The Village That Shouldn’t Matter (But Does)
Kiojafell is a beastkin village on the edge of the Astrean Wildlands, far from the safety of any true kingdom and too small to command notice from empires.
It was never meant to last.
Kiojafell sits where forest thins into open land, at a crossroads of animal migration paths and forgotten trails. No stone walls protect it. No standing army defends it. Its survival depends on vigilance, instinct, and cooperation.
This is not a city.
It is a community that learned how not to die.
The wilderness presses close in every direction. Monsters wander near. Weather turns without warning. The land itself is unpredictable.
And yet, Kiojafell endures.
The village is shared by many beastkin lineages — wolf, cat, fox, scaled, horned, feathered, and others — bound less by blood and more by shared necessity.
Hierarchy is practical, not ceremonial.
Leaders are chosen by competence, not inheritance.
Strength is respected, but restraint is admired more.
Outsiders are watched carefully, but not refused outright.
It is widely whispered — among merchants, hunters, and certain priests — that those who arrive from elsewhere tend to appear near Kiojafell more often than chance would allow.
No shrine explains this.
No spell confirms it.
The villagers themselves deny any special status.
They simply say:
“The land is kind here.”
Whether that kindness is coincidence or design is unknown.
The rumor is persistent, dangerous, and impossible to fully suppress:
The newest Demon Lord first awakened in Kiojafell.
No one agrees on details.
Some say the Demon Lord was a beastkin child.
Others claim it was an outlander who arrived broken and afraid.
A few insist it wasn’t humanoid at all.
What is agreed upon is this:
Something changed after that day
Monsters became bolder
Fate bent more sharply around the village
People who passed through Kiojafell often went on to matter
The village still stands.
Which, to some, is proof enough.
Officially, Kiojafell is under the protection of the Beastkin Alliance.
In practice, it is treated as:
a testing ground
a warning sign
a place where the world experiments
No armies garrison it.
No banners fly above it.
The Alliance watches.
It does not interfere.
Kiojafell offers:
Immediate danger without guaranteed death
Access to wilderness, monsters, and factions
Moral ambiguity instead of safety rails
A believable reason for mixed parties to exist
A slow reveal of larger world politics
It is a place where:
heroes can fail
monsters can learn
Demon Lords can begin quietly
The Last Tower · The Quiet Door
At the heart of Kiojafell stands a ruin that should not exist.
It is a shattered spire of ancient stone, cracked, weathered, and deliberately incomplete. No banners fly from it. No wards flare. No guardian announces its presence.
At its base rests a single sealed door.
This ruin is known to the elders by many names, but scholars who recognize the stonework whisper a far older truth:
It was once the Tower of Babylon.
Thousands of years ago, the Tower of Babylon was not an act of arrogance—it was an experiment.
Mortals sought not to overthrow the gods, but to speak with them without intermediaries, without doctrine, without chains of interpretation. The tower rose not toward Order, but toward Chaos—toward beings who valued will over obedience.
The experiment succeeded.
And then it was ended.
The tower was shattered, not destroyed. Its upper reaches were erased. Its foundation was left behind, deliberately, as if severed rather than punished.
The door at the spire’s base has never been forced.
It bears no visible lock
It reacts to no known magic
It resists violence absolutely
The door opens only to a select few.
There is no pattern scholars can confirm. No bloodline. No oath. No prophecy.
Those who are chosen do not unlock the door.
They are recognized by it.
Those rare individuals permitted passage do not enter a dungeon, vault, or celestial courtroom.
They enter a domain that refuses to impose itself.
Within lies one of the few remaining direct access points to the realm of the Gods of Chaos—a place of mutable space, impossible angles, and shifting aesthetics that feel more welcoming than threatening.
Here, one may encounter the Pantheon of Chaos directly.
If they are fortunate.
Contrary to expectation, the Pantheon of Chaos is not hostile, cruel, or domineering.
They are:
informal
curious
irreverent
prone to harmless mischief
Time may stretch. Gravity may forget itself. Words may arrive out of order. Personal items may briefly become symbolic animals before apologetically returning to normal.
They do not demand worship.
They do not issue commandments.
They do not bind visitors to service.
They ask questions instead.
The chief among them, Vix’ke, is said to treat mortals less like subjects and more like interesting guests.
Those who have experienced both pantheons consistently report the same unsettling contrast:
The Pantheon of Order is formal, hierarchical, and absolute
The Pantheon of Chaos is conversational, flexible, and strangely polite
Order judges.
Chaos observes.
Order tells you what must be done.
Chaos asks what you intend to do next.
This does not make Chaos safer.
It makes it honest.
Clarification: The Tower’s True Identity
The Tower of Emancipation, the Tower of Babylon, and the Broken Spire of Kiojafell are one and the same structure.
These names emerged from different cultures, eras, and ideological lenses:
Tower of Emancipation — The divine and theological name, used by followers of Vix’ke and those who revere freedom, liberation, and the breaking of chains.
Tower of Babylon — The mythic-historical name, preserved in ancient records and moralized legends that frame the tower as hubris, defiance, or forbidden ascent.
Ruined Spire of Kiojafell — The geographical and secular name, used by modern cartographers, scholars, and locals who know it only as a shattered landmark within the Astrean Wildlands.
No inscription, map, or divine proclamation confirms which name is “correct.”
That ambiguity is intentional.
Vix’ke has never corrected the record.
To the faithful, it is a symbol of liberation.
To empires, a warning against defiance.
To the world, a ruin too dangerous—and too sacred—to fully understand.
And to Vix’ke herself?
It is simply her tower.