He opened his eyes.

At first, there was too much. Too much sound, light, movement — his senses were bombarded from every angle. The pain was immense, rippling through his body like a wave, tickling every nerve ending like sharp tacks. Slowly, the tidal wave receded, leaving him crushed and bruised, as shapes began to emerge. Dancing forms waved in front of him like flames, a harsh hissing skittering through him like flies. Gradually, he began to discern the frightful demons that cackled and roared about him, tongues of flame flipping in and out of their mouths like silverfish, their black claws clacking and clattering around him in the air.

He was dead. He was in Hell.

A Foreword by Lady Euphonia Winscort

This is the Eleventh volume of my dramatic retelling of the rise and fall of the Empire of Ever and Always, covering the first generation of the Era of Heiritance: the discovery of the Five Heirs and the events that resulted from their investiture.

I was enamored of the Empire of Ever and Always from a young age, specifically when first viewing “The Great Exodus” by the famous Uumphoun painter Koothoonu. Whether zey used three canvases because, as it is argued, zey were commanded by zer patron, or because zey could not capture the grandeur of the spectacle in one canvas alone, I do not care to speculate. What I can say is, as a young child, I was enraptured by both the size of the Imperial vessels depicted, and the remarkable scale of the enterprise.

I remember being fascinated by the prow of the lead ship. (Any who have seen the original painting in its place at the Garm Museum of Ancient Art will know which vessel I mean; Koothoonu’s masterful handling of color and shade make it perfectly clear which of the three largest ships is in the foreground) Whether Koothoonu painted a specific vessel or from memory is open to debate, but as a child I could not escape the horribly sad face of the foremost figurehead. Its gaze was steady, but offset, giving it the air of one who has seen everything they have ever cared about collapse into nothing, a face of unbearable sadness.

Something was wrong.

Nicholas K. Linkletter III, ‘Slick Nick’ to his friends and Mr. Linkletter to everyone else, had started slurring his speech five minutes into the board meeting. Then he put his head in his hands, muttering something about smelling lemon tea, and collapsed on the desk. His fellow board-members quickly turned him over, loosening his tie, and called the ambulance. Mrs. Jennings had checked his pulse and tried to administer CPR — a sensation that Nicholas found quite odd, as Mrs. Jennings was an avid smoker. The air tasted foul to his tongue, and he knew he should be coughing.

The medics arrived in only five minutes, having been out on another call. They took over for Mrs. Jennings, feeding a tube down his throat, and forcing air into his lungs with a blue plastic oval. This was much less comfortable at first for Nicholas, but his lungs were breathing cleaner now, not filled with leftover smoke that had settled in Mrs. Jennings’ lungs. He felt the sharp stabbing pain from a needle in his arm, and his body was lifted into the air by two strong arms, and onto a metal surface that clattered under his weight.

The fading sunlight seeped into the cell, past jagged iron grating that had long since turned reddish brown from rust. The birdsong of twilight began to dwindle, joining the sun in slowly sliding away from the grim event that was about to occur. Through the grating, Mary Harker watched as the random passers-by slowly faded from sight, returning to their cozy homes, loving families, and warm meals.

Mary turned from the window to her cell. Stone walls with an iron door was all that separated her from the world, but it was enough. There was little light, and only a small rat-hole in the corner that had long since been vacated. Even the rats would not stay in this cell for long — the stench of the dead reached all the way from the gallows. Mary nudged the small plate of bread that the jailer had given her. Perhaps it was Christian courtesy, or maybe some cruel joke, but the jailer had placed a small runny yellow glob of butter on the bread. She watched as the slimy fat slid its way down the stale wheat before she turned away. She wasn’t hungry at the moment.

And so my Travel Guide to Places that Don’t Exist is completed.

Well, completed is probably not the right term. One of the positives surrounding a fake travel-guide like this is that you can always add a new place or attraction, slotting it in wherever you like.

Will I do that? Possibly. Not for a while though, because I have something…a bit larger in mind for my next project. How large? Well, let’s just say I’ve never posted a project as I was working on it. Thankfully, I’ve always had a backlog of stories that I’ve “finished,” so I’ve always been able to relax and put the time into writing without worrying about any self-imposed posting schedule.

That’s going to change a bit. This next project is…let’s be kind and just call it unfinished. A lot of work is going to go into it, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep a three-times-a-week posting schedule on this project alone…so I’m going to start only posting it once a week, on Saturdays. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be focused on posting/archiving old work, and any one-shot short stories I come up with.

As I sit here, putting the finishing touches on this extensive book of marvelous places I have been, I find myself at a bit of a curious loss.

I have never been very good at languages. For all my traveling, I have constantly relied on locals, guides, and books to communicate with people who don’t speak my language. Translation is a difficult thing for me, and in writing this book I have been made painfully aware that the very act of writing is a kind of translation itself.

Set on the Rushblow cliffs overlooking the Sea of Crystal, the small town of Evenfarther is reachable only two ways. The first is to make your way to the Loplishy Prefecture, either by train, beetle-bus, or long-barge. Once in Loplishy, look for a small ramshackle storefront by the name of Tad’s Transit. Do not be put off by its awkward appearance, Tad is a professional and reliable pilot. You can then purchase a hot-air balloon ticket to Evenfather for only two canters. This is the safer method, if longer, and has the added benefit of being easy to access.

The Lane is one of the several wandering locations of Windawill. You will rarely find it in the same place twice, and you will likely only fall upon it by random chance.

If you want to seek out the Lane, you should wander the backstreets and alleyways of Yopshim, Dimasi, or Almeda. If this is your first time visiting, be sure to close your eyes tightly every few minutes, just to be sure you haven’t stumbled across it by accident; many tourists reach the Lane only to wander out again without noticing.

To get to the Grayglass Domes, one must first reach the Saltwater Plains. There are multiple ways of doing this, but the most reliable and comfortable way for most tourists is to reach either the town of Mémré or the city of Damasi.

Tours to the Grayglass Domes operate out of Damasi on a weekly basis, run by courteous and knowledgeable guides with years of experience. The Brushwik Tour Group is my preferred company, but I am also quite experienced as a tourist and don’t require much in the way of amenities or structure. Newcomers to the Grayglass Domes could instead opt for Anwyn Tours, a reasonably priced company that provides well curated tours that cover each of the Domes in full. Anwyn Tours is a good choice if you don’t want to miss anything.

If you don’t have much money, you can charter a flow-stone bus to the Alep Dome for the fairly cheap price of 4 dales, and wander the Domes yourself. This is a relatively safe option if you take reasonable precautions.

I found myself considering whether or not to include the great land of Windawill in this book. While there are certainly less hospitable places for travelers to wander, there are few full of more mystery or strange ways. A small land, few travelers are allowed entry into the Conference’s territory. Fewer still return eager to tell tales of what they experienced. As such, the majority of what I will convey is a combination of rumor, hearsay, and subtle suggestion.

I myself have found travel to Windawill becoming more and more difficult. For any number of reasons, many points of access are becoming harder to access. Ports are closing, doors are locking, and the once friendly land has become colder to visitors these days. It has become more and more common for travelers to require native friends or known travelers to be accepted to Windawill.

Currently, there are five well known and reliable methods for reaching Windawill: (Editor’s Note: One week before the printing of this edition, the Administrators of Windawillian Travel (AWT) withdrew all envoys, embassies, and travel agencies. The remainder of this section is therefore likely inaccurate. Please check for recent events and laws surrounding Windawill before making any travel arrangements.)