The afterlife, borne from a psychically charged ichor, was formed out of the two overseers Santa Muerte and Quetzacoatl. Their essence shifted, pooled and swirled together; his having somatic properties including sensation and perception, but also illusion. Whereas hers were of a materialistic nature, from mountains to stars, from her blood she dreamed of making a world. A dream became an argument, and an argument tore the heavens asunder. With the essence of each of the overseers, both shaped their own and now separate domains to suit their needs and purposes. Void, who has grown conscious over eons, syphons off their domains to create his own in the body of his own expanse.

The Calaveras (*) are a phenomenon subject to many rumors and hearsay in the afterlife. Some believe their conception predates the war, but even that has been obfuscated by time. What is known is that in concentrations of conflict and areas where souls have been forcefully dispersed they can arise, as a swirling force gathers around one who had fallen and culminating in its reborn form. They wander the lands between Santa Muerte and Quetzalcoatl’s domain endlessly seeking the chaotic fields of battle. The conjurations Calaveras produce accelerate combat to its terrible conclusion before again walking off without a word or moment's hesitation. When approached it is said they seem to be in flux between states of lucidity and delirium, a persistent persona of who they are or were shines through at times, and at others they seem vacant and can only offer peculiar utterances. However when attacked or attempted to be moved, the aggressors are dispatched near instantly. Now the Calaveras have come to be seen as forces of nature, as predictable as the tides and drifting like a soft breeze, but like lightning they strike indiscriminately.

Inside the black egg and deep below the eternal snow and the immutable obsidian trees, beneath even the unfathomable depths of the Dreamers Necropolis, there is a city. Clutched preciously, like a gleaming sapphire in a skeletal hand within a long lost tomb, the city is nestled within the cavern. However this is no place for rest. Arcilla Divina glows gently on the soft surrounding grey stone, its denizens forever testing and seeking a balance within new forces. The buildings themselves warp, degregate and even seem to tremble at times under the weight of Santa Muerte's vision. Like a cloudy sky it's perpetually taking new forms, sometimes it seems to gather densely, other times its light and structure gives indication of a god's paintbrush, but more so than anything else it storms and thunders showing no modesty for its underlying chaotic nature.

At the heart of the domain, encircled by the Rings of Preservation and above the Twilight Shores, the Ever-flowing fountain passes right through Miaquilia. The greatest of the human cities, both a marvel and a testament to mankind's collective imagination. Like all of the human designated territory it is a psychically malleable space where what is agreed upon exists. As humans are only allowed to reside for a century, the space is constantly taking new forms as architects, engineers and artists make bids for alterations. Large dining halls, pleasure domes and libraries are scattered throughout the area. Its current aesthetics are that of a futuristic city on an alien world where other planets, moons and nebulas are within view. The city itself has large open town squares for communal gatherings. Though sleep is not necessary, each resident has their own personal accommodation with paradoxical space, allowing for as large or small an area as is desired.

Within the near endless black expanse is a temple. A mishmash of materials stripped from the other two domains and held together by the bodies of possessed husks. It's vague amorphous shape crumbling as it sails through the void, covered in skeletal remains, it serves as the depiction of void's victory. As for the void itself, there is little to say of its empty spaces. The endless yet murky black expanse that could challenge anyone's grip on sanity. Yet still it is sought after, and a growing number seek comfort in its eternal embrace. Those who arrive here are granted true unconscious and final rest, a sleep to never awaken from. Besides the temple, there are ivory forests slowly culminating made up of the husks left behind from those who sought oblivion, and in time these forests fruit and bloom into creatures of nightmare. Void's growing sentience is a perturbation spreading like a thousand black tendrils, a wave of dark synapse filled with hateful intentions. This is the void in motion.