Aether Train
Introduction
“At first, we thought it was a ghost. That was until it opened its doors.”
For the past thirty years, the world has fallen silent.
Gone are the sounds of civilization; the rumble of engines, the flicker of neon grids, the ceaseless hum of infrastructure. What remains is not peace, but an ever-watching silence; a breath held in shadow, waiting.
From that sentient void, suddenly a light cuts through the fog. At first, it seems electric. Then it doesn’t. The sound follows: buzzing, rhythmic, like a machine mimicking memory. The earth shudders and the air turns metallic.
A train is approaching.
Most who see it assume the only sane explanation: they’ve finally gone mad. But then the train slows. It stops. A door hisses open.
“All aboard,” a bodiless voice calls, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
And then the door shuts - whether you stepped inside or not - and the journey begins anew.
Welcome to the Aether Train.
All Roads Lead to Elsewhere
No one truly knows who built the Aether Train; not the date, not the workshop, not even the world. Its purpose, it seems, was to serve as a trans-realm passage: a safer alternative to unstable portals, riding the Aether Paths, those leylines of raw magic that flow through all realms at once.
According to mage lore, its construction marked a rare act of unity. Each plane of existence is said to have contributed a single wagon, forged in the image of its own nature and laws. Spirits built theirs from ash and silver. The Fae twisted vine and dreamstuff. Demons merged iron with screams. Mortals, too, played a part. Some speak of a lost mage coven, its name swallowed by time, while others- especially among vampires - claim the Primordial Stefan, one of the first mages turned Immortal, was behind its creation.
Once completed, the wagons were entrusted to a singular, unknowable figure known only as the Conductor. From that moment, the train belonged to no single realm. Its most vital component - the engine - was the Conductor’s alone.
Nickname
Phantom ExpressMotto
"All Destinatons, One Passage"Creation Date
UnknownPrice
1 shard of refined Veilglass per rider (...or whatever the train decides)Rarity
UniqueWidth
3.8 meters per wagon standardLength
Estimated 110–140 meters (shifts unpredictably). Number of wagons ranges between 8–13.Height
5.2 meters from track to roof. Certain realm-wagons (e.g., Lumen Choir or Ember Vein) may exceed this internally.Weight
Unknown. Cannot be moved, halted, or measured by mundane means.Speed
Varies. Within reality: approx. 120–300 km/h depending on Aether Path integrity.Crew
- The Conductor (status: missing)
- No living crew
- Train appears to operate autonomously, responding to unknown stimuli.
Passenger Capacity
Passengers: 30–40 per wagon (est.)The Engine and the Veil
Once, the Aether Paths ran clean and bright, allowing passage between realms. The train’s stops were precise, tethered to the Nexuses, fixed points of convergence where the Veil grew thin and the borders softened. Each arrival was foretold, timed to the pulse of magic itself. But with the Cataclysm, the Veil fractured. The Nexuses drowned in corruption, and the train - like many other things not meant to be here - was cast adrift into the material world.
Now, the Phantom Train no longer follows the order of realm or rite. It runs on ghost routes, unpredictable and strange. It passes near shattered portal sites and places where the Veil flickers or strains but hasn’t yet collapsed.
Still it comes. Still it carries.
But no longer is the journey safe.
The train arrived as promised: at sunset, precisely. Not a minute early, not a breath late. The ground hummed before the light came, and then, through the veilmist, the front lantern appeared like a cyclops' eye opening in the dusk. The sound is not mechanical, though it mimics it. A pulse. A shiver across the leyline. The train did not roll in from the horizon. It just revealed itself, segment by segment, like a memory resurfacing in a dream.
The mortal wagon halted in front of me. I stepped forward, holding my toll: bottled aether, still warm, rare as breath. I didn’t offer it. It was simply gone; taken with precision and grace.
Then I saw him.
The Conductor.
He stood within the engine’s heart, cloaked in a patchwork cloak stitched from impossible things; vellum and shadow, dusk and bone, iron and rainbow dust. His brimmed hat drank the dying light. And his eyes...
They weren’t eyes at all.
Mirrors. Infinite.
Stars drifted in them, skies I’ve never known. I felt impossibly small. And impossibly seen.
Toll & Tribute
Not all who ride the Phantom Train pay the same price.
In the days before the Cataclysm, the toll was unique to each realm, part of a greater balance. Each passenger paid according to their origin and nature. Fae offered an ounce of their fairy dust. Immortals gave blood, willingly drawn. Demons bartered with pieces of stolen souls. Spirits paid with obols. Angels, it is said, gave only acts of mercy. Mortals had to pay in raw magic. Bottled aether. The essence of potential, captured in glyph-sealed glass. The toll was never demanded. It was understood. You offered it upon boarding, and if it was accepted, the way opened.
But that was before.
Now, with the Veil torn open, the realms drift, bleed, collapse into each other. The train no longer follow its custom route and currencies have been changed as much as the passengers have. The only fare the Train honors is veilglass; the crystallized fragments of the shattered Veil, pulsing with unstable resonance. Rare and dangerous to find.
Yet even this isn’t always required.
You may board the Train empty-handed. No one will stop you. No door will close. But the Phantom Train keeps its own books. If no tribute is offered at the start, it will take what is owed at the end. Sometimes it’s a memory. Sometimes it’s a voice. Sometimes it’s the reflection in your mirror, or the sound of your name when others try to call it. Sometimes it is your destination; still reached, but somehow wrong.
The Train never takes more than what’s due.
But it always collects.
The Ghost Routes
First Sightings & Mortal Encounters
"People thought it was a trick of the light at first. Then a shadow or a fevered dream. It was neither. It kept coming; always. It traveled at no tracks and stopped at no apparent station. But it was indeed a train... appearing out of nowhere."
The Phantom Train did not descend in fire or thunder. One day, it was simply… there. Survivors across scattered regions began reporting strange sightings: a crimson lantern blinking through the mist, a shiver in the ground, the echo of something colossal passing unseen. Most who tried to board it vanished. Some returned days later; broken, hollow, unwilling or unable to speak. Others never returned at all.
But its nature did not remain a mystery for long. The mages remembered. The Immortals. Both had used the train before the Cataclysm, when its arrivals were clean, its stops deliberate. Their revelations brought understanding and with it, a measure of control. Though the old schedule was shattered, patterns began to emerge. Mages observed that the train no longer stopped at the Nexuses. Instead, it now follows ghost routes: faded channels of magic running under the world’s broken skeleton.
The train still runs by a schedule, though loosely. It may arrive hours late or days early, depending on the strength of the leyline it rides. But always, it comes. Mountains, oceans, ruins; none of these obstacles matter. The train remains semi-material, a spectral engine moving through land as thought moves through memory.
Of course, this made it invaluable. In a world torn apart, where roads no longer connected and the old portals led only to death, the train offered something no one else could: distance conquered once more. Even with the risks, the toll, the uncertainty… it was worth it.
But the train had changed.
Each wagon, once tied to its realm, was now open to any who dared enter. Yet they are not empty. Whatever beings had boarded when the train fell are now bound within, trapped in endless passage. They whisper. They stare. They hunger. And most importantly, the seek a way out of this trap. Mages warn all travelers: only the mortal wagon is safe, or at least safer.
Few ever listen.
Discovery of Veilglass
But Louise’s most enduring legacy is tied to the Phantom Train. In a strange gamble, she used veilglass as fare for the train’s mysterious toll. Unlike those before her who boarded empty-handed and paid with fragments of their memories or worse, Louise’s offering was accepted cleanly. She stepped aboard and emerged intact, her mind, soul, and body untouched by the train’s hungry price. Since then, veilglass has become the universal currency of passage aboard the Phantom Train. Traders, survivors, and factions covet it fiercely, knowing that without it, the train’s journey is a dangerous and unpredictable game.
The Missing Conductor
Whatever the truth, their absence has left a yawning void of power. Without the Conductor’s guidance, the train’s path became erratic, its tolls inscrutable. Opportunists moved quickly to seize control. First among them were the Immortals - aware that controlling the train means commanding the last reliable transport across shattered realms. They claimed dominion, setting up toll stations where they demanded blood tribute and offered guarded passage. Yet their rule remains contested. Mages, Relic Hunters, and desperate survivors resist, hoping to wrest the train’s fate from shadow and blood, and to reclaim it as a vessel for their fragile future.
The Wagons: Carriages of Otherworlds
Each wagon of the Phantom Train is more than a vessel. It is a splinter of a realm, forged in its image and still governed by its laws. Though trapped now in the material plane, each carries the echo of its home: a shard of somewhere else; essences of each realm lingering inside, shaping what lies within. Travelers who step into these wagons step not just across space, but across realities; entering pockets of otherworldly influence where time, matter, and thought twist in ways that defy mortal understanding.
"The wagons are worlds trapped in a metal shell. I’ve been inside more than I care to remember. Each one holds a truth about the realms that forged it, and a warning for anyone who walks in thinking they’ll come out the same."
Mortal Wagon
This one’s the closest thing to the world I know. The walls are cracked, stained with dust and dried blood. Time drags here, fractured and slow, but it remains linear. You walk inside and the weight of loss settles deep, silent but never gone. It’s refuge, maybe, but it’s haunted all the same.Spirit Wagon
The air feels thin, like it’s been stretched too far. Shadows move where they shouldn’t, whispers curl around you; not quite words, but close enough. Faces flicker in the corners of your vision, trapped somewhere between here and gone. You don’t walk this one alone; you just pretend you are.Fae Wagon
Colors twist and bleed into each other, like the world can’t decide what to be. The laughter is always just a hair too sharp, the light too bright or too dark. You feel like you’re walking through a hallucination or a trap dressed as a dream. Nothing stays still. It looks beautiful, but don't let this fool you. You keep your guard. Always.Demon Wagon
Heat and iron fill this place, heavy like a pulse you can’t stop hearing. Shadows move with teeth and claws, and the silence roars with something waiting to snap. It’s a place made for suffering and torment, and neither forgets who you are. If you want to leave, you’d better be ready to bleed. And for the love of all that is holy: don't accept any deal!Angel Wagon
Light pours in like it’s trying to burn everything clean; including you. The quiet here is sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk. Don't be mistaken. This isn't a place of mercy. It’s one of brutal, unfiltered judgment. You walk under cold eyes that see every crack and lie, and they don’t blink. You feel the weight of your own soul. Trust me, it is unbearable.Dream Wagon
This one is a half-remembered thought, a place where nothing stays the same long enough to catch. The walls shift and fold, like you’re trapped inside a fading nightmare or a memory that won’t settle. You lose track of time here, and sometimes, yourself. Don't cling too long. Dreams have died long ago.Void Wagon
Darkness that eats light and sound; thick enough to choke on. The emptiness feels alive, a weight pressing against your skin. You want to scream, but the silence steals the sound before it leaves your throat. This place wants you to vanish. And some do.The Shifting Wagon
Nothing holds still. Shapes ripple and fold like smoke, and the air tastes wrong; like cold and quiet screams. You catch eyes watching you from places that shouldn’t exist, impossible angles that twist your thoughts. Step inside, and the lines between flesh and shadow start to blur. You’re not sure if you’re still you by the time you leave.The Transport of Tomorrow
Many survivors gaze upon the Phantom Train with a mix of wonder and wary hope. In a fractured world where nothing feels familiar, even a spectral engine becomes a beacon; a strange promise of connection and movement. The train defies all logic, yet it carries what the future demands most: the fragile possibility of bringing people together. Salvaged spaces of in between realms, it bridges the remnants of civilization, threading a path through broken lands and shattered hopes. But its passage is not without cost. The toll it exacts - whether veilglass or something far darker - stirs fear and unease.
Still, the tracks stretch forward into shadow and silence, bending beyond sight. Even if it is delayed, it will arrive. The red eye of its engine will shine suddenly through the fog and the doors will open offering a new journey. Many will enter, even if they are unaware of how to answer:
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Lovely as always. I really love how this world has an aesthetic that carries from one article to the next. I wouldn't have to see who wrote it to know that the article belonged in this world. Just that alone does a lot of heavy lifting for the tone of the world. Love it!
Thank you so much! That is very very good to know! <3