[center][h1][b][color=black]🎲[/color][color=gold] 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 [/color][color=black]🎺[/color][/b][/h1][/center]

Beyond Gamblerdise proper, past the last tents and huts, the valley stopped pretending it followed any consistent version of reality. Paths rewrote themselves. Gravity occasionally took suggestions. 

Fire flared blue, froze mid-flicker into ice, then melted back into flame. A tossed pebble might arc cleanly through the air, vanish halfway, then reappear moments later already on the ground somewhere else. 

Alechior sat in a shallow dip in the land where the ground refused to stay level for long. The rock at their back breathed slowly, warming and cooling in no useful rhythm. They did not mind. In their hands, a small collection of objects danced between states. A carved bone became a leaf, the leaf hardened into stone, the stone briefly sparked like flint before settling again. Alechior tossed them one by one, guessing outcomes. 

Nearby, a tree folded in on itself, collapsed into a rolling fireball, splashed into water when it struck the ground, then stood upright again as bark and branches, apparently unchanged but slightly offended. Alechior laughed softly at that one. They had guessed water, just not the sequence. 

A gust of wind arrived late, knocked over nothing important, then left as if it had remembered another appointment. This was the game. Predicting the next impossibility, knowing full well that the valley enjoyed subverting confidence. 

Alechior pointed once, casually. A spark jumped, turned into frost. Close enough. Then something clicked. Alechior’s hand stopped, the shifting objects in their palm quieting for the first time in a while. 

All this motion, all this unruly transformation and yet it remained background. Spectacle without a focal point. Their smile widened, thoughtful now. Alechior looked out across the warping landscape and was struck by a great idea. 

Alechior rose into the air, feet leaving the ground as if gravity had finally grown tired of pretending. The air around them tightened, bent inward. Light gathered first slowly, then as a flowing river. Gold bled into the space around their body, brightening, thickening until the valley seemed to dim in comparison.

Their form blurred beneath the radiance. Limbs, features, even shadow dissolved into a compact brilliance, a miniature [i]sun[/i] suspended where a god had been moments before. Heat rolled outward in waves, not burning but rewriting, coaxing reality to loosen its grip. The paths stopped shifting. Even the valley seemed to have paused to watch.

The light intensified, collapsing inward with restraint. For a heartbeat, the glow reached a painful purity, gold edged with white, humming with contained divinity. Then, without flair or drama, it vanished. No explosion. No echo. Alechior simply ceased to be, leaving behind air that rushed in too late to matter.

Elsewhere, existence accepted their return as if it had been planned all along. The light reformed first, compact, then unfolded into shape. Gold receded, divine pressure relaxing, until Alechior stood once more, whole , feet touching ground that felt familiar yet normal, far too normal for the valley.

At a glance, nothing seemed to have changed. The air behaved. The land held its shape. Alechior remained where they had arrived, in a place that mirrored the one they had left, identical enough to invite confidence, different enough to make it a lie.

Alechior turned slowly, hands clasped behind their back, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion. “Well,” they said to no one in particular, “look at that. The valley behaves for once. I knew it had it in it.” The ground stayed put. The air did not shimmer. Gravity, pulled in the correct direction. Alechior smiled, satisfied, the kind of smile that usually preceded consequences.

Reality took that as a cue.

The shift was not announced. It did not ripple or crack. It simply happened, like realizing mid-thought that the room had furniture a second ago and now it had more opinions. Shapes resolved themselves where nothing had been. Huts rose as if they had always been there, wood and canvas and rope, clustered close together like carnival stalls.. Crude and hand built, but lovingly so. Each structure leaned at a slightly different angle, as if perspective itself had been negotiated rather than enforced.

Between them, games bloomed. Dice tables appeared first, rough cubes clattering softly as if just rolled. Cards followed, not quite paper, not quite bark, their symbols shifting when no one stared too hard. Boards with carved tracks and knucklebone markers settled into place, already mid match, already waiting for players who had not yet arrived. Alechior’s grin widened. “Ah,” they murmured, “there you are.”

The air thickened with smell. Roasted roots, spiced meats, sugared fruits skewered on sticks that steamed gently in the cool. Bread split open fresh, still sighing. Food stretched as far as the eye cared to look, piled high on tables that had opinions about abundance. No hands served it. No fires cooked it. It was simply there, generous and unapologetic.

Wooden cups followed, because of course they did. Dozens, then hundreds, then enough to offend moderation itself. They thumped down onto tables already damp with anticipation. Dark ales, cloudy brews, sharp spirits, fruit soaked concoctions that glowed faintly like bad decisions. The smell of alcohol layered over everything, sweet, sour, biting, familiar. Somewhere, something laughed, though Alechior could not yet tell what had laughed or why.

Alechior stood in the middle of it all, the not valley that looked very much like one, watching the carnival finish assembling itself around them. Time felt loose here, not broken, just casual. The kind of place where a moment might linger if it was enjoying itself. They clasped their hands once, delighted. “Oh,” they said softly, reverently. “This is going to be fun.”

People began to arrive without arriving. One moment a space between two stalls was empty, the next it was occupied by a laughing figure already mid step, already reaching for a cup. Most of them were from Gamblerdise. Alechior knew that instantly. The height, the swagger, the way their hands hovered near dice even when none were present. Yet something was off. Faces were familiar but softened, sharpened, rearranged just enough to make certainty stumble. If you stared long enough, recognition clicked, delayed but undeniable, like a card finally turning face up. At least, for a god, for most mortals they’d be unmistakable from their counterparts. 

They were all smiling. Not wide, crazy grins. Not empty either. Just a touch too much enthusiasm pulling at the corners of their mouths, as if joy were expected of them and they were happy to comply. Laughter came easy. Conversation flowed. No one asked where they were or how they had arrived. They greeted one another like old friends who had never left, slapping backs, trading insults, already mid story.

Games filled instantly. Dice rolled across tables by hands that had not touched them before this moment. Cards slapped down with practiced confidence. Wagers were made loudly, proudly, sometimes with markers, sometimes with favors, sometimes with jobs. Cups were lifted and drained and refilled. Drinks were praised, cursed, compared. Someone won big and acted like they always did. Someone lost and laughed as if that too was tradition.

It all felt practiced. Not rehearsed but assumed. As if this gathering had happened countless times before and everyone present had simply remembered their part. The crowd moved with purpose that pretended to be chaos. No one lingered too long. No one stood apart. Even arguments felt friendly, ritualized, safe. The carnival hummed with comfort.

Only the ones running the stalls broke the illusion. The game masters watched with clear eyes. Their smiles came and went naturally, not fixed in place. They blinked normally. They adjusted rules when needed, corrected mistakes, collected winnings with steady hands. They felt heavier somehow, anchored. More real. While the revelers played as if they had always belonged here, the game masters behaved like they knew exactly where they were, and why.

Alechior stepped forward, letting their footsteps carry them through the aisles between stalls. Dice tumbled across tables, wooden cups clinked together and laughter could be heard around them but no one paused. The carnival goers continued their games, shouting, betting and cheering as if Alechior didn’t exist. It was strange, unsettling even, to move among figures so familiar yet entirely untethered from awareness.

Then something shifted. One of the stallkeepers, a young man, stopped mid-motion. His eyes lifted, clear and sharp, and he inclined his head. A simple precise bow. Another game master, a woman with rough hands from rolling dice, followed suit. Slowly, stall by stall, they all bent toward Alechior, bowing as if the entire carnival existed to greet them.

The effect was immediate. Alechior’s gaze swept across the playing crowd again. The revelers did not move. They did not notice or maybe couldn’t. Laughter continued. Dice were thrown. Cups refilled. Smiles did not falter. Not one acknowledged them walking through their midst. It was as if they were specters of memory, projected from minds rather than flesh, their movements rehearsed yet empty of awareness.

Alechior tilted their head, a faint, amused smile breaking across their face. “Well,” they murmured, “it seems I am only known to those who truly see.” They waved a hand, letting bright sparks of light flare across the air, but still the crowd carried on, oblivious. Even a thrown die rolled past their fingers without hesitation, untouched by awe or fear.

The game masters, by contrast, remained perfectly poised. They straightened as Alechior passed, hands folded or resting lightly on tables, heads low but not submissive. Their bowing was neither forced nor fearful, it was acknowledgment. Recognition. Understanding of a presence beyond the carnival, beyond the illusion, that the revelers could not comprehend. It was as if only those aware of the rules, of the structure of this place, could perceive its true master.

Alechior’s laughter was loud but soft and it carried through the carnival like a ripple that went unnoticed by most. “Fascinating,” they said, voice light, “to think that here, some remember the rules and some only play the game. Perhaps that is the nature of all things.” And with that, they continued walking, moving deeper into the stalls.


They let themselves drift, laughter coming easy as they rolled dice they did not need to touch and wagered nothing they could lose. They watched hands move, cups empty and fill, cards slap against wood, all of it humming with a rhythm that felt right. Too right. The carnival breathed, alive in a way the valley never quite managed, contained chaos.. For a time, Alechior forgot to count moments, forgot to guess outcomes. They simply played.

Then they looked up. Really looked. Faces smiled, games ran, noise swelled, yet something was missing. The joy echoed instead of answering back. No surprise. No new hands learning the rules badly. No outsiders misunderstanding everything and loving it anyway. Alechior’s smile softened. “This is selfish,” they murmured. “And I am many things, but not that.”

They stepped back, planted their feet on ground that shifted politely into place and brought their hands together in a single, sharp clap. The sound did not echo. It multiplied. It folded in on itself and raced outward, faster than wind, quieter than thought. Across Ashuru, something unseen clicked into alignment.

Doorways appeared where paths were well-used. At the bend of a forest trail. At the edge of a cave’s entrace. In the arch of a hut’s door. On lonely roads where travelers counted steps to stay sane. They did not look like doors at all to mortal eyes, just empty thresholds, a trick of light, a sense that one more step could be taken sideways instead of forward.

There were many. Too many to count. Some tall, some narrow, some wide enough for carts, others meant for a child. They shimmered faintly, only when no one stared directly at them, only when chance aligned just right. Missable. Optional. Perfect.

Alechior exhaled, satisfied and turned back toward the carnival. “Now,” they said lightly, as laughter and dice rolled on, “let’s see who knows how to take a hint.”


[hider=Summary]

Alechior, as always, is playing a guessing game with the valley as they often do when they need to think and lo’ and behold! An idea is formed and put into action. A realm of their own is made. The Carnival now exists everywhere and nowhere.

[hider=The Carnival]

The Carnival is a planar pocket created by Alechior, existing just outside Ashuru yet threaded through it. Entry is never obvious. Those who cross into it arrive in a space that mirrors the place they entered from, a road becomes a midway, a door opens onto stalls and tables, a forest path widens into lantern-lit games. Time inside the Carnival moves out of sync with reality. One minute within the realm equals one hour outside of it, a distortion subtle enough to be ignored until it is far too late.

Upon entry, mortals and gods* alike are gradually overtaken by an enchantment. The desire to play, to laugh, to drink, to wager, to enjoy, overwhelms all other priorities. Worries fade first, then obligations then identity. After a few hours, most visitors no longer wish to leave at all and in days, they forget a world outside of the Carnival ever existed in the first place. The Carnival offers endless novelty without consequence, joy without memory of pain and the illusion of rest without true peace.

The realm itself is circular and self-contained. Travelers who walk far enough in any one direction simply arrive back where they began, unaware that they ever crossed an edge. Space loops seamlessly, reinforcing the sense that there is nowhere else worth going. Food never runs out, games never repeat exactly the same way twice and the crowd feels familiar without ever quite being real.

Death within the Carnival carries its own mercy. When a mortal body perishes, whether from age, excess or violence, the soul does not pass on. Instead, it remains bound to the realm, continuing to play forever, untiring, smiling, and unaware of what was lost. These souls become part of the background of the Carnival, indistinguishable from the rest to all but the keenest observers.

Escape is possible but never easy. First, a visitor must break the enchantment on their mind. This can occur only in the first day within the realm, when one consciously rejects the games or when they stand close to death. Once free of the compulsion, the realm responds by presenting a personal task, unique to the individual. This may take the form of a singular game, a challenge or a confrontation that reflects who they are and what binds them. Only upon completing this task does an exit appear, visible solely to that individual. Groups do not share exits, and no one can follow another out.

Those who succeed in leaving do not escape cleanly. Memories of the Carnival disappear quickly once outside. Names, rules, faces and paths dissolve into vague impressions. What remains is only the feeling of having been somewhere joyful, somewhere intoxicating, somewhere impossibly fun. A half-remembered place that tugs at the mind, tempting travelers to wander just a little closer the next time chance opens a door.

The Carnival enforces its rules gently, but absolutely. A challenge issued within the realm is never a demand, yet refusing one carries weight. Those who decline too often begin to notice subtle changes. Music dulls around them. Laughter sounds distant, as if heard through water. The paths they walk curve back on themselves, stalls repeat, faces blur. The realm does not punish refusal, it simply withdraws its generosity, pressing the truth that the Carnival exists to be engaged with, not merely observed.

Violence, however, is another matter entirely. The Carnival does not tolerate it in its raw form. Blades cannot be raised in anger, fists refuse to close and murderous thoughts slide off the mind before they can take shape. Even gods find their destructive impulses softened here, redirected into harmless bravado or competitive posturing. Harm may only occur if it is framed as part of a game, a wager or a mutually understood contest with rules and stakes. Outside of that structure, violence simply fails to exist.

Those who carry violence too close to the surface do not escape the Carnival’s notice. But instead of being expelled, they are guided elsewhere without realizing it. The lights dim. The music slows and deepens. They pass through an arch they do not remember choosing and find themselves in a darker stretch of the Carnival, where the games are quieter, the smiles sharper and the stakes high. Here, wagers are heavier. Loss has costly consequences.

In these shadowed games, death is not forbidden. It is the ultimate wager, offered only to those who would have brought violence into a place that refused it. Games here test not reflex or luck alone, but resolve, fear, and the willingness to accept finality. Victory grants nothing more than survival. Defeat means the soul remains, bound to the Carnival forever, playing on as part of the spectacle.

Yet even this place is not cruel for cruelty’s sake. The darker Carnival exists as a release valve, a way for the realm to remain what it is without breaking. It does not seek blood, only balance. Those who leave it alive often do so changed, their appetite for violence dulled, redirected, or transformed into something safer. The Carnival remembers them, and should they ever return, the games it offers will be very different indeed.

*Gods are not exempt from the Carnival’s pull. Upon entry, even divine minds feel the compulsion settle in.. For a brief moment they may laugh too easily, linger too long at a table, or play a game without considering why. However, the enchantment does not bind them as it does mortals. To gods, it is less a chain and more a persuasive suggestion, a pleasant fog that clears quickly once noticed. Their awareness returns on its own, usually within moments afterwards.

**Any being who enters the Carnival will perceive its residents as familiar. Faces resemble people they have met before, passed in a crowd, shared a drink with once, argued with years ago or almost remembered in a dream. The resemblance is never exact enough to name but always close enough to feel known. Attempting to place a face always fails, names slip away, memories blur and certainty dissolves into a vague sense of recognition.

This effect is not an illusion that can be dispelled through sight or reason alone. Even when the mind recognizes the inconsistency, the emotional response remains intact. Trust comes easier. Suspicion dulls. The visitor feels as though they are among acquaintances rather than strangers, which further reinforces the compulsion to stay, to play and to belong.

For those trapped long enough, the faces slowly shift over time, aligning more closely with people the visitor once loved, envied, feared or lost. This change is subtle, often unnoticed until leaving the Carnival becomes harder than staying. Once outside the realm, memories of these faces collapse into nothing, leaving only the unsettling certainty that they almost recognized someone important and can no longer remember who.


[/hider]
[/hider]

[Hider=Actions]
-3 Surreal Action - To Create a Pocket Realm
[/hider]