows what this place used to be, before the Great Rift ?

Some whisper and conjure up sights of desolate high plateaus where the sun does not shine and where all colours have been washed away. Maybe there exists an old onyx temple of gigantic proportions, haunted by half-dead beings and other unspeakable things…

A chasm that dives deep into the famished depths. The heart of oblivion, or of some primitive darkness…

An underground city where thousands of pillars still rise up, slowly being drowned by muddled waters, where fear and dreams await