Twin Lands run out from common centre in this Barony as in any other, and the Autummn World vies with the Near Dreaming in the hearts of the kithain. Two realms separate yet bound, with only the hidden gateways of the Raths granting passage each between the two. These are the sets through which our actors stride.

The Dream Barony:

Somewhere in the depths of the oceans, Atlantis still rests, and the merfolk make their homes. Great leviathans sleep here, waiting until the proper time to make their presence known and dreaming dreams beyond even Kithain comprehension. Cities float beneath the waves, some still thriving, some long abandoned, all waiting to reveal their secrets to any curious and brave enough to explore them. Somewhere beyond the Seas of Dream, there are other lands, all with secrets and wonders of their own. Perhaps they are only a day away from Concordia, perhaps the trip would take millennia. In the end, there's only one real way to find out. There are trods in the Seas of Dream. They glisten as faint trails where the sea is always calmer and the winds are not as harsh. Although most are not as visible as the Silver Path, they are still noticable to experienced sailors of the Seas of Dream. As with other trods, these water-bound paths protect changelings wise enough to follow them. Even the greatest waves cannot harm a ship that runs along the Silver Path. As with other trods, carelessness almost always leads to disaster. In the Seas of Dream, it is said, great spans of ocean surrender themselves to the Otherwhere. The great oceans of the Far Dreaming connect with both the Near Realms and the Deep Dreaming. The waters here are murky, too deep to reveal their secrets. These great oceans stretch to other lands in the Dreaming, mysterious realms where no Kithain has ever gone. Some claim the Tuatha de Danaan took their ships and sailed across the Slumbering Oceans to return to the place whence they came, before the Dreaming was truly formed. Great dark shapes move beneath the waves, and from time to time the tip of a shadowy tail breaks free of the waters. If one looks very carefully and concentrates, the trods beneath the waters reveal themselves. Atop the hill's peak, at the edge of the Northern Waste, a vast and monolithic palace broods, home to the Dreams of the Ghosts of Goblins, dark creepings under the moon. No Dreaming's child will spend the night within these walls, for fear of the bean-sidhe, spooks and Haints. Chimerae make the Good Sign when they need pass by even as the afternoon is fresh and full, and none know what treasures might be guarded by such ghosts as walk the night here. Garlic can be seen ever hanging in the windows on the upward edge of town which face the fortress like dull, unblinking eyes. The town itself runs down from the haunted fortress to the sea, a sprawling collection of inns and pubs each vying to hold eye and ear longer than the last. Goblin sailors from the Dreaming's seas turn here to wet parched throats, and to while away the winter nights. After all, it is always winter here, in the Dream of the Northern Ice. At the wharves, goblin ships rimed in ice are frozen to the pier, and ever goblin sailors fill the halls with mead and grog and ribald song. The gaslamps gleam faint amists the sea-smoke which curls along thin cobbled alleys, 'cross filth-rid gutters and down beneath the gabled roofs. The Goblin Market calls with cries to make a fish-gut seller blush. Fog-curled streets and cobbled alleys, dim gaslamp and greasy snow flecking against dirty glass. For a taste of the Goblin Life here in the market, we direct the Estimable Reader to London Labour and the London Poor, by Henry Mayhew. Most Edifying.

The Realm in the Autumn World:

The Free Commots, once the Barony of Shining Waters, in the Autumn World is a quiet and grey place. Mortals here, as in the rest of the world, have often forgotten how to Dream. They live their lives from day to day going to work, paying their bills, and hoping to have enough left over at the end of the week for a good drunk down at the bar. There are Dreamers here, however. Artists, musicians, and the mad flock to the city from all across the Maritimes, dreaming of success. Chimerae here are, while not plentiful, of a greater presence than in many cities. The Dreams of students still revelling in learning can be found here too, come from far away to the city's five universities. There is small hope here, despite the chill of Autumn which fills the air. On the sixth of December, 2004, history echoed itself. An explosion in the harbour narrows devastated the North End of the city, felling the bridges and killing thousands. Over a month later, relief efforts were still underway and it will be decades before the scars have healed over...

The former seat of Shining Waters sat in Caer August, once called Caer Rosewood, its entrance below a hidden Valley on the shore of the Basin. Under the surface of the earth, beyond the view of mortal eyes, the balefire burned once warm and bright. Chimerical windows revealed the vast expanse of life beneath the Dreaming Seas. Here the Reeve of the Free Commots held Court, bringing the favour of Duchess Olwen to her people. With the death of High Kind David Ardry, the sundering of the Empire of the Turtle, the assault against the seats of sidhe power in Northern Ice in midsummer of 2004, and finally the devastation of the city in December of that year, Caer August has fallen, and stands now only a pallid ruin, painful testamony to the ever-present threat of the Fomorian War. The Dead march upon the hill where stands the memorial of once a mighty citadel. Cold and unkind, only the deviant Sluagh would dare to trespass amongst the mortal dead. Ghosts and shadows, nocnitsae and nightmares rule the night here, and childlings are warned abed. Baron August's Law held no tresspass with Prodigal spirits bound to earthly coils, and so this Hill stands forbidden and cold. Many glades and gardens could once be found here, amidst the crush of stone and steel. They brought hope and spring to the fae which lived here, yet many still were walled about with Iron by unknown hand in days long past. What events did so mark fear that Mortal Man must seal these glades from faerie step? Perhaps, with the deeds of forgotten Prodigals in the midst of winter, deeds now hidden by the Mists and the wish to forget a painful past, perhaps now we know. Two frail bridges crossed the Shining Waters. Cursed long ago by the nunnehi, the legend goes, the bridge would fall in blood, and doom would come to this place, and the white men who stole it. Tales told by a pooka, the wilders say; but no nunnehi attacked this place, no spirits came to meet with the returned fae. And then, the bridge did fall. Some point hand at strange and antlered spirits at the edges of the wood, others at strange fae beneath the waters, but most hold strong that it was the servants of those Invaders who have claimed Hibernia their own, who did this deed. The islands in the harbour, too, still hide their secrets. The grumps claim to have heard of tales where ancient evils sleep along these coasts, buried and forgotten beneath the islands of terror. The Bay of Shining Waters rests a safe harbour against the ocean's shoulders. The tall glass walls of the city ring it round about like the windows of a great cathedral, keeping most distant storms at bay. Yet even here, one fateful morning, the thunder broke, from a distant war.

Fortesses still spire to the sky in and about the woods of Point Pleasant, untouched by the devastation of the Black Ships. Tall, forgotten, deserted, their windows like eyes reflecting an empty soul. For the Near Dreaming has oceans, just as the waking world has oceans. While they reflect the placement of the mundane seas, the Seas of Dream are collective wonders unto themselves. Smaller holdings dotted the landscape of the Free Commots. Now, their fires are gone, their hearths broken. Little hope rests here for a Winter Court bent strong against its enemies, seeking its own history and its own tales. The spires of WinterHolm climbed to the sky in the grip of madness. The 'Shadow Court' nocker Doktor Fyne claimed this dark Glamour as his own. Seer to the remnants of a shattered land, what dark designs were plotted behind these shadowed walls? How long can there be before they are rebuilt, remade, and forged anew in darkness? Even now, a blighted academy rises in the depths of the Near Dream's Goblin Market. Other sites of Glamour might yet be discovered, if the kithain here can but hold out against the Winter's chill. Holdings long lost might be open once more, and memories of a past thought lost, with effort may be rediscovered. Small hope still waits here, hope that is much needed in this most desperate of hours. Arcadia is lost, and Winter is here. This is a time for heroes, for this is an age which needs heroes.