Elenmurra
Elenmurra, the realm of the Court of Long Shadows, is a fey dominion cloaked not in wilderness, but in urban mystery—a sprawling, labyrinthine cityscape where shadow is sovereign and every flicker of lamplight deepens the unknown. The realm stretches endlessly in every direction, a twilight metropolis where no sun ever rises, and the pale moon remains locked in a permanent crescent high above. Fog curls in the narrow streets like a living thing, muffling footfalls and voices alike, while the amber glow of flickering gas lamps casts long, uncertain silhouettes across cobblestone roads. Buildings rise close together, their architecture a strange blend of beauty and menace—tall, narrow townhouses with slate roofs, wrought-iron balconies, and shuttered windows that seem to watch.
The city is built in layers and illusions, with winding alleys that shift subtly when unobserved. An alley that led to a market square in the morning may open into a forgotten chapel or a spiral stair descending into the dark by nightfall. Doors change places. Windows reflect scenes that haven’t happened—or might. Towering spires crowned with copper domes lean at impossible angles, and bridges stretch over fog-choked canals to connect towers that shouldn't align. The deeper one goes into Elenmurra, the less stable the geography becomes, and the more one must rely on intuition, shadow, and whispered memory to find the way.
The Court of Long Shadows gathers not in a palace, but in the Gloamhall, a great domed amphitheater hidden in the heart of the city, nestled within a plaza of dead fountains and crow-haunted arches. The Gloamhall is a building of dark glass and black stone, its interior lit only by a ring of ever-dimming lights. Here, the shadow-fey deliberate in hushed tones, moving like silhouettes through curtains of gauze and illusion. Appearances here are mutable; courtiers wear their truths like masks and trade secrets like currency. Truth is a fragile thing in Elenmurra, easily stolen, refracted, or forgotten.
One of the city's most infamous districts is Thistlemaze, a twisted quarter of snaking alleys, hidden courtyards, and echoing stairwells that seem to descend into the minds of those who walk them. Rumor says that certain shadows in Thistlemaze belong to no one, and sometimes follow. Another district, Mirroshearth, is filled with antique shops, tea houses, and mirror-makers—all of which double as information brokers, smugglers of stolen names, or archivists of memories misplaced. Many come here to forget, leaving pieces of themselves in reflection or bargain.
The city never truly sleeps. Nightbirds call from rooftops. Cloaked figures drift from lamp to lamp. Soft music plays from an unseen balcony, while a dark carriage rolls by with no visible driver. In Elenmurra, you are always being watched—but never by what you expect. Here, the shadow is not a place of evil, but of power, subtlety, and layered truths. It is where things go to hide, to heal, to listen—and where the bold vanish not in fear, but in purpose. Elenmurra is a city that speaks softly in dreams, and listens far more than it tells.
Geography
The geographic features of Elenmurra are wholly unlike the natural splendor of most Fey realms—a sprawling, eternal cityscape crafted from winding stone, illusion, and deliberate mystery. The realm is built across gentle hills and shallow valleys, but the land is almost entirely consumed by its architecture. Cobblestone roads stretch like veins between narrow alleys and grand boulevards, their paths looping and folding in ways that defy mortal mapping. Entire districts rise and fall without warning, with tiers of buildings stacked like crooked teeth, leaning on one another with unsettling symmetry. There are no forests or open meadows, but courtyards bloom with black ivy, lanternflowers, and silver moss, cultivated in urns, alley cracks, or overgrown fountains long since dry.
The city is split by numerous fog-laced canals that run without origin, winding through shadowed districts and beneath arching bridges of iron and bone-carved stone. The water is inky and slow, reflecting not the sky, but the deepest memories of those who peer too long. Bridgeways often lead not to the opposite bank, but to completely different parts of the city—or vanish entirely behind you when crossed. Below the surface lies an entire undercity, a cryptic warren of cellars, tunnels, abandoned theaters, and inverted streets lit by phosphorescent lichen and mirrors that show the city as it once was—or never was.
Elenmurra’s buildings are as much geographic fixtures as any hill or cliff. Some rise impossibly tall, vanishing into the gloom above, their rooftops forming terraces where wind spirits whisper and shadow-courtiers meet in secret. Others lean so close that whole quarters are cast in perpetual penumbra, where light flickers but never stays. Clock towers, spire libraries, and whisper vaults (buildings meant to contain secrets) are scattered like monuments across the landscape, each one a landmark known more by reputation than location.
The realm’s outskirts fray into ruined districts and half-built ideas—places where buildings stretch into mist, where doors open into blankness, and where time seems to falter. This edge is known as the Periphery, a shifting boundary of barely-formed streets, whispering windows, and buildings without interiors. Some believe this is where the city expands itself, using memories, lies, and forgotten truths as mortar and stone.
Despite its urban nature, shadow is the true geography of Elenmurra. Every light cast—every flickering gaslamp, every window glow—elongates the shadows, and those shadows are alive, shifting like tides, listening, and sometimes guiding. Streets narrow or widen based on who walks them. Stones remember footsteps. Echoes move faster than sound. And no matter how long you wander, you will always find yourself standing beneath a flickering lamp, at a corner you swore you had never seen before.
In Elenmurra, geography is not fixed. It is a tapestry of shadow, memory, and unspoken intent, mapped not by compass or star, but by the path of your secrets and the weight of what you dare not say aloud.
Climate
The climate of Elenmurra is cool, damp, and cloaked in an almost constant twilight haze. A low-hanging mist curls through the alleyways and drifts along the rooftops, muting color and sound alike. Rain is frequent but soft, falling in fine, whispering sheets that leave the cobblestones slick and shining beneath flickering lamplight. The air carries the scent of wet stone, old ink, and faded perfume, and even in stillness, there is a sense of movement—of something watching just beyond the fog. There is no sun in Elenmurra, only a pale, veiled moon and the gentle glow of scattered lanterns that never fully pierce the gloom. It is a realm where the weather lulls rather than batters, a constant hush that encourages reflection, caution, and secrets kept close.