Arcane Grounds

Neo-Faradwyn sprawls across what was once a meeting place of worlds - a nexus point where, centuries ago, the barriers between realms thinned and magic poured into a world of budding technology. The Merge, they called it. Not an event, but a process: slow, painful, transformative.

Now, in 2187, the city rises in impossible geometries. Arcane-powered skyscrapers stretch toward a sky perpetually stained with purple. Elven corporations dominate the skyline, their buildings crawling with animated advertisements promising everything from neural enchantments to designer chimera pets. Below them, the dwarven industrial sector belches steam and magical residue, machinery humming day and night as they refine mana crystals and forge techno-magical components.

Between these powers exists the tangled undercity - streets too narrow for hovercars, buildings too old for smart-interfaces, magic too wild and technology too jury-rigged to be predictable. And here, on the corner of Thornwall Street and Processor Avenue, stands "Arcane Grounds" - a simple, unremarkable coffee shop. And behind a counter of polished mahogany stands Noren, owner and barista. Each morning, Noren handwrites the shop's special beverages with chalk on slate, each drink crafted with over three centuries of knowledge Noren has perfected.

Here, within the walls of this quiet coffee shop, factions dissolve, hierarchies flatten, and secrets remain heard but unshared. It exists as neutral territory in a city of perpetual conflict. No surveillance runs here - magical or technological - and no outside authority holds jurisdiction.

Noren enforces only one rule, inscribed in Elvish, Dwarvish, Orcish, Common, and a dozen other languages on a plaque beside the door: "Leave your weapons and affiliations outside. Inside, you are only yourself."