At the very edge of Tir na nÓg, where the stars feel nearer and the wind carries the hush of ancient breath, lies Ilagiit—a village nestled within the frozen fjords of Ynys Afallach's northernmost cape. The sea and snow blur together here, and the land seems to hold its breath in reverence. Ilagiit is not merely a settlement—it is a testament to endurance, kinship, and sacred silence.
Constructed from packed snow, driftwood, and whale bone, the homes—some dome-shaped, others long and timber-lined—blend almost invisibly into the landscape. Thick pelts line the interiors, trapping heat from seal-oil lamps and hearth fires that burn low and constant. Tools, masks, and talismans hang neatly from walls, each a story carved or sewn by hand. Communal spaces brim with practicality: food preparation, skin scraping, storytelling, and dreams all share the same breath.
The people of Ilagiit live in deep attunement with the cycles of ice and spirit. Days pass in a hush of routine: fishing beneath frozen bays, shaping bone into tools, chanting quietly as ancestors are remembered. Nights unfold in ritual, not spectacle—elders whispering truths into the fire, children learning to read the wind. Dreams are not idle here; they are omens, guides, and sometimes visitations.
Though the village appears isolated, Ilagiit is rich in connection. Kinship binds every dwelling—every soul belongs to a greater constellation. When auroras dance overhead, the villagers often gather in silent awe, listening for the voices of those who once walked beside them and now glide in green light. Ilagiit does not shout its magic; it hums with it—soft and constant, like breath in winter.
Living Spaces
