The most recently fallen of the cities-between presents a unique challenge to delvers, as much of the physical structure seems to flicker between corporeal and incorporeal states. Streets that appeared solid moments before may suddenly become translucent, allowing glimpses of chambers below, while buildings waver like heat mirages despite the perpetual dampness of the air.
Streets paved with opalescent stone shift and rearrange themselves when travelers look away, creating a network of roads that defy mapping. Cartographers who have attempted to document Biringan have produced wildly different charts, each valid only for the moment it was created. The central plaza, constructed around a crystalline clock tower whose hands move counter-clockwise, serves as the only reliable landmark. Even then, the tower sometimes appears as a solid structure of translucent crystal and other times as little more than a suggestion of architecture, its outline barely distinguishable from the mist that perpetually shrouds the city.
Sometimes this shifting reality gives opportunities to access locked chambers full of strange treasures, but just as often it causes the ground to fall away beneath the feet of an explorer. These phase shifts also cause electronics to behave strangely.
The deeper chambers of Biringan harbor creatures that adapted to the magical environment; translucent crabs with crystalline shells that can phase through solid matter, schools of fish that swim through air as easily as water, and more troubling entities that some delvers describe as “human silhouettes filled with starlight.” These beings observe explorers from a distance but vanish when approached, leaving behind only the faint sound of wind chimes.
Descending into El Dorado requires moving through tunnels carved with warnings in colonial Spanish and other, older and forgotten languages. El Dorado’s famous golden structures, though tarnished by centuries of neglect, still catch and amplify what little light reaches them, creating pockets of amber radiance amid the gloom.
The central temple, a stepped pyramid whose dimensions precisely match those of certain constellations, dominates the cityscape. Its golden surfaces have developed a strange patina that shifts colors depending on the viewer’s angle of approach, sometimes appearing greenish-black, other times taking on a deep crimson hue. The temple’s interior chambers remain largely intact, though the weight of the earth above has caused several lower levels to collapse into one another, creating a treacherous labyrinth of broken walls and collapsed flooring.
Surrounding the temple complex stretches the Garden of Offerings, where hundreds of stone altars stand in concentric circles. Each altar bears unique carvings depicting transformation rituals, human figures morphing into jaguars, eagles, or stranger creatures not found in any zoological text. The ground between these altars is littered with fragments of ceremonial masks, their expressions frozen in states of ecstasy or agony. Delvers report that these mask fragments occasionally assemble themselves into temporary wholes when no one is directly observing them.
The artificial lakes once used for ceremonial purposes have long since stagnated, becoming thick with an oily substance that exhibits unusual properties. Objects submerged in these waters emerge coated in a metallic film that gradually hardens into something resembling gold. More disturbingly, living tissue exposed to the liquid experiences accelerated but unpredictable growth, a discovery made at great cost by early exploration teams.
The streets of the buried city are still somehow stalked by dangerous jungle predators, and living in pockets throughout the city are twisted beast-men who dine on human flesh and seem to have lost all language and higher thinking long ago. While the ghosts of those who were sacrificed mingle with remnant spirits once conjured to drive the Spanish from their country.
The legendary seat of Arthur’s court now resides in perpetual twilight, its once-proud towers and walls reduced to crumbling stone embraced by the earth. The caverns housing Camelot’s remains are perpetually filled with mist that swirls and eddies as though stirred by phantom breezes, occasionally forming shapes that resemble armored knights or ladies in flowing gowns before dissolving back into formlessness.
The Round Table Chamber remains partially intact, though the famous table itself has collapsed into the center where the floor gave way centuries ago. What remains is a circular room with stone seating for fifty knights, each position marked with a barely-legible Norman French inscription naming its occupant. The ceiling above has partially fallen in, creating a shaft through which pale light filters down, illuminating motes of dust that dance like falling stars. Delvers report that on certain days, particularly those associated with Arthurian legend, the dust arranges itself into maps of battles or scenes from the king’s life.
Camelot’s courtyard, once the site of tournaments and celebrations, now hosts a grove of gnarled oak trees whose bark bears patterns resembling faces in torment. These trees have somehow adapted to grow without sunlight, their leaves a pale silver that reflects even the faintest illumination. The roots of these trees have penetrated deep into the foundations of surrounding structures, simultaneously supporting and disrupting the ancient stonework. Botanists examining samples from these trees have discovered cellular structures unlike any known plant species, suggesting they may not be trees at all, but rather something merely adopting their form.
Throughout the ruins, the sound of metal striking metal echoes at irregular intervals, the phantom clash of swords from duels and melees long concluded. These sounds intensify near what appears to have been an armory, now collapsed into a heap of rusted weapons and armor fragments. Occasionally, pieces of this ancient arsenal levitate briefly before clattering back to the ground, as though being inspected by invisible hands. The few intact weapons recovered from this site exhibit metallurgical properties that defy modern analysis, with compositions that include elements not found on the periodic table.
Beneath the main structure of Camelot lies a network of tunnels that appears to have been constructed as an escape route but was never completed. These passages terminate abruptly in smooth stone walls carved with prophecies in a mixture of Latin, Old English, and symbols that linguists have tentatively identified as Proto-Celtic. These texts speak of Arthur’s promised return and contain descriptions of events throughout history with disturbing accuracy, including some that have not yet occurred.
The wisps that float through Camelot’s mists avoid direct contact with intruders but seem to observe them with intelligence. These ethereal lights occasionally form complex patterns that correspond to constellations not visible from Earth’s surface, suggesting either astronomical knowledge beyond medieval capability or communication with entities beyond our world. Delvers who have spent more than three consecutive days in the ruins report dreaming of these wisps speaking to them in voices they recognize from their waking lives, though they cannot recall the content of these conversations upon waking.
Valuable treasures remain scattered throughout Camelot’s ruins: ceremonial daggers with blades that never dull, chalices whose water never stagnates, and tapestries whose colors remain vibrant despite centuries of darkness and damp. However, removing these items often triggers collapse of nearby structures, as if the ruins themselves resist being plundered.
In the claustrophobic depths before one reaches Atlantis lies humanity’s first great city, Babylon, its massive ziggurats and broad processional ways preserved in a perpetual state of decay that never quite reaches dissolution. The air here burns the lungs with sulfurous heat, carrying the scent of ancient fires and something older – the breath of creation itself, some delvers claim; preserved from when the world was young and gods walked openly among their creations.
The ziggurat of Etemenanki dominates the cityscape, its seven tiers representing the known planets of the ancient world. Though partially collapsed on its eastern face, the structure remains largely intact, its mud- brick core having transmuted over millennia into something resembling basalt but with properties that allow it to repair minor damage over time. The temple at its summit, once dedicated to Marduk, now houses something else, a presence better felt than seen, which causes electromagnetic equipment to fail and organic materials to age rapidly when brought too close.
The walls of Babylon bear the earliest forms of writing, cuneiform texts that cover nearly every vertical surface in the ruins. These inscriptions defy conventional understanding, as they appear to rearrange themselves when not directly observed, forming new sentences and concepts that respond to the questions in delvers’ minds. Linguists who have studied photographs of the same wall sections taken minutes apart have identified subtle changes that cannot be explained by lighting or perspective, confirming this phenomenon is not mere hallucination.
The hanging gardens remain, though what they now nurture would have horrified their original creators. Plants that feed on sound grow in dense thickets, their leaves vibrating to absorb the energy of footsteps or whispered conversations. Flowers bloom with approximations of human faces, their expressions changing to mimic those who observe them. Most disturbing are the arbor-forms, tree-like structures that have grown into humanoid shapes, rooted in place but capable of limited movement, their branches reaching toward passersby with apparent purpose.
Throughout the ruins, delvers encounter evidence of advanced knowledge that should have been beyond ancient Babylonian capability; astronomical calculations accurate to six decimal places, mathematical proofs that wouldn’t be rediscovered until the 20th century, and architectural principles that achieve perfect acoustic properties through seemingly simple design. This knowledge appears alongside ritualistic instructions for communicating with entities described as “those who dwell between stars” and warnings about “the price of wisdom freely given.”
The most dangerous aspect of Babylon is what lurks in its shadows, forms which move only when not directly observed, composed of darkness deeper than the absence of light. These entities leave no footprints and register on no sensors, their existence confirmed only through the consistent testimony of survivors who describe feeling watched from angles that shouldn’t exist within three-dimensional space. Expedition members who become separated from their groups are often found in states of catatonia, their eyes fixed on empty corners and their mouths forming words in languages they never learned.
At the foundation of New Haven’s layered history rests Atlantis, the first and greatest of the between cities, partially submerged in black water that defies analysis. This liquid, neither fully water nor entirely something else, maintains a constant level throughout the ruins regardless of displacement or evaporation attempts. Objects submerged in it emerge dry but permanently altered. Many parts of the city are entirely inaccessible except by going underwater, and navigating in the depths is notoriously difficult, leading many divers to be unable to find a way back up once they have gone under.
The architecture of Atlantis bears no resemblance to any known human civilization, constructed around geometric principles that induce cognitive dissonance in observers. Corridors twist in directions that conventional geometry insists are impossible, creating paths that return travelers to their starting point despite continuous forward movement. Rooms expand and contract subtly as though breathing, their dimensions shifting by fractions of an inch in patterns that match no known mathematical sequence. The most intact structures feature walls of a metal-ceramic composite with properties similar to both superconductors and biological membranes, suggesting a civilization that saw no distinction between technology and living tissue.
Throughout Atlantis, doorways present puzzle-like challenges to those seeking passage. These are not simple mechanical locks but integrated systems that respond to combinations of light, sound, and electromagnetic stimulation. The most complex require coordinated actions from multiple individuals positioned at specific points throughout the ruins, suggesting the Atlanteans valued collective effort over individual achievement. Several expedition teams have dedicated years to deciphering these mechanisms, though success often reveals chambers containing only more elaborate puzzles rather than conventional treasures.
The black water harbors life forms unlike any in Earth’s evolutionary history. Translucent creatures resembling geometric constructs, perfect spheres trailing tendrils in Fibonacci spirals, cubic entities that unfold into two- dimensional planes when hunting, and colonies of microscopic organisms that arrange themselves into patterns mimicking written language all move beneath the surface with apparent purpose. These beings generally ignore human presence unless disturbed, at which point they exhibit defensive capabilities ranging from bioelectric discharges to localized manipulation of gravitational forces.
Throughout the ruins, the black water ripples with movements that originate from depths no exploration team has successfully reached. Sonar mapping reveals structures extending miles below the accessible portions of Atlantis, their scale and complexity increasing with depth. The few probes sent into these abyssal regions have either ceased functioning or returned with data so corrupted it suggests fundamental incompatibility between whatever exists below and the principles upon which our technology is based.