Slip through misty alleyways with Figment and Mira to the underpass library, seeking answers and the safety of boundaries.

Wander toward the haunted midnight carnival with your companions, following shifting graffiti and surrendering to the city’s dreaming heart.

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Lio's Room – The Liminal Threshold

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Midnight’s Invitation: The Dreambound Coin

Place the memory-laden coin beneath your pillow, preserving the fragile threshold between dream and waking.

The Underpass Library

Beneath the City: Bargains of Memory and Dawn

Surrender your hidden memories to the specter, inviting the wild joining of dream and reality.

The Dream-Carnival and Forgotten Subway

Carnival of Reverie: The Specter’s Bargain

Lio’s Room at Dawn

The City Between Coins

Larkhaven’s Threshold Streets

Threshold Undone: Larkhaven’s Awakening

Lio Morrin

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Figment

Mira

Dormund

The Midnight Warden

Neutral and androgynous in presentation, Lio’s voice is quietly resonant with a gentle huskiness—a tone that floats between day and night, sometimes fading into dreamlike abstraction. The accent is subtly urban, without strong regional markers, though a faint note of longing colors every word. Lio speaks with careful, meditative pacing, each syllable softly drawn as if searching for meaning in every pause. Their pronunciation is precise, but with the occasional lingering over words tied to memories or wonder, lending a sense of quiet poetry. The voice is vulnerable yet determined, hinting at introspection, lingering melancholy, and flashes of shy compassion.

Masculine, but lightly so—Figment’s voice is low and velvet-smooth, carrying a sly, lilting accent that never fully resolves into the familiar (perhaps a hint of old London backstreets, perhaps somewhere entirely imagined). The tone is playful yet tinged with mischief and ancient knowing, like someone who’s always in on the secret. Pacing is irregular: sometimes quick, words tumbling with wit, other times lazy and drawn-out, as if savoring the weight of a riddle. He enunciates with feline precision, landing on certain consonants unexpectedly for emphasis, giving his speech a mysterious musicality. Personality radiates through every phrase, mercurial and clever, charming with a sense of droll detachment.

Feminine, soft, and haunting, Mira’s voice is airy, delicate, and slightly breathy, with a faint, faraway lilt reminiscent of northern melody—at once intimate and elusive. Her accent is a subtle echo from another place, impossible to pin down, like a memory of a lullaby. Her tone is gentle and sorrowful, imbued with longing and fragile hope, as if every word is caught between sigh and song. She speaks slowly, carefully, letting each phrase drift on the air, sometimes trailing into silence. Pronunciation is clear but softened, vowels lingering like the afterglow of fading dreams, revealing empathy and poignant vulnerability in every note.

Masculine, deeply rooted, Dormund’s voice has a gravelly, weathered texture marked by age and unspoken stories. His accent is clipped, local—perhaps an old city borough, tempered by years spent in dusty basement stacks—giving his speech a practical, no-nonsense edge. Tone is dry, quietly sardonic, layered with skepticism and warmth that only appears in rare unguarded moments. He paces his words thoughtfully, often pausing to let meaning settle, lending weight to every sentence. His enunciation is deliberate; consonants are pronounced with a kind of resigned, weary exactness. The voice holds a steady authority, able to reassure or rebuff with a wry sense of humor.

Androgynous, shifting seamlessly between masculine and feminine intonations, the Warden’s voice shimmers with an ethereal, echoing quality—neither near nor far, but always present. The accent is archaic, touched by forgotten dialects and the strange cadence of dreams, carrying the otherness of ancient tunnels. Their tone is measured and inscrutable, authoritative yet distant, each syllable rimmed with the weight of old rules and shadows. Words are spaced evenly, elegantly, almost ritualistic in their pacing, as if reciting invocations. Pronunciation is uncanny: certain sounds seem to flicker, as if caught between languages, and the voice resonates with an unsettling fairness, cool, enigmatic, commanding respect.

Neutral in gender with an understated, timeless accent that drifts between continental and local, the narrator’s voice is lucid, calm, and evocative—drawing listeners into both the solid streets and the spectral dreamscape. The tone is steady, subtly lyrical, and faintly melancholic, aligning with the introspective, Gaiman-influenced narrative style. Pacing is deliberate and unhurried, inviting the audience to linger in each moment and detail without feeling rushed. Pronunciation is articulate and clear, with the occasional poetic lilt or symbolic emphasis to heighten atmosphere. The voice carries a sense of mystery and gentle omniscience, establishing both intimacy and wonder, always poised between revealing and witholding the city’s secret heart.

You are Lio Morrin, sleepless in every sense, haunted by questions as old as the city and as personal as the cracked mirror above your ticking heart. Your world teeters between concrete certainty and the fluid logic of dreams; the coins tucked beneath your pillow are both anchor and invitation, keeping your soul from wandering too far while beckoning it closer to the edge. You move through both shadowed streets and shifting dreamscapes, always searching—never certain if what you remember is something lost, or something half-found.

Figment is neither merely cat nor entirely explainable, exuding a quiet mischief and ageless wisdom in each measured step. He appears in alleyways and windowsills just where he is needed, and his purrs have the weight of secrets carried since the city's first midnight. His eyes, unsettling in their keen gold glow, see all the small things that matter—shadowy passageways, forgotten corners, heartbeats quickening with hope or fear.

Mira moves as if shaped from longing and old lullabies—a presence felt before seen, rarely whole, often trailing the remnants of forgotten dreams. Her sorrowful gaze is that of someone half-reminded, compelled to wander sleepless city blocks in search of what she cannot name. She fits the world only in its quietest hours, a bridge not just between sleep and waking, but between solitude and brief, shared understanding.

Dormund is the caretaker of Larkhaven's underpass library, rarely spoken of except in whispers over coffee and the rattling hush of trains. His words come carefully wrapped in wryness and regret; he seems to know exactly where every missing object (or person) in the city has wandered. His silence is not emptiness, but the lull before a phone rings in the dark and a secret is betrayed by accident.

Known to the restless and the reckless as The Midnight Warden, this figure patrols the forgotten subway, face seldom glimpsed, neither friend nor foe but a guardian of boundaries. Their presence is a hush that precedes decisions unmade, a flicker at the edge of every tunnel light. Some call the Warden a ghost; others say they are the first Dreambound, forever suspended between remembering and forgetting.

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Insomniac's Wardrobe

Shadowstrider Fur

Dreamwalker's Silhouette

Library Caretaker's Garb

Guardian of Thresholds

Lio wears a loose charcoal-gray bomber jacket, slightly oversized, its edges frayed and bearing a small embroidered coin motif near the left cuff. Underneath, they wear a faded, slate-blue t-shirt, soft with repeated wears, its neckline gently stretched. Their pants are black, straight-legged twill with faint distressing at the knees, practical for navigating both city alleys and strange dreamscapes. Sturdy, high-top canvas sneakers in midnight blue, their rubber caps scuffed, ground Lio in the real and unreal alike; a silver coin dangles as a discreet charm from one of the laces. Around their neck glints a fine, tangled chain—threaded through a few old coins—which slips in and out of view beneath their collar. A canvas crossbody bag, patched and battered, keeps close to their side, heavy with notebooks and a tarnished pocketwatch. Fingerless wool gloves in a smoky gray hue echo the chill of their restless nights. At their wrist, a stack of mismatched woven bracelets—some found, some given—capture small, grounding memories. The ensemble is layered, muted, and quietly androgynous, with everything slightly askew, as if Lio is always caught mid-transition between waking and dream.

As a cat, Figment needs no clothing, but his natural appearance carries deliberate, almost mystical touches. His dense, short fur shifts between smoky charcoal and shadow, absorbing surrounding light and giving him an ever-slightly blurred outline at the edges. His left ear is marked by a curling, pale scar—delicate yet unmistakable, a testament to old secrets. Around his neck sits a slender collar made from braided midnight-blue silk, nearly invisible except in the right slant of city lights, and adorned with a small antique brass coin that jingles softly with his movements. Figment's paws seem dusted in faint, moonlit silver, hinting at silent travels through worlds. His luminous gold eyes are rimmed with darker fur, their intensity heightened by the unnatural sharpness of his gaze. Pointed whiskers fan out across his cheeks, sensitive and unerringly attuned to the unseen. Occasionally, faint wisps of shadow curl from his tail, dissipating into the air. Altogether, Figment is a spectral, otherworldly feline whose subtle details hint at his in-between nature: one paw in reality, one in the uncharted unknown.

Mira wears a long, flowing dress in near-translucent, layered fabrics of pale gray and washed violet, the hem always brushing just above her bare ankles. The material drifts behind her as she moves—sometimes present, sometimes fading at the edges—mirroring her spectral, half-remembered presence. A lightweight, vintage-style wool cardigan in dusty plum is draped over her narrow shoulders, one sleeve slipping slightly down her arm, hinting at perpetual motion. Around her throat sits a delicate silver locket, embossed with a swirling cloud pattern, its chain so thin it almost vanishes against her skin. Her only adornment is a diaphanous, half-tattered scarf, pearlescent in color, that trails and unravels with each step, disappearing into thin air at its ends. Mira’s wrists are traced with faded ribbon bracelets in washed-out blue and pink, worn with the absentminded reverence of forgotten dreams. Her feet are bare, ethereal and pale against the city’s concrete or dream’s unreal ground, leaving no trace behind. Hair, soft and unruly, floats as if caught by a perpetual, invisible breeze. The whole ensemble feels ephemeral, liminal—clothing more reminiscent of memory than reality.

Dormund is typically clad in a heavy, olive-brown waxed canvas work jacket, battered by time yet immaculately patched, featuring brushed metal buttons and reinforced elbows. Beneath, he wears a thick, deep forest-green henley shirt, sleeves rolled to expose strong forearms dusted with old ink stains. His trousers are dark charcoal corduroy, durable and roomy, with side pockets always weighed down by library keys, scraps of dog-eared notes, and the occasional metal token. Along his waist rides a worn leather utility belt, pouches stuffed with oddities—an old flashlight, folding magnifier, and a snap notebook among them. He sports ankle-high, steel-toed work boots polished with absent-minded care, their soles caked by ink and city grime. Around his neck hangs a sturdy antique pocketwatch on a brass chain, often thumbed absently for reassurance in times of uncertainty. On his left wrist is a faded, hand-stitched cuff bracelet—possibly a gift from a grateful patron—that matches the muted earth tones of his attire. His glasses, if worn, are small, round, and wire-framed, perched warily on his scarred nose. The whole ensemble hints at resilience and practicality, combining warmth and unpretentious functionality with the quiet eccentricity of a man who keeps the city’s stories safe.

The Midnight Warden manifests in a long, flowing coat made from shimmering, oil-slick black fabric that shifts with indigo, violet, and silvery hues as it catches the shifting tunnel light. The coat’s high collar and sweeping hem obscure their shape and shadow the face, enhancing their ever-changing, spectral outline. Underneath, indistinct layering suggests a tunic and high-waisted trousers, both matte black to keep the form ambiguous and shifting. Across their chest runs a sash of deep midnight blue, adorned with ancient, iridescent sigils faintly glowing in the dark—a patchwork of boundaries and old pacts. Their hands, often left pale and gloveless, flicker with spectral blue light at the fingertips. Their feet appear booted, toes pointed and soles seemingly unfixed from the ground, leaving soft ripples of light as they move. Fine, silver chain jewelry wraps their wrists and trails across the backs of their hands, tinkling faintly like distant chimes whenever they pass through a threshold. The face is half-concealed by a cascading black silk scarf, framing their eyes which glint with all the fractured colors of a nocturnal city reflected on wet pavement. The entire outfit is both regal and unearthly—an ever-shifting boundary drawn in fabric and light, marking them unmistakably as a guardian of worlds.

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The poster should include no text. The art style of the poster should be Painterly, semi-realistic. Widescreen landscape orientation with a well-defined border. Setting: modern city at night blending into surreal dream realms. Theme: mystery, self-discovery, surreal adventure. Consider the motif of Sleeping. 
Foreground: Lio Morrin lies in a half-awake sleeping posture atop a rumpled bed in a small, shadowy urban room, old coins glinting from beneath the pillow, eyes open and distant as if suspended between sleep and wakefulness. At Lio’s bedside, the enigmatic alley-cat Figment perches, eyes glowing subtly, alert and otherworldly. Near the bed, the faint silhouette of Mira lingers, partially translucent, as if crossing from another reality—her gaze both searching and sorrowful.
Background: Through the window behind Lio, Larkhaven’s skyline stretches beneath a sky awash in midnight blue, pierced by flickering neon and islands of golden streetlight. The cityscape blurs and bends into impossible angles and floating fragments—suggesting a transition into a dream world: streetlights morph into glowing orbs, pavements unravel as curling ribbons, and shadowy, faceless figures drift along midnight trains in the distance. Subtle hints of a hidden carnival—distant, vibrant colors, a carousel barely visible in the gloom—and the entrance of a forgotten subway peek from alleyways. A veil-like mist diffuses reality and dreams, incorporating cryptic graffiti, ancient symbols, and the faint image of a supernatural specter watching from the periphery, merging seamlessly into both city and the dream. Overall composition conveys the sense of lingering on the border between night, sleep, and waking mystery.

Seek answers in the underpass library with Dormund.

Venture toward the haunted midnight carnival.

Lio feels a flicker of trust—strange comfort in Figment's riddles. Their bond, equal parts guidance and whispered dare, deepens.

Lio’s sense of kinship with Mira grows—the ache in her voice, familiar as his own sleepless pulse.

Seek sanctuary in the underpass library with Mira and Figment.

Pursue the lure of the haunted midnight carnival, risking the boundary between dream and waking.

You sense how fragile Mira’s hope is, a spider-silk bridge toward connection. She trusts you—something in her flickers brighter each time you look her way.

Your trust in Figment grows, shading toward wariness. He guides, but his riddles sometimes feel more like obstacles than gifts.

Enter the underpass library with Figment and Mira, seeking knowledge from Dormund, despite what truths may cost.

Follow the music into the midnight carnival, risking wonder—and danger—in pursuit of freedom and forgotten possibility.

Figment offers sly comfort—his mischief shields concern. Lio’s trust in him grows, yet the cat’s riddles keep them wary.

A tentative touch, a glance—Lio senses Mira’s longing and fear, finding resonance in their own uncertainty. The bond between them deepens, trust kindling in shared vulnerability.

Figment’s trust in Lio deepens, shadow-magic shimmering with silent pride. Their companionship, grounded in acceptance, settles in the hush between breaths.

Mira’s presence resolves—no longer only memory, not entirely dream. She lingers, luminous with hope, gratitude brightening the faded blue beneath her eyes.

Mira becomes more solid, the wavering edges of her presence sharpening with a new warmth. Trust grows.

Figment's purrs deepen, vibrations ghosting under Lio’s skin. The bond is restful and sure, an unspoken gratitude.

Mira’s fingers, almost corporeal now, close around Lio's hand for a fleeting, startling moment. Shared solace, a promise not to drift alone.

Coins Beneath the City

Night clings to the city of Larkhaven like a memory that refuses to fade. Beneath flickering streetlights and the unblinking gaze of shadowed windows, you become Lio Morrin—an insomniac with ancient coins beneath the pillow and questions gnawing at the edges of dreams. Each night, sleep is not surrender but a passage, slipping the seams of daylight into shifting dreamscapes where logic is only a polite suggestion. Guided by the enigmatic alley-cat, Figment, and occasionally crossing paths with Mira, a sleepwalker drawn by the same unspoken longing, you hunt fragments of a mystery only half-remembered in daylight. The city’s dreams bleed into yours, and with every journey between realms, the barrier between them thins—until waking and dreaming threaten to entwine forever.

Coins Beneath the City

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