Fayan's Realm Between the Void and the Veil
The Weft Unwoven is not a realm in the traditional sense. It’s a parasitic filament that loops itself around truth. It rides the boundary where the Elemental Plane of Void meets the Veil, feeding on obsession, clinging to memories that should’ve faded.
This place is not built. It accumulates from endings that weren’t clean, from choices that warped the shape of a soul, from the scrape of a blade that was followed by silence. Every murder, jealous deed, self-centered action, and narcissistic expression manifests here as an eternal rot.
It is the metaphysical residue of all those that commit such actions. It cannot grow, but it can consume.
Aspect: Murder
Type: Reversal Field of Nonlinear Decay
The orchard grows where lives ended with intention. You’ll find no peace here. Just rows of bodies that grow like dead trees, decaying in reverse, rising from the dirt in grotesque reanimation. Veins reknit, bruises vanish backwards, mouths stretch into the moments before they begged.
These are not spirits. They are the physical consequences of stolen time. Trees with ligaments for roots. Branches that twitch with phantom pain.
The air stinks of antiseptic regret. Movement loops until someone, anyone, acknowledges the act of undoing. But that time never comes.
Aspect: Jealousy
Type: Aspirational Distortion Field
An endless field of ash that never settles, and above it float countless thrones. Each one is tuned to someone else’s jealousy of you, their imagined version of your life. Sit on one, and it tries to overwrite your timeline with theirs.
Refuse it, and it follows.
The further you walk, the louder the chairs creak, dragging illusions behind them like anchors of envy that others must drag.
You are not the one they want. You are the scaffolding their jealousy needs.
Aspect: Greed
Type: Mobile Market Construct
No maps survive the Maw Bazaar. Each stall appears based on what someone wants, even if they don't know it yet. The things for sale aren't objects, they're lost potentials: futures unchosen, abilities stolen from unborn timelines, quiet betrayals that never happened but could have.
Prices are assigned after one agrees to the trade. Refuse to pay, and they vanish. They aren’t dead. They haven’t ceased to exist. They’ve been removed from [[Vaunor]], the [[Veil]], the [[Afterworld]], all planes and threads of being except for this parasitic fold where Fayan’s will lingers.
Aspect: Transit, Binding
Type: Liminal Filament Veins
These are not roads. They're paths between unrealized choices, stretched taut across the Weft. They shimmer like capillaries, pulsing with the echoes of unfinished decisions. To walk one is to exist in potential, briefly becoming every version of yourself that might have turned left instead of right.
Speaking aloud here births a duplicate moment, trailing behind you like static. Falling means re-entry at a different time. Not in the timeline, but in the self.
Aspect: Absolute Fayan Presence
Type: Anti-Origin Collapse
The Last Unthreading isn’t a location, it’s a function; the very heart of the Weft where Fayan first noticed herself existing. Time slows here, compressing into soundless pressure. Identity thins. Names begin to unstick from meaning.
Structures are made of a collapsed narrative, light tries to form shapes it doesn’t remember. Maybe a cradle that rocks without the child that was stolen. Stay long enough and you become one of the moments that never made it out.
Aspect: Hunger for the Irreplaceable
Type: Animate Swarm-Entity Terrain
Somewhere in the folds of the Weft is a garment made of mouths. This is not a metaphor. The Gown of Teeth moves, writhes, and devours anything with identity: names, faces, and origins. It trails behind travelers where sometimes it's mistaken for a lost companion. And sometimes it is that lost companion.
You only notice you're wearing it after it’s taken something from you. It doesn’t speak. But it chews in rhythm with your heartbeat.
Aspect: Refusal to Be Observed
Type: Closed-System Reality Knot
This is the core paradox of the Weft: a god that exists only within perception, and only in the moments it's not perceived. It watches by hiding. It records by unknowing. It observes every version of the viewer except the one doing the viewing.
If you find it, you’ve already seen too much. If you don’t, it’s already acting.