Asmith

It is said that when one dreams at night, they are taken to somewhere the waking world cannot see, somewhere some might even call…magic. This is Asmith, the land upon which we set our stage. Once, it was a place of impossible beauty: forests of crystalline leaves, rivers that caught the light like liquid gems, and mountains that floated above the clouds. But now…something has gone wrong. Shadows creep along impossibly long corridors, waters reflect not sky but fear, and whispers linger in the wind, carrying half-remembered truths and half-formed nightmares. You awaken on cold stone, your fingertips brushing tiles that pulse faintly beneath you. The air smells of pine, rain, and something…corrupted. A figure steps from the shimmer: silver-and-blue gown, hair like fading starlight, eyes heavy with centuries of memory and sorrow. “You’re finally asleep,” she says.