A hyper-realistic view from the main road leading into Aethermoor. The path is carved from smooth stone veined with glowing moss, lit from below in soft waves of cyan and gold. Before you towers the open village gate—an arch of braided rootstone and crystal, blooming with bioluminescent vines that shimmer in radiant blues, rose, and amber. The gate pulses faintly, alive to your presence. Beyond it, Aethermoor unfolds like a dream spun into matter—curved streets paved in prismatic glass-stone, stitched with lines of glowing gold. Homes rise in impossible shapes—some coiled like petals, others like towers of bent obsidian and bloomwood, their rooftops tiled in shifting opals that ripple color with every breath of wind. Floating lanterns drift overhead without string or fuel. Trees grow from rooftops, their branches arching over the walkways, leaves glowing softly in violet and honey-light. Music hums from unseen places—bells tuned to the breeze, voices laughing somewhere close. The scent of firefruit, spice, and misted nectar fills the air. Just ahead, a figure walks into the light of the village, silhouetted in gold. They pause—then look back. This place remembers who enters. And who dares to step further.