To the west, the air turns sharp and brittle. Frost creeps along the rock like veins of glass, and the sound of dripping water echoes endlessly. This is the domain of the Plane of Water, though twisted by cold. The ice gleams with unnatural clarity, and within it move vague shapes — frozen not in time, but in slumber. A rift pulses faintly in the heart of the frozen chamber, a whisper of an ocean that exists nowhere near this world.
To the south, the gloom bursts into impossible color. The First World has found a way through again, its influence spilling out like wild magic — glowing flora, dreamlike fungi, and faint, shifting lights that dance between shadows. The air hums with songs that seem half-remembered, and those who breathe too deeply here may forget which world they belong to.
Between these two realms of contrast lies a crude goblin camp, its fires flickering nervously in the dim glow of the cavern. The goblins worship what they do not understand — building shrines to the icy rift and offering strange gifts to the fey creatures that watch from the colored mist.
But even they sense it: this cave is no longer one place. It’s becoming many — a fracture where worlds overlap, where the rules of nature and sanity no longer agree. And somewhere in the dark, something stirs that remembers when the barrier between realms first broke.
