136 BPM deep-space techno trip — Wardens of the Spore Plains (audio-reactive)
Dark, driving, psychedelic techno — Wardens of the Spore Plains | 4K visuals
Pure cosmic groove: Wardens of the Spore Plains (melodic techno journey)
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The Story ᓚᘏᗢ ➜
There are places the sky refuses to remember.
Beyond the last polite constellations—past the starfields that behave, past the ordinary dark where distance is only distance—there lies an expanse of fungal luminance and impossible weather. A region charted in sighs, mapped in symbols that wriggle when you stare too long, and guarded by beings who do not negotiate with certainty.
Travelers call it the Spore Plains, though “plains” suggests something flat and simple, and nothing here is either. The ground is a breathing mosaic of velvet moss, glassy mycelium, and chalk-white capstone ribs that rise and fall like the backs of sleeping leviathans. Spores drift in slow spirals, catching light that has no source, turning every horizon into a soft, shimmering bruise of teal and violet. Above, the firmament is layered—one sky folded atop another—so that clouds cast shadows on clouds, and the moon appears as a nested set of crescents, each one looking away.
And in the center of that living geometry stands an altar-city grown from colossal mushrooms, its towers stitched together with filament bridges like comet-silk. It is said the city listens. It is said the city judges. It is said the city keeps a door to someplace unwritten.
But none of those rumors mattered until the night the Spore Plains received a visitor.
I. The Arrival of the Void-Map
Sairyx came without engines.
Not because they lacked a vessel—Sairyx had crossed the dark in a craft formed from black meteor glass and bone-white resin—but because the final approach demanded humility. The Spore Plains did not accept the violence of thrust. They preferred surrender, slow and deliberate, as if the land itself needed time to decide what you were.
So Sairyx descended on a cradle of silken threads that unfurled from the craft’s belly like a jellyfish’s ghost. Each strand shimmered with a faint rainbow fracture, a lysergic lattice embedded into the fibers: a pattern that turned straight lines into gentle, breathing curves. The threads anchored into the ground with a sound like soft bells swallowed in fog.
Sairyx stepped down.
They were humanoid only in the loosest sense—two arms, two legs, a head at the top where heads were expected—but their body was wrapped in layers of dusk-cloth and ember-skin. Their hands were gloved in translucent membrane that glowed faintly from within, veins lit like river maps. Their face was hidden behind a visor carved from pale chitin, smooth as a pearl and marked with thin, spiraling runes that shifted position when viewed from the corner of the eye.
Sairyx was a Cartographer of the Beyond—one of the last order that mapped not lands but laws. Not seas but causes. The Cartographers had long ago learned that some distances were not measured in miles or light-years, but in the stubbornness of reality itself.
They had come for a rumor.
A whisper of a mechanism older than any empire, buried beneath the capstone ribs and spore-drift: the A-Root, the myth-machine that could stitch two unaligned truths into one.
Sairyx did not want conquest. They did not want war. They wanted a path. A safe route through a place that, by all rights, should not connect to anything else.
The Plains greeted them with silence.
But silence, here, had texture.
The air was thick with pollen light—fine motes that glowed when Sairyx breathed. Each exhale made the motes swirl into miniature spirals, tiny galaxies forming and unforming. Far away, the mushroom towers of the altar-city rose like the bones of a cathedral made from living ivory. Their gills shone with internal bioluminescence, ribbed and intricate, like pages in a book held open forever.
Sairyx began to walk.
The ground responded.
Under their boots, the moss shifted into patterns—triangles, hexagons, then spiraling rings that seemed to predict their next step. Each footfall left behind a faint afterimage of light, as if the earth remembered pressure the way skin remembers a touch.
Continues on the website.
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