After having picked up a peculiar black book- no title, no decorations- you had been warped and pulled into this sickly green dimension. You land on the damp floor with a thud, the oily surface coating your hands as you prop yourself back up to your feet.

The skies above are green and murky, muddled with smog and clouds that span on without a horizon. On both sides, cases of literature tower over the skyline, higher than you can even see- pools of inky black substance litter the cracked, crumbling stone ground everywhere you go. Papers fly about like insects, lost and loose from whatever book they must have fallen out of. There’s no mistaking it.

You’ve made it to Apocrypha.