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A curious space in a distant land coming into existence one pixelated character at a time. Another universe houses this space, its dimensions uncertain, its structure diverging. It is strange, gleefully strange, terribly strange, and you do not look like yourself. Faces wear faces and when faces come off the gloves are silk and the goat milk spills, charred flesh decaying in the ravine. There are buckets and buckets and buckets, of cream and water and death, and observing them: An old patriarch with fur that flows white as wool.

A sea wind blows over a desert dune and a mermaid winks from the flames and hyphens are entirely illegal.

This world is not. This world is.
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There's a shrouded figure. She rings a bell.

She is many things resolving into one. Under the Sight she is at once and yet not at all a sorceress, staff held in steady hands and eyes aglow in green, a girl, fists balled in frozen ice and gaze fierce and ready, a teacher, boring enough to put students to sleep, a dead woman, arrows studding her form. She becomes Seer and Weaver and Riftwalker and abolishes the same. She is paying the penalty for murder, paying the trainers. She leads others to the path she walks and vanishes for months at a time.

She hunts and kills and feasts and dies and runs and whales and guards and dies and logs and traps and weaves and dies and sees a pattern there and dies.

Time and time again her spirit is dredged back, yet unbroken, with remnants and reminders and, memorably, spawn from the underworld. She dies a fucking lot, okay? She changes from the experience. She's ugly and bleak, wearing her stripes as though they're badges. She's mad-eyed and loud. She's oddly impulsive, a poor trait for one who works with terrible eldritch powers, a contributing factor to the dozen visits to death's domain (and counting). She boils the blood that runs through veins, then chills it with a glare.

Ednia is a character in the text-based roleplaying game New Worlds - Ateraan.


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