The Beings of Otherworld
Otherworld is the belief-shaped mirror of Earth—a world rich in magic where humanity is unknown, yet our stories wash against its shores through the psyche-arcane rivers we call ley lines. Which came first—Earth’s imagination or Otherworld’s reality—is a riddle with no agreed answer.
Here gods, monsters, and uncanny peoples aren’t symbols but neighbors. In older ages, when the lines ran strong and the walls were thin, they crossed between worlds openly: heroes on errands, rivals settling debts, courts holding feasts beneath strange stars. The traffic slowed as the lines dimmed; it never truly stopped.
From Jötunheim’s frost courts to Olympus’ burnished peaks, across Zhongguo’s immortal ranges, Alkebulan’s spirit kingdoms, Aotearoa’s atua-haunted coasts and far beyond, Otherworld is a planet where evolution follows magic, not math. Story is the selecting pressure; oath and place are the genes. Giants tread the earth, dragons stripe the sky, the Fey hold strange court, demons wage hellfire politics, and gods and great spirits wear the crowns. Each region runs on its own law of place—what thrives in one myth-ecology fails in another—yet all are linked by the same currents of belief that keep this world alive and in motion.
Everything in Otherworld is at least a little supernatural. Minds, places, and pacts carry more weight than metals and engines; beings wear the shapes of ideas we keep telling. As the lines quicken again, old thresholds stir. What follows lays out the essentials—how the place works, who dwells there, why bargains matter, and what it costs to step across.
Otherworld isn’t a museum of myths—it’s living history. Humans often assume that when our stories end, so do the lives inside them. That’s the dangerous mistake. Gods continue after the last line; heroes, monsters, and fey keep acting once the audience looks away. Otherworld is dynamic, with a timeline as deep as Earth’s—often deeper.
Wars and politics never stopped. Faeries and old gods have fought real campaigns against Hell’s reach. The Aesir and Tuatha still negotiate through gritted teeth; the Vanir and Jotun keep armories stocked even after Ragnarok was averted. In the East, yōkai and yāomó walk a razor’s edge of diplomacy. These peoples trade, feud, intermarry, and modernize in ways our folktales never recorded.
What we “know” is usually secondhand—blurred by time, retelling, and agenda. Zeus and Hera sought counsel: she to step back from the brink, he to remember the nobler god he once was; none of that made it into our tidy summaries. So treat every familiar name as a starting point, not a verdict. Belief shapes them, yes, but they are not frozen in it. In Otherworld, the story keeps going—and its cast keeps surprising us.
Here gods, monsters, and uncanny peoples aren’t symbols but neighbors. In older ages, when the lines ran strong and the walls were thin, they crossed between worlds openly: heroes on errands, rivals settling debts, courts holding feasts beneath strange stars. The traffic slowed as the lines dimmed; it never truly stopped.
From Jötunheim’s frost courts to Olympus’ burnished peaks, across Zhongguo’s immortal ranges, Alkebulan’s spirit kingdoms, Aotearoa’s atua-haunted coasts and far beyond, Otherworld is a planet where evolution follows magic, not math. Story is the selecting pressure; oath and place are the genes. Giants tread the earth, dragons stripe the sky, the Fey hold strange court, demons wage hellfire politics, and gods and great spirits wear the crowns. Each region runs on its own law of place—what thrives in one myth-ecology fails in another—yet all are linked by the same currents of belief that keep this world alive and in motion.
Everything in Otherworld is at least a little supernatural. Minds, places, and pacts carry more weight than metals and engines; beings wear the shapes of ideas we keep telling. As the lines quicken again, old thresholds stir. What follows lays out the essentials—how the place works, who dwells there, why bargains matter, and what it costs to step across.
Otherworld isn’t a museum of myths—it’s living history. Humans often assume that when our stories end, so do the lives inside them. That’s the dangerous mistake. Gods continue after the last line; heroes, monsters, and fey keep acting once the audience looks away. Otherworld is dynamic, with a timeline as deep as Earth’s—often deeper.
Wars and politics never stopped. Faeries and old gods have fought real campaigns against Hell’s reach. The Aesir and Tuatha still negotiate through gritted teeth; the Vanir and Jotun keep armories stocked even after Ragnarok was averted. In the East, yōkai and yāomó walk a razor’s edge of diplomacy. These peoples trade, feud, intermarry, and modernize in ways our folktales never recorded.
What we “know” is usually secondhand—blurred by time, retelling, and agenda. Zeus and Hera sought counsel: she to step back from the brink, he to remember the nobler god he once was; none of that made it into our tidy summaries. So treat every familiar name as a starting point, not a verdict. Belief shapes them, yes, but they are not frozen in it. In Otherworld, the story keeps going—and its cast keeps surprising us.
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