A Bizzare Empath of the order of Goetica who Speaks with the Moon
There is a district of Fartown where everything changes size, where nothing stays the same for long. A massive mailbox dominates its skyline, and inside that mailbox lives Only Rachel.
Somewhat short, kind of round, and decidedly chipper, Only Rachel loves to make friends with everything and everyone. Her very best friend is Moon, the one constant in a world full of changes.
Her other best friend, to his dismay, is Eleventeenth Street.
An Eremetic Spirited of the order of the Vance who Turns Tales into Reality
The princess of a storybook that just so happens to be the pop-up book that she calls home, nestled between the charismatic Potato and a Dracula, is Malan.
The almost quintessential librarian look is Malan’s go to, aside from her near constant lack of shoes. Awkward and quiet, Malan’s goal is to go on an adventure worthy of writing about.
A Connected Galant of the Order of the Makers who Hosts a Legion
Eleventeenth Street is a grimy, abandoned subway station under a park on the edge of Far Town. It's also the namesake of the unrefined, chain-smoking Maker who calls it his home and workshop.
Eleventeenth Street is the sort of person who sees things from a practical perspective; one that doesn't always leave room for the immaterial. Carrying around a head full of demons wherever he goes, Eleveneenth Street’s peculiar brand of creativity is bound to leave a mark on the Actuality.
A Mendicant Stoic of the order of Weavers who Listens to the Whispers The Prime Archive. Fartown’s most prominent library. It is mostly quiet (save for the singing librarian) and you seat yourself at an empty table. Except, it’s not empty, is it? There’s a scruffy-looking bearded man seated and asleep in one of the chairs! Was he here the whole time? Strange, you never noticed before. He wakes, eyes you wearily, excuses himself, and harrumphs off to the Sub Basement across the street. It’s almost baffling to consider that he might even have the loose change to afford a cup of coffee, much less a meal. You catch a glimpse of the weighty tome he fell asleep on: “Perspectives in Theoretical Historiography“. Was he even reading this?