Aufero

Aufero is a strange place.

Almost, but not quite, sensible. Approaching, but never meeting, sane.

So many pieces that don’t fit. Words, names, places, people, gods, colors, music. A world on the edge

Artist: W. Heath Robinson

of things, a Grand Central Station of the cosmos. A quiet shore where many lost things wash up and begin again.

What brings them there? What keeps them there?

The Lost named it, when they stepped from their silver ships. In the old tongue, it means “to steal”. As if the world itself was a bandit, reaching into the pockets of more respectable universes and grabbing everything that jingles, everything that shines. Aufero piles up its treasure, little caring for organization or thrift. Rubies bang against pennies, coarse granite against opal.

History wanders, and logic gets lost. Civilizations rise by whim, and the unlikely and strange gad about in the common streets as if protected by royal decree.

Dinosaurs moan about philosophy, while living skeletons make a proper Old Fashioned at the bar. Swaggering bravos, kings and titans of industry all plot and battle in the streets of a city where it is always night, for no particular reason at all. A patient prince of Hell lays waste to all who oppose him, cheating the laws of the universe with deadpan glee. Minotaurs play chess. Gnomes sing the blues.  Friendship is real, and love is real and death is real  — side by side with a thousand quiet absurdities and the hallowed mundane.

George Washington wearing a clown nose.

Do you want to go?

[Just some navel-gazing about my main story-world.]

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