Level 57 1

ʎɹǝןןɐꓨ ʇɹⱯ ןɐuɹnı̣ꓷ — NIGHT



Class 0

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Level 57, also known as the Diurnal Art Gallery, takes the appearance of a sprawling art gallery, composed of two primary sections: The Registry and The ╨a]] õł /\ü「Æ$

The Registry


A floorplan of the level.

The Registry is a room comprised of a front desk and drawing table flanked by several shelves. Near the front of the room where the wanderer first enters Level 57, one can find a row of metal chairs accompanied by empty magazine holders. On the far left of the room is a single window, where soft light trickles through from the curtains.

The registry table doubles as a bar, serving various beverages including almond water. One can also find several pestles stacked with mortars, although no food is offered.

The space is empty save for three potted plants set on high-strung shelves, two stools bearing greco-roman sculptures, and one singular p^įńರೃ hanging at the back of the room.

Aside from this, the Registry is otherwise unremarkable.


The Hall of Murals


A dream within a dream.

On certain starlit nights, when the light beyond the registry window fades, opalescent curtains give way to a clear simmering blue, and one who takes the heavy doors far on the right may find themselves in a seemingly endless corridor stretching beyond any wanderer's field of view.

The hall is a soundless sight to behold. The columns stand silent and proud, the ceiling suspended above for what seems to be miles. The barest of light flickers in and out of the windows, painting glistering marble with what seems to be stars above, hovering motionless over this great dark dome. The walls are lined with sculptures of forgotten gods, each figure frozen in a marmoreal visage of divine triumph and retribution, breathing an echo of life back into long-buried myths and legends that have not been recited in centuries. They are alone here now, beyond death or judgement, and perhaps it is only in this place that they can be together in serenity: like equals, like family. In some ways, it feels a little like reunion.

But it is the murals that truly steal your breath away. On every surface of marble white, glimmers shifting iridescent paint, weaving a tapestry constructed of threads upon threads of ancient kingdoms and forgotten dynasties. Do you see, dear wanderer, the Onyx King's regal command? The Timekeeper's drunken stupor? The Lover's fiery passion? The great temple of Hoofstaad, the fabled kings and queens of lands from across the stars, all immortalized in a rich tapestry of color. But they are not just paintings.

To me, they are never just paintings.



The Cozy Gallery is entirely devoid of entities, save for two entirely unique to the level.

The Painter

She does not wander here, but the halls are stained with her shadows.

…It is strange. For the longest time, no human has stepped foot in the Hall of Murals. No new footsteps have disturbed the silence that settled in h¿r wake. And so, as time flows, with new wanderers coming and old visitors going, the question remains: who is she truly? This singular, persistent wonder follows the budding painter day and night as she is left alone in her studio, working in her solitude.

And in this regard, I relate to her plight.

The Muralist

As for the Muralist, her presence is a far more subtle glow, only visible on the blackest nights beneath a starry dome. Standing tall, she is draped in a flowing white gown and veil, leaving the visitors to ponder her nature, and the purpose behind her silent vigil.

At least, that is how she is seen by those who frequent these halls. In the eyes of the artist, she is but a humble servant to her depictions, an undying loyalist to long-sleeping gods. Perhaps she has been here for ten years or ten centuries — why, I wouldn't know — only that, in half the time, I've touched and dyed every single mile of marble.


The artist lives in me
The artist dies in me

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