Cosmology and the Dreaming Realm
Neon Tartarus is less a planet than a carcass — the corpse of a god-world gutted by war. Its continents are ribs and marrow, its seas are divine blood turned to acid, its mountains are frozen muscles clenched in their last agony. Beneath the surface lies the Dreaming Layer, where half-dead gods still whisper, twisting geology into hallucination. Time itself fractures in their presence: rivers flow backwards for centuries, and ruins speak in voices from futures that may never come.
Those who study the stars claim this realm is not singular but suspended within a greater labyrinth — a prison of dimensions. The fractured moons are not celestial at all, but anchors hammered into reality, keeping something vast from tearing free.
The Nature of Survival
Civilization here is a negotiation with madness. Cities cling to stability the way barnacles cling to shipwrecks, rooting themselves in floating ruins, inverted towers, and artificial suns. New-Troynia, a fortress of suspended islands, drifts above the storms. The Ascendant Astral Armada sails the void, desperate to cage what leaks from beyond. Tribes in the wastes survive by consuming corrupted ichor, reshaping their bodies into something less human but more endurable.
The ground is untrustworthy. Grass can cut flesh like glass, caves can breathe warm air like lungs, and deserts hum with the resonance of ancient hymns. Oceans glow with the corpse-light of drowned deities, phosphorescent tides rising and falling with their half-remembered dreams.
The Ruins and the Megadungeons
Everywhere stand the scars of wars divine. Monoliths jut from the earth like broken teeth; labyrinths plunge down into veins of god-blood. Some ruins are alive, pulsing with heartbeats that can be heard in the stone. Others are machines that weep rust and dream of fire. They are irresistible to mortals: each ruin is a temptation, promising relics, forbidden knowledge, or ascension — yet each demands something in return: memory, sanity, flesh.
Philosophy of Existence
Life here is not measured in years, but in acts of defiance. To plant a seed in poisoned soil is an act of rebellion. To sing beneath the broken moons is an act of faith. To venture into the ruins is to test the teeth of gods. Yet still, the people endure. They craft weapons from divine ribcages, forge armor from starlight, and weave myths from the marrow of forgotten titans.
The realm is not dead. It sleeps. And every nightmare that stirs in its slumber spills into waking life. Neon Tartarus is not a world to be conquered, but a question that devours the ones who ask it:
What survives when even gods can die?
Neon Tartarus is not a world so much as the scar of a war that should never have been fought. It is the graveyard of gods, a tomb of stars, and a battlefield that has never known silence. Its very air is charged with static, tasting of copper and incense, a reminder that divinity once burned too bright here and shattered everything it touched.
The Sky
Above the land hang the Three Broken Moons, pale fragments adrift in endless mourning. They drift uneasily, cracking further with each passing age. At night, they bleed light in jagged pulses, turning shadows into predators' shapes. Scholars argue the moons are the skulls of forgotten gods, their marrow still glowing. When they eclipse one another, storms of impossible color scour the land, reshaping forests and deserts alike.
The sun is no salvation. It limps across the sky like an ember drowning in ash. Some days it flares too hot, setting rivers to steam; other days it sputters and dies for hours, leaving the world in cold neon twilight where the stars themselves seem to whisper.
The Land
The continents of Neon Tartarus are built upon corpses too vast to comprehend. Mountains are ribs, valleys are wounds that never closed, and plains are the stretched skin of something that no longer moves. The ichor of gods flows still, black-red and phosphorescent, pooling into rivers that corrupt everything they touch. Drink from them, and your veins might sing with stolen power… or twist into coils of bone and light.
Nothing here is natural. Forests glow faintly with bioluminescent fungi, feeding on divine marrow buried deep beneath the roots. Deserts hum with subsonic vibrations, as though the sand