Myndhalorien
Myndhalorien, the realm of the Court of Yestermorrow, exists where time frays and folds, stitched together by memory, prophecy, and possibility. It is a land both dreamlike and precise, where the past lingers like morning mist and the future murmurs just beyond the next turn in the path. The landscape is at once beautiful and unsettling—each hill and vale softly lit as if by a memory of sunlight rather than the sun itself, and the sky above is a patchwork of shifting hues: rose-gold dawns that never rise, and amber dusks that never fully set. Stars hang in strange constellations even in daylight, and constellations sometimes form faces or glyphs no scholar has ever recorded.
The terrain of Myndhalorien is composed of gently rolling moors, river-cut valleys, and quiet groves where time eddies in spirals. Some places repeat themselves endlessly—an orchard locked in perpetual blossom, a bridge where the same cart passes again and again, its wheels cutting no tracks. In others, moments skip or stretch: a tree sways for hours without a breeze, or a bell rings out once, but echoes across the hills for a full day. Dusty ruins sit beside newly built towers, and roads sometimes diverge from themselves, offering a choice between what was and what could have been. These paths are often watched by silent stone statues that shift when unobserved—the Keepers of Paths Not Taken.
At the realm’s center lies Elarenthiel, the Seat of the Loom—a spiraling palace of glass and brass set upon a floating disc of earth that hovers over the Lake of Still Reflections. Inside, the Weavers of Weft and Wane work at their Loom, a vast structure of silver thread and glowing orbs, recording the living history of the world. As they weave, the fabric of reality stretches out across the palace walls as glowing threads of light and shadow—some thick with certainty, others frayed and flickering. Mortals rarely glimpse the Weavers themselves, but their presence can be felt in the shifting weight of memory and the strange certainty that some things have already happened… or will again.
True Thomas serves as the court’s voice and walks the Chronestrade, a path of ancient stepping stones that loops around the realm and shifts with the passage of moonlight. Along its path lie markers of moments—shrines to choices, relics of roads not taken, and pools where the surface shows not your reflection, but the version of you who made the other choice. The Villa of Divergence, where guests are housed, is built from wood that grows older or younger depending on the conversation held within. Each room is subtly different each night—sometimes larger, sometimes smaller, sometimes filled with the scent of flowers that have not yet bloomed.
Outside Elarenthiel lies the Vale of Forgotten Futures, a misty depression in the land where echoes of unborn timelines gather like ghosts. Here walk the Sisters Three—Chronicler of Past Decisions, Archivist of Foresight, and Keeper of Paths Not Taken. They tend the Oracleshrubs, crystalline bushes that grow phrases instead of fruit, each leaf inscribed with a phrase that may or may not come to pass. Some visitors come to pluck one, but risk bringing prophecy upon themselves—while others are simply compelled to listen to the branches murmur their names in voices they haven’t yet had.
Myndhalorien is not a place of urgency or passion, but of reflection, resonance, and quiet inevitability. The wind carries riddles, the rivers run with remembrance, and nothing in this realm is quite as fixed as it seems. It is a place where time is a tapestry, not a line—and the fey who dwell here are its watchful, patient weavers.
Geography
The geography of Myndhalorien is subtly deceptive—familiar at first glance, yet shaped by time’s fluidity rather than geologic certainty. It lies across a broad, open highland nestled within temporal folds, where the earth itself seems caught in contemplation. The terrain is mostly gentle: rolling moors flecked with heather and blue-flowered grasses ripple like waves frozen mid-motion. Low hills rise and fall like slowed heartbeats, each one crowned with standing stones etched with runes of choice and consequence. Though the land never appears hostile, travelers soon learn that its contours shift—not with movement, but with meaning. The land remembers who walks it.
Crisscrossing the realm are mirror-streams—narrow, still waterways that reflect not just the sky, but alternate versions of what lies on their banks. One might see a familiar tree in full blossom when the one beside them is bare, or a version of oneself taking a different path across a footbridge. These rivers converge into the Lake of Still Reflections at the realm’s heart, a vast, dark body of water so perfectly still it’s said to reflect not the present moment, but the precise instant before one’s greatest regret. The lake is rimmed by the floating isle of Elarenthiel, whose position shifts with the tides of fate rather than water.
Scattered across Myndhalorien are Timefold Groves, small pockets of ancient trees where the air is thick with echoing voices, and the light filters through the leaves in patterns that don’t match the motion of the sun. Here, seasons blur together: one tree may shed its autumn leaves while another is bursting into spring’s green. Some groves cycle rapidly—birth, bloom, decay, and dormancy flickering by in minutes—while others remain locked in a single moment for centuries. Beneath their roots, winding tunnels lead to relic vaults of futures that never came to pass.
The realm also features Temporal Scarlands, places where history fractured and did not fully heal. These appear as smooth, glassy plains where nothing casts a shadow, or ridgelines frozen mid-collapse. In these places, sound dulls, time stutters, and even magic reacts unpredictably. They are treated as sacred grounds by the court, often marked with wind chimes made of broken hourglasses or bones of creatures that never existed.
At the edges of Myndhalorien, the land loses clarity. Paths blur into mist-laced Memory Moors, where the past becomes stronger than the present. Travelers have been known to meet younger or older versions of themselves here—or see companions as they once were, or might have been. The stars above these edges do not match any known sky, shifting to reflect unchosen fates and forgotten dreams.
Ultimately, Myndhalorien is a realm sculpted not by tectonics, but by the pull of decision, destiny, and doubt. Its hills and hollows are shaped by stories—half-told, twice-lived, or never begun—and it is only by walking them slowly, with reverence, that one might begin to understand the weight of the world as seen by the Court of Yestermorrow.
Climate
The climate of Myndhalorien is temperate, but infused with the eerie stillness of suspended time. The air is cool and dry, scented faintly of parchment, rain-on-stone, and old woodsmoke, as if the realm itself is remembering a hearth long extinguished. Light rain falls often, but only in soft drizzles that seem to hang in the air longer than they should, never fully soaking the ground. The sky is rarely clear—blanketed instead in drifting cloud patterns that mirror the swirling threads of fate, glowing with pale lavender or gold as if lit from beneath. Winds are gentle and constant, like whispered recollections brushing against the skin. Occasionally, time-storms sweep across the moors—hazy tempests where visibility dims, moments loop, and strange echoes of the past or future flicker at the edge of vision. Seasons shift subtly but never sharply, often blurring into one another, as if the realm itself cannot decide what moment it truly belongs to.
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