Sanctuary List

Chloe: The Home of Held Tomorrows

Rising from the earth as though it had always stood there is a sprawling Victorian house, its pale stone walls lined with ivy, its roof pitched high and gabled. Tall windows gleam in the sunlight, and smoke curls lazily from a chimney, filling the air with the faint scent of baking bread. It looks like something pulled from both memory and dream. Inside, the halls are wide, polished wood gleaming, the ceilings vaulted and airy.

The front parlor is warm, with heavy drapes and a wide fireplace. A nursery painted in soft pastels waits for future children. Beyond it lies a greenhouse bursting with vines and blossoms, sunlight streaming through glass panels - Erin's garden sanctuary. Next, a library with towering shelves and velvet chairs, the smell of paper and ink filling the air - Claire's retreat, quiet and wise. Across the hall is a den with worn leather couches, a dartboard, and the faint scent of smoke - Riley's haven, a space for laughter and arguments and stories. A music room with a grand piano and stands for instruments for Marissa, Emily, and Andy himself. A studio with wide windows, canvases, and a kiln for Liesa. A sunlit balcony strewn with herbs for Dawn. A meditation chamber with lanterns hung like stars for Emi's dreams. Countless nurseries, most of which contain more than one crib, so that no baby is ever left alone. A great hall where the dining table is set every evening, one chair for each member of the harem. There's even a black door leading to a room Chloe set aside for Mildred, should she ever ever visit. Each room hums with personality, Chloe's love made physical in architecture. This is not just a house - it is a home for all of them, built from her longing to see everyone cherished.

Claire: The Sky Archive

A cathedral of knowledge on the side of the volcano, the Sky Archive is an impossible prismatic edifice of glass, brass, and stone that hangs off the side of the volcano. The building is translucent yet solid, its floors made of shimmering panes that reveal clouds rolling, and the island landscape, far beneath. Books drift between shelves as if weightless, sometimes rearranging themselves when no one is looking. The walls are not walls at all but vast panes of glass interlocked into a polyhedral shape, framing an ever-changing horizon: sunrises that seem too close, storms blooming like brushstrokes, the velvet hush of night pierced with constellations. A balcony allows Claire and her guests to look at the vast horizon, and the hidden islands beyond their reach. Claire has built a space where logic and imagination cohabitate, a sanctuary that feels at once ordered and infinite. There is a section for Unlived Lives, where books about how one's life could have been different are stored, even though it was not of Claire's design. Plants decorate the Archive since Erin's visit.

The Sky Archive is accessible via a passage through the Hotel Library, leading to a spiral staircase that ends in a trapdoor. The trapdoor leads directly to the Sky Archive.

Dawn: The Chapel of Small Kindnesses

The Chapel of Small Kindnesses is a sanctuary shaped entirely by light and restraint, set at the edge of a grove where the sky is allowed to participate. There are no walls, yet the space feels held: sunlight bends into quiet planes and corridors as the day advances, sketching an architecture that exists only in motion. Morning light drapes the clearing in gold, noon stacks brightness into an illusion of height, and at dusk the air itself seems ribbed and vaulted as the sun passes cleanly through the heart of the space.

At its center, a simple arch of woven branches outlines rather than contains the sacred. It is the light between the branches that completes it, breaking the sky into shifting facets like living stained glass. Beneath it, crescented benches face inward, their worn surfaces catching warmth without shine, illuminating every scar and knot with care. Several rough wooden benches, beautiful in their rustic simplicity, nearly glow when the sunlight shines on them, bringing all knots and veins to the surface.

The ground remains bare earth, yet light behaves there like water, pooling briefly around footprints, leaves, or places where someone once lingered. Pale flowers at the clearing’s edge follow the sun with patient devotion, and as evening falls, the chapel opens upward rather than fading. The last light lingers longer than it should, and when it finally yields, the stars appear precisely framed by the arch—suggesting that even the vastness above is made, here, of countless small and careful acts. Nearby, the Noticeboard of Small Kindnesses hangs suspended on threads barely visible when the light hits them, its papers never still, their overlapping shadows weaving a slow, breathing record of promises offered softly and without expectation.

Emi: The Forest of Beginnings

A door located in the corridors of the Main Lobby leads to the Forest of Beginnings. The world on the other side of the door is oneiric. The air is cool and blue, the ground springy, the sky is perpetually shrouded in twilight, and trees in perfect columns, trunk to sky, each one translucent, like glass pulled into shape by some celestial hand. The trunks aren't clear, exactly, but filled with light: iridescent veils and ribbons that twist and shine with every shift in perspective. Their branches curl and weave around each other. The canopy overhead is more shadow than leaf, flickering and alive. The grass is spiral-shaped.

The undergrowth glows, too-patches of bioluminescent moss, clusters of what look like oversized bluebells, pools of water studded with lazy, drifting motes. Every step feels deliberate; the geometry of the place is off by a quarter turn, the paths always curling back toward the visitor. Everything is soft-hued, as if painted in watercolor.

There is a fox, carved from the same glass as the trees, perched beside a mushroom cluster; a stretch of silver grass, each blade as fine as hair; a clearing where the moss glowed with a faint pulse, as if it breathed.

In the heart of the woods is a shallow pool. The water is still, and reflects an alien sky-no clouds, but thousands of pinpoint stars, some in unfamiliar constellations. If touched, the water doesn't ripple, but light spreads in concentric colors.

Emily: The Tavern of Second Chances

This is a tavern that looks pulled from a storybook. Its timbered walls are dark oak, its roof thatched neatly, its mullioned windows glowing with warm lamplight even in the day. A carved sign swings above the door, etched with a sprig of rosemary and the words Second Chances in looping script. The moment you step inside, you feel the tug of nostalgia for a place you have never seen - the kind of hearth you'd yearn to return to after a long journey.

The air is rich with scents of fruit and spice, the low ceiling crossed by polished beams. A fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, not grand but steady, casting its glow across sturdy wooden tables scattered with candles and fresh flowers. A counter of smooth oak gleams at the far end, bottles lined neatly along the shelves, each filled with jewel-bright syrups and infusions. Every detail speaks of comfort - a home for strangers who need reminding that life always offers another chance.

Erin: Verdant Arches

The Verdant Arches are a hidden, ancient stone ring set in a shallow forest hollow, formed from the surviving remains of a much larger, older structure. The architecture feels heavy, deliberate, and ritualistic rather than decorative, with massive, weather-worn stones marked by subtle repeating impressions and overgrown by moss and roots that seem to follow intentional, almost remembered patterns.

The site has been partially restored and transformed by Erin. Broken arches were raised, buried stone uncovered, and the surrounding soil and growth were reshaped. Wisteria and jasmine now cascade densely over the arches, growing at an unnatural speed and giving the place a lush, almost sentient quality, as if the vegetation is responding to the site’s original purpose.

Light and sound behave strangely inside the ring: sunlight pools toward the center, the air feels cooler and heavier, scents are intensified, and sound seems softened or absorbed. The overall atmosphere suggests a place historically used for serious, irreversible decisions — sacred, judicial, or ceremonial in nature.

At the center is a natural hollow beneath the vine canopy, now softened into a private, secluded gathering space.

Liesa: Atelier of Palimpsests

The atelier exists in a folded space: from the outside, it appears as a modest pavilion attached to the Hotel grounds. Inside, it unfolds into a sequence of impossible chambers arranged like thoughts branching from a single idea. There is no fixed floor plan. Rooms subtly rearrange themselves depending on: who is present, what medium is being used, and whether something is being created from memory, observation, or desire.

The heart of the atelier: a vast, art deco, cathedral-like space dedicated to painting. The ceiling is an impossible lattice of glass and pearl-white stone, allowing light to flood in. Light enters from all angles simultaneously—north light, golden afternoon, overcast gray—each isolated into controllable “bands” that can overlap or contradict each other. Painters can literally step between lighting conditions mid-canvas. No clocks. Time slows here when someone is deeply focused.

The atelier smells faintly of oil paint, paper, and ozone after rain. Music never plays unless summoned—and when it does, it feels like it came from the walls themselves.

Marissa: The 88 Club

The moment you step inside, the world contracts to something intimate and worn-in. Low ceilings press down like a gentle embrace, painted matte black to swallow the light and focus everything on the small stage tucked into the corner. Burgundy velvet banquettes line the walls, their fabric soft with age.

The lighting is all amber and shadow—vintage Edison bulbs strung haphazardly overhead, table lamps with fringed shades casting pools of warm gold on scarred wooden tables. Cigarette smoke seems to cling to the air even though smoking was banned years ago, a phantom scent that mingles with aged leather and the ghost of spilled bourbon.

The centerpiece is the baby grand piano, its black lacquer surface reflecting the stage lights like dark water. The bench is worn smooth from decades of musicians sliding on and off, and the keys show the telltale yellowing of age and countless late-night sessions. Around it, mismatched chairs and music stands suggest this is a place where musicians gather organically, where the magic happens in the spaces between the planned sets.

Myra: The House of Quiet Waters

The entrance is low and unadorned. Within, the air is warmer, heavy with the faint mineral scent of heated water and flowers. Light comes from recessed niches along the walls—small candles hidden behind frosted alabaster—so that everything glows rather than shines. The floors are smooth basalt, fractured deliberately and mended with molten gold. The walls are the same. Sound dulls here. Footsteps soften. Voices instinctively lower.

The first chamber is the Threshold Basin. A shallow sheet of warm water spreads from wall to wall, barely reaching the ankles. Steam curls upward in delicate strands. By the time one reaches the opposite side, the noise within the chest has already quieted.

Beyond it lies the Steam Gallery, a long, dim corridor where vapor drifts in slow tides from hidden vents along the floor. The ceiling arches low overhead. Stone benches curve along the walls, their surfaces heated from within. The only sounds are breath and the occasional muted drip of condensation sliding down gold-seamed walls.

From the gallery, small doorways open into the Kintsugi Pools—three circular mineral pools, each of different depth and temperature. The water is dark and luminous at once. Stone ledges curve just below the waterline, allowing bathers to recline with shoulders exposed, heads tipped back against smooth rock. The light here is lowest of all, a honeyed glow that clings to skin and makes every movement slow, deliberate, unthreatening.

At the heart of the House waits the Still Room. No water runs here. The floor is layered in thick woven mats. The ceiling dips close, creating an enveloping hush, and the gold seams radiate outward from a central point like a quiet sun.

Norah: The Hearth of Gathering

From the outside, the door opens where a corridor should end. Inside, the room unfolds into a vast circular hall, its curvature subtle enough that it takes a few steps before the mind registers there are no corners at all. The ceiling rises higher than the building allows, lifting into a shallow dome threaded with beams that seem more suggested than structural.

At the center of the room sits the table, round, the surface is warm wood, large enough for meals, games, arguments, reconciliations. Around it are chairs — fifteen of them — none alike. Each bears the name of one of the women of the harem (two for Laura) and one bears Andy's name.

Above the table hangs a loose constellation of Middle Eastern glass lamps, suspended at different heights. Each casts its own color and texture, and together they create a warmth that never quite settles into uniformity. No single lamp dominates. The light adjusts itself subtly depending on who is present, brightening when the room fills, softening when it empties.

Set a little off-center is the firepit. The fire burns steady, never roaring, never dying down completely. It smells faintly of woodsmoke, sugar, and toasted bread.

Around the outer walls run bookshelves, curving with the room. Books sit beside folded notes, photographs, pressed flowers, handwritten recipes, ticket stubs, objects with no obvious use.

Between the shelves, the architecture folds inward to create nooks. Window seats appear where no windows should exist, opening onto impossible views: a garden at dusk, the ocean at night, the island under a storm that isn’t happening anywhere else. Cushions are piled deep enough to disappear into.

Riley: The Walk of Remembrance

A path through the island forest, the air growing denser as the path snaked under ancient arbors of wild grape and honeysuckle. The light here is more than just green; it is alive, winking through the shifting canopy. The path first leads to an old dock on the river, the wood etched with countless professions of young love from teenagers who hid here. From there, the path leads upwards, and emerges into a clearing atop the cliff where a stone bench, old and splintered, sat half-buried under a crush of vines. It looked like it had grown there, alive in its decay, one armrest shattered into a stub. It is an exact copy of a place along the Willow Run riverbank, a couple of miles south of the footbridge, where Riley and Laura used to sit for hours, and Andy would sometimes join them.

From there, the path continues back into the forest. At the bottom of the path, two huge boulders lean together, forming a narrow mouth just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Inside, the space widens into a hollow, the floor packed smooth by years of feet. Above, the rock is painted with lichen and the faded graffiti of past generations—initials, dates, the odd profanity. At the far end, daylight pours in from a crack near the roof, illuminating a circle of sand and driftwood where someone once built a makeshift throne. Riley and Laura called this place the Cathedral, and it was the place where they shared secrets.

Finally, the path reaches a clearing atop a second cliff, where a white stone - a gravestone marker for Riley's son - stands alone, in the quiet peace of the forest.

Sam: The Pavilion of Bonds

A circular pavilion stands on a cliff overlooking the ocean, like a lookout with a clear view of the entire island. Fluted columns support its roof, and between them hang red and silver banners embroidered with abstract glyphs representing each of the Contestants. Among them hangs a green and gold banner bearing Andy’s symbol.

At the center rests a large round white table carved with the symbol of entwined hands. When Sam touches its surface, the design shifts and reshapes into any map she can imagine, the terrain rising in miniature relief to form a three-dimensional landscape. Sam thinks it’s awesome for roleplaying games. Fifteen chairs are arranged around the table.

Beyond the pavilion’s open interior, a rope railing marks the edge where a circular terrace begins, leaving a single archway as the passage between the two spaces. At the center of the terrace stands a large signal brazier. At night its flame burns bright against the sea, turning the pavilion into a beacon or lighthouse visible across the island. Comfortable benches surround the brazier, and the fire changes color depending on who lights it.

Inside the pavilion, a low bookshelf rests against the railing, holding gaming manuals, bags of dice, miniatures, and battle mats. Wind chimes made of shells hang from the roof beams, ringing softly in the sea breeze as if greeting visitors. Maps are pinned to several columns, Sam’s world on display. Near one column sits a small nest of soft pillows reserved for Samson Drei.

Carved into one of the pillars is a tiny dragon, which Sam calls "Corporal Nat Twenty," and jokingly refers to as “the party mascot.”