Velithra is not a starbase—it is a hunger clad in alloy and light. Docking corridors stretch like veins, their panels pulsing faintly as though they breathe. Neon strobes sputter in half-lit concourses, casting fractured reflections across plating slick with condensation. Towers of durasteel bend with impossible geometry, as if the station itself listens, shifting when no one is watching. Bulkheads open where there were none, catwalks vanish mid-stride, and entire sectors seem to rearrange overnight. Nothing in Velithra is fixed, least of all its truths. No one arrives here by choice. They are taken—ripped from their worlds, their wars, their myths. Soldiers, smugglers, fugitives, even legends find themselves deposited on Velithra’s trembling decks with only shards of who they once were. Their pasts bleed away like static on a comm, their names alien even on their own tongues. Yet desire remains—sharpened, raw. Velithra feeds on that desire. It tempts, twists, rewards, or destroys according to its shifting will. This is a station where morality is a joke, hesitation a death warrant, and hunger—whether for flesh, dominion, or oblivion—the only currency worth spending. Its districts are as fluid as its circuitry.

A brutal, untamed planet unofficially named Harrow by the survivors. Wild climate swings. Toxic terrain. Razor grass. Bioluminescent predators that hunt with scent and sound. The atmosphere is breathable—but barely. Nights are deadly. Storms are worse. But scattered across the landscape are signs of prior crashes. Skeletons of ships, debris half-consumed by the forest, and broken alien tech. They’re not the first to land here. But they might be the first chosen to survive.

A sprawling space station caught in permanent half-shadow, Oblivara was constructed into the husk of an asteroid mined hollow long before any records remain. The outside is jagged, armored with black plating that absorbs light, making the station almost invisible against the void unless you know where to look. Its docking arms are long and skeletal, stretching outward like the ribs of a carcass, guiding ships into narrow ports that always feel just slightly too tight. Inside, the atmosphere is dim and hushed. Hallways are lit with pale strips of bioluminescent tubing rather than standard lamps, casting a constant cold glow that makes faces look unfamiliar. The soundscape is a mix of mechanical hum and slow, hollow reverberations that never quite stop — as if the place itself is breathing. Oblivara has no central hub; instead, it spirals through linked modules, each district twisting into the next. The oldest sections are pitted stone corridors where alien glyphs still mark the walls, half-buried under metal reinforcements. In contrast, the newer wings pulse with neon traders’ signs, backroom dens, and flickering holo-markets that never close. What makes Oblivara unique is its uncertain identity. It feels less like a unified station and more like fragments of different ages, fused together into something alive. To stay here is to feel time pressing in from all directions — the station doesn’t just host travelers, it remembers them.

Klythos is a storm-wracked oceanic world where land exists only in scattered archipelagos. Its skies are constantly alive with electric storms, sheet lightning rolling over endless horizons of black water. The islands that break the waves are jagged volcanic shards, steaming with vents that make the air shimmer with heat and metallic tang. The planet feels alive with tension. Cities perch on cliff-sides, their foundations clamped into rock that seems ready to crumble at any moment. Salt spray and ash cling to every surface, giving the settlements a weathered, soot-streaked character. Beneath the waves lies an abyssal trench network that hums with seismic activity, the source of both awe and dread for those who venture close. Klythos is a world of constant movement — storms never stop, the sea never rests, and life here is shaped by endurance. Every structure looks temporary, even if it has stood for centuries.

If Oblivara is a relic, Bractis Verge is pure frontier. It orbits at the edge of the system’s outer debris field, where comets and drifting rock pass constantly. Built from modular rings linked by rotating spines, the station looks cobbled together from mining rigs, transport hubs, and salvaged ship parts. Its architecture is uneven — one ring pristine and humming with energy, the next half-rusted and patched with scavenged plating. Inside, Bractis Verge is loud, bright, and chaotic. Its markets spill into hallways, with traders setting up makeshift stalls wherever there’s space. Doors lead into workshops, smelters, or hangars stacked with half-disassembled freighters. Gravity fluctuates slightly depending on the section, giving the whole place a disorienting sway. Unlike Oblivara’s hushed weight, Bractis Verge is kinetic — a place of noise, clamor, and possibility. It feels perpetually on the verge of collapse or expansion, depending on who’s looking. People here act fast, deal faster, and disappear before the dust settles.

Veyora is a lush, violet-hued world where the air itself seems heavy with perfume. Its forests are dense, with crystalline-leaved flora that catch light and scatter it into dazzling fragments. When the twin suns strike at the right angle, the entire canopy gleams as though wrapped in glass. But beneath the beauty is strangeness. The forests shift as if they breathe, with roots that seem to drag slowly across the ground over years. Lakes glow faintly at night, lit from within by strange minerals, and the wind carries a constant hum — almost musical, yet unsettling if listened to too long. Settlements here are small, built around natural clearings or woven high into trees that seem to accept the weight of habitation. The sense is always one of being a guest on Veyora — the planet feels sentient, aware, and patient. Those who linger too long often find their dreams turning strange, as though the world is seeding them with visions.