Metaphysics and Insighs
Beneath fronds of tide-tangled kelp, the Oracle listens. Her voice rises through salt and silence, speaking in patterns of drift and moon-led current. Those who kneel at the strand seek not answers but direction-read in sea-scored shells, kelp sigils, and the long breath of the water’s remembering. |
 Maerla’s Satryday Page is a weekly dispatch offering celestial insights, tidal notations, and symbolic interpretations drawn from the village’s metaphysical currents. Blending tradition with intuition, it serves as a guide for those seeking meaning in patterns of nature, dreams, and unseen forces. |
 Above the lough, the stars are not silent. The constellations speak in storylines-threaded across the sky like stitches in old cloth. Each night, constellations unfurl their tales: of wanderers, watchers, beasts and blessings. To read them is to remember what was promised, what was lost, and what still burns with becoming. |
Welcome to Under Lough Owel
A Village of Fairypeople, Folklore, and Everyday Oddities
Situated in the barony of Calaforttarrafantonna Under Lough Owel is home to the Tarrafantoonins who settled in the area after the 46th storm when their homeland was overrun. And if one scratches the surface of the village culture, one will find nestled among the reedbeds and rockpools, an area not found on any map but this one, this one of the Port of the Tarrafantonna.
Home to a curious collection of fairypeople, mossfolk, water-whisperers, and one or two locals who may once have been human--though no one brings it up over tea.
Here, the laundry on the Wishing Line carries secrets instead of scent, and Maudlin Wisk brews tea that can remember your dreams better than you do. Whindle Spatchcock, always up to something mildly illegal with spoons, lives up the lane from the opinionated pair Snib & Skerrit, who disagree on everything except the weather.
And don’t be alarmed if you hear a gurgling croon from the shallows--that’s only the Kelp Oracle, singing riddles into the surf. Old Coddle watches it all with a stovepipe hat full of stormwater and a notebook of unanswered questions.
No one ever moves to Under Lough Owel. You arrive. You’re accepted. Or you’re gently forgotten.
Either way, the pier’s still standing, the stones are warm, and the stories keep bubbling up like spring water through sand.
So go on. Have a wander. You might hear your name spoken by something that doesn’t have lips. That’s usually the start of something interesting.
Posts and Telegraphs
Voices don’t vanish here. They settle. They curl around the corners, nestle in books, or drift through the air when the weather turns. The Echo Shelf doesn’t store stories-it breathes them. Some villagers come to listen for answers. Others come to hear what they never said out loud. |
 Orla Merrin keeps what others overlook-scribbled notes, unsent letters, bits of correspondence that drift across doorsteps or down chimneys. Her notebook holds these fragments alongside her own quiet observations. Some are dated. Some are not. All seem to belong, though no one knows quite where. |
Voice
@ The Linnet's Wings
Transport and Movement
Whim Whar is the village’s ferry landing, where departures are dictated less by schedule and more by mood. Wind, whim, and moonlight govern the tide charts here. Travellers may board for errands or epiphanies, with vessels ranging from rowboats to reed-hulled dreams. |
 The Magpie Report: Before any journey, one must pass through the Purrport. Its staff do not speak, but they see everything. They sniff your intentions, stamp your dreams, and curl atop your documents until they decide you're ready. Many a trip has been delayed by a nap-and many a secret route revealed with a single purr. |
 Foster connection in the silences and stir magic in the ordinary. Let every faltering letter find its way, every song return home, and every whisper write itself in the wind. |
 The Wishing Line marks a place of pause and potential-where villagers tie tokens, whisper desires, or leave offerings to time. No wish is guaranteed, but all are received. Overseen by no one in particular, the Line shifts gently with the wind, collecting hopes that may one day be answered. |
Culture and Tradition
Some say the walls of the Weaver’s Cottage are stitched, not built. Thread hums through the air, carrying stories half-spoken and songs that still remember who sang them. If you sit long enough, you may find your own tale has already been woven into the border of a blanket or the hem of a dream. |
 She sits on the wall, watching the trees breathe. Orla doesn’t speak much-but she sees. She writes with chewed pencils and keeps secrets in jam jars. Her corner is full of whispers, drawings, and things the wind told her when no one else was listening. You’ll find her notes tucked where the light bends. |
 The books don’t gather dust here-they gather news. In Maeve’s Café, the Library Nook leans into the corner like it’s listening. Pages curl at the edges, warm from hands and secrets. Sometimes you find your own handwriting in a book you’ve never read. Most think Maeve knows how. She says she doesn’t. |
Government and Science Divisions
Department of Government and Science |