Welcome to the Hollow Moon

Transcript

Reality could be a strange and confusing place. Maybe that's not the best way to describe it. Not the best word.

Reality. It makes it sound like there's only one and nothing could be further from the truth. But the realm between worlds is, perhaps, the strangest of them all.

First and foremost, there is no light that can be observed, and yet everything that can be touched or perceived with the five senses are perfectly visible. There is no glow from them, no wreathing of illumination to hold them in stark contrast to the yawning void that looms like a backdrop of thick, old shadow. They simply are.

The liminal wants all items seen, and so this realm makes it so. And what a treasure trove of curiosities it is. While this quagmire mass of everything and nothing sprawls out widely in every direction, there is a chain of stained glass panels that stay in place, hovering horizontally as stairs to spiral upwards into black infinity.

Up, up, and up. A twisting kaleidoscope road to spear into the shadows. Encircling that are chunks of rubble, drifting as if suspended in a still lake.

Stone fragments, wooden splinters, shavings of metal and broken beams, all floating around the only path that can be seen rising upward. None from the same structure, none from the same time, and none from the same world. Not even a few feet from that collection of ruin and lost times is a dirt-smeared cannon, war-black soot scorched around the open-ended muzzle as a part of the chorus of memories that still cling to the iron beast.

But this weapon of war isn't alone, for just behind and off to the left is a massive clock face, one that is clearly missing the tower it had once been a part of. Incomplete as it is, the clock hands still move, or they still try to. Every twitch of a hand would advance forward maybe an inch before being clicked back into place, an almost indistinct echo of the tolling of the clock tower hovering like a memory, hovering at the edge of consciousness.

Click, groan, click. Time ever marches on, but in this space, it holds no dominion. Advancing up, the twisting tower of steps reveals a menagerie of trinkets, items, tokens, and other forgotten relics.

The top where the stairs are supposed to end, nowhere in sight. Hundreds upon hundreds of paper sheaves are wreathed around the path upwards, intersecting arcs slowly circling like planetary rings. Some pages are blank, unblemished by pen or stain.

Others are wine-stained or peppered with coffee rings. Some float along with the swirl, folding up at remembered creases to form neat shapes of origami before flipping to reverse, unfolding until it is all back to a flat sheet of paper. Rorschach ink blots burst across white and cream pages, the shapes carrying a tint of voices before shrinking backwards until there was nothing left.

Numbers, letters, musical notes are stretching across these forgotten sheaves until they free themselves from their prison. Glowing runes rise like ghosts from old grimoires. Sections of abandoned letters float freely in this strange but entrancing void to accompany the stairs ever upwards into it.

This menagerie holds more than just symbols and paper. Even bookstores have more than that, and this place is no bookstore. All the way up there's much more to see.

Broken pins with bleeding ink, cybernetic arms flexing their fingers but separate from any living thing to operate them. Rings of smoke flickering gas lanterns, loose rusted nails curling parchment. Ice cream cones capped with cotton candy blue, stray drops falling away but staying suspended in one place.

Spilled medicine bottles, both familiar and not. Large car wheels spinning burnt rubber, popping popcorn kernels to swell and grow in dramatic bursts of white and butter. A derelict star cruiser.

An old wound. A scar on its underbelly. A lethal blow that would have killed every soul on board.

The edges of the slash glowing an angry red in its hull. Floating pistols with bursts of smoke and falling shell casings. A handheld communicator projecting up a flickering user interface of glowing blue lines.

Shredded sails trailing from the mast of a ruined schooner. And behind that. ..

Enough of this. I, uh. ..

Hi? It's not often I get this as a first time meeting. Um.

.. Look, I'm glad I'm comfortable but can you get off me now? Thanks.

Hmm. .. Haven't seen you around before.

It's been a while since I've had a new traveler pass through. Welcome to the Hollow Moon, your one-stop shop in all-wandering-between-stops. Hmm, no.

Too many times to use stop in that. Oh, I'll work on it. Anyways, this is my tavern.

Think of it like a rest point between worlds. Uh, don't worry. Since I've never seen you before, I'm going to take a guess that you're a newbie to interdimensional wandering, yeah?

Okay, yeah, yeah, all right, come on. Come on, sit down over here. I'll make you a drink.

Okay, um, I know I left it over here somewhere. No, not that one. Ah, there's that tea set.

Oh, it's been a while since I've used this. And the cup. Yes, this one, just right here.

Let me get the water running first. There. Perfect.

Hmm, I think. .. no, not that blend.

Which one should I use? Ah, yes, the perfect blend. I think.

.. no, not that blend. Which one should I use? Ah, yes, the perfect blend.

Oh, don't worry, it's just a cup of hot tea. You're in for a treat. There's not a brew out there that I've found quite like this one.

And it's the perfect thing to sip on while you have to process life-upending news. Well, I know everyone's definition of big news may be different, but you're clearly new and haven't experienced the liminal before. Yeah, that's what I call it.

I'm not sure if it has a real name anymore. It's. ..

it's very old. But it seemed fitting. The liminal.

There's a world out there that calls spaces where the boundary between theirs and what they deem the spirit world a liminal space. So, that's what I call this place. I say it like there's more than one, because there is more than one.

Thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe more.

This place is, well, the space between them. And it's fluid. It adapts to their shifts and movements in the time-space continuum, if that's even the right word to call it.

I'm not really up to date on all the technicalities of this kind of thing. I just know what I see and what I've experienced. Not necessarily the dictionary terms, if you know what I mean.

But yeah, the liminal adapts to the shifts and changes in their movements. Otherwise, those worlds would just. ..

poof. Can't have that. Hey.

You doing okay? You look. ..

ashen. Let's start with something lighter. What's your name, traveler? Don't have one? That's a big thing to claim.

Don't have one, or don't remember what it is? Oh no, not the same thing at all. Forgetting your name means you still hold it.

It's still yours. You still have power and control over your own fate. But when you no longer have one, there is a part of you that will always be incomplete, and your own destiny will be beholden to other powerful beings.

I know. Here. Give it a few moments and let it steam.

It's worth the wait, and it will help calm your head. Make it all a bit easier to process. Why don't we start with the basics? Where are you from? If you can't remember the name, a description helps.

You can describe. .. Oh.

Oh. I had hoped that you had something to cling to, but the look on your face tells me you don't. I was afraid of that.

If you can't remember your name, it would make sense you don't remember where you're from. Well, it's hard to say. I wouldn't say it's really good.

It isn't unheard of to have memories be suppressed or lost, but while you're like the fifth person with this kind of condition in such a short amount of time… That's not a very easy answer to give. Time flows differently here. I can only tell you that I've noticed more like you.

It used to be that only one case would appear every now and then. How long? Huh.

I don't know how long I've been here. Sometimes it feels like it's only been a few days. Others… Anyway, it's not great, but it's not unusual.

I wouldn't say it's very bad. Well, I can't send you home if you don't know- I know. I know.

I'm getting there. By the myriad. Let me ease our traveler into this mess.

Up, Lim. Lim, you put that tea back right now. It's not for you.

Oh, ha, ha, ha. Yes, very funny. It's very, very funny.

You're hilarious. Now put it back. Lim.

Lim, drop it. Oh, come on. I just organized that shelf.

Lim. Lim. Well, at least it put your tea down.

Go ahead and sip on it while I get this mess cleaned up. Oh, that? Don't mind it too much.

It's just Lim. Yeah, Lim the liminal. I don't know, just calling it liminal space all the time did feel right.

Okay, that last little bit here and… That is a very good question. One I'm not sure I know the answer to myself. I know it's old.

Very old. And capable of intelligent communication, as you just saw. And of causing lots of mischief.

But anyways. What was I saying before? What was I saying before? Oh, yeah.

That's right. Normally, I help people find their way back home, but you don't remember anything. So it's hard to just guide you.

You may not even know how to recognize it yet with your memory locked away like this.