The Cosmogone Chapel
Home of Saychelle, self-proclaimed Bottomwarp Prince
You find yourself wandering yet another tunnel, spraling downwards, until..Things are suddenly quieter. Here, the din of thumping music and the chatter of countless voices fades to a dim thrum. A wide clearing greets you on all sides, circular, roughly a hundred meters-- and through it, the sun shines freely. No matter what time of day it is, light streaks through the canopy- it looks thicker, as if it was gathering in dense amber-hued rays. The effect leaves everything stained like amber: orange-gold paints the floor in puddles, pools of light. Far above, the leaves look like tapestries, golds and purples and reds and greens swaying like silk cloth in the breeze.
Everything here feels warm, damp, pulsing. As soon as you step into the clearing, you can feel the Growth under you ripple, squishing between toes or against boots- like stepping in a puddle. The place seems to be brimming with the vital material: From trees at the corners, you can see thick rivulets of it ooze down like languid waterfalls, caught in wooden pools, burbling, churning. Everything here feels...slower, as if time itself was moving as the light does- thick, heavy, damp.
Like honey. You can smell it on the air, pungent, sickly-sweet, almost intoxicating.
You’re not alone, you can see: there are others here and there. Though it’s enough to make a significantly loud party, the tone is hushed, quiet: voices seldom get to be discernable, save for the occasional moan of pleasure. Most people here are either engaged in rest or some sort of hedonistic congress. The Growth seems eager to encourage; furniture grows here much faster than you’d expect: if a couple is in mid-kiss and stumble back, they’re caught effortlessly by a self-growing chair or couch. Some rest in slime-made hammocks, others get whole beds; as soon as they stand, the slime ebbs back into the floor’s mass.
The center currently sports...some kind of sculpture. It looks like a spiral, a pillar of Growth stretched upward and then twisted, soft corkscrew grooves curling upward along it. It almost feels like a ramp that you could climb: glow pulses under the surface of each curvature, lazily spiraling upwards in arcs of rainbow light. The top is a smooth plane, with a wide, egg-shaped seat atop it: easily wide enough for one or two people to have a bout of bliss together in. Leaves of the aqueous stuff droop down from the top of the sculpture, like leaves on a palm tree-- or petals to a flower, waiting to close.
