Fenil, Duke of Cinderblocks, lived beyond imagining, in the City of Stones within the Lands of the Dead, some three days travel from anywhere and everywhere when one walks through the Greyness that is Chaos, io, or about two hours if one has courage enough to take the Shuttle from the End of Everything. Most walk.

So many had written of dragons, but they were humans and could not be expected to know the truth about the winged ones. At last they decided to take up pens themselves, and set the record straight. Once they had begun, however, they found it impossible to cease working on it entirely, finding themselves revising and adding to the material already there at the oddest times.

The room, if it could be called such, was a collection of tapestries. She had wondered, once, how the ceiling stayed up.

The House of Stories was covered in dust and cobwebs, for it had been there a long time and was destined to remain for longer still. The rooms smelled of lilac and lavendar, and curtains of old lace draped over the empty windows and empty chairs, adding to the aura of age and neglect. As any visitor there would tell you, people came for the wallpaper.

The City called Night had restaurants catering from soup to nuts, as it was in the old days. The oddest establishments were the Mimir Houses, where datavores went to feed. Some were cacophonies of sound and light, a thousand screens flashing in a cavernous room; some were libraries filled wall to ceiling with ancient, crusty tomes; some were collections of talking skulls. It takes all sorts.