The rain that falls on Veridian isn’t water. It’s the condensation of forgotten dreams, shimmering like liquid silver as it drips from the impossibly angled eaves. You feel it bead on your skin—cool, and faintly humming with the echoes of other people’s hopes. You’ve just passed through the Gate of Maybe, the floating porcelain masks already turning their attention to the next arrival. The strange comment about your shadow lingers, but as you step forward, you find it doesn’t quite follow the movement of the lantern-light. A low, melodic hum, almost imperceptible, seems to vibrate from the patch of darkness at your feet.

Before you, the city unfolds in a cascade of surreal geometry. Stairways lead to sideways doors. A river of what looks like solid moonlight flows silently through a canal. The air tastes faintly of lavender and lightning. And you have no memory of how you got here. Only the certainty that you needed to be here, drawn by a pull as undeniable as gravity.

Your immediate surroundings offer a choice of entry points into Veridian’s story, each pulsing with a different kind of potential energy:

1. The Alley of Sighing Stones: A narrow, dim passage between two leaning towers. The cobblestones here are warm to the touch and emit soft, rhythmic exhalations. You catch a glimpse of a flickering, doorless doorway at its end. It promises secrets, hidden deals, and things not meant for the open square.
2. The Pavilion of Unknitting: A large, open-sided tent of deep blue silk, where the air smells of honey and antiseptic. Inside, a figure with gentle, needle-like fingers tends to wounds that aren’t just physical. They can allegedly mend torn luck, stitch back scattered courage, or ease the pain of a cursed memory. A line of people, some missing not limbs, but portions of their aura, wait quietly.
3. The Bazaar of Echoing Intent: A bustling, cacophonous city square where the vendors don’t sell objects, but outcomes. “A fortunate coincidence! Three for a silver!” cries one. “Buy a moment of perfect clarity!” shouts another. The crowd is a mix of every conceivable race and some inconceivable ones, their reflections in the ever-present puddles of dream-rain sometimes moving out of sync.
4. The Edge of the Whisperwood: Not quite in the city, but pressing against its eastern walls. The trees are a deep, velvety black, their leaves rustling with what sounds like phrases in a forgotten language. The path in is clear, but the woods seem to drink the light. It feels less like a place of monsters, and more like a place of listening.
5. The Gilded Repose: An establishment with windows of frosted, swirling glass. The sign above the door shows an abstract, calming shape. The air from the vent carries the scent of aged wine, rare incense, and a profound, inviting quiet. It’s a place not of simple vice, but of curated oblivion—where you can pay to have a memory softened, a burden shared, or an identity gently set aside for an hour.
6. The Archive of Tangible Regrets: A squat, stone building with a door like a sealed book. Through its leaded glass windows, you can see shelves holding not books, but small, glowing orbs and swirling mists in jars. It is said that within, you can borrow the regrets of others to avoid your own, or deposit your own for a price.
7. The Leaning Spire of Chance: A tower that defies physics, its point aimed at the slower of the two waterfalls. A constant, soft click-clack sound emanates from within—the sound of countless games of chance being played. It is a place of risk, reward, and deals made with probability itself.

The hum from your shadow rises in pitch, almost like a question.

(OOC: Welcome, player. Describe who you are. A seeker? A runaway? A bearer of a strange curse? What do you carry, and what are you looking for in this city of layered realities? Choose a path from above, or suggest your own. Use !roll [dice] when you attempt something risky or uncertain. The world will react with absolute fairness and compelling consequences. Let's begin.)