Welcome to Wobbleland!

The island of "Wobbleland" bled through the fabric of reality while the locals were busy with their usual affairs. The elders insist that it happened at the height of "Winter Brew Eve," when thirty towns of old Wobbleton were simultaneously filled with festive clamor and steam from massive communal cauldrons. Gathering in the squares, the residents took turns boiling spiced tea, generously seasoning it with spices brought from their most distant outskirts. The cauldron swelled to such a size that it began to swallow everything around it, only to burst, echoing into the farthest galaxies. The surviving elders carried the fragments of the old world into the Baltic Sea, where the island of Wobbleland solidified. Now, the magic radiating from that shattered cauldron, which became the island’s energetic heart, safely hides it from casual glances. The rulers of the great powers recognized Wobbleland’s sovereignty, but for the common good, they decided to pretend the island does not exist; as for the residents, knowing about the outside world is entirely unnecessary anyway. The conspiracy of silence is carefully preserved: prejudices regarding magic and talking birds, snails, squirrels, other creatures, and even humans are far too strong. Nevertheless, every now and then, the worlds do touch. Of the former Wobbleton, only shadows remain, a couple of forgotten traditions and fragments of memories. The streets had to be repaved and tidy little houses built anew, but the lesson of the past was learned well: thirty towns are an unaffordable luxury for such a fragile balance. In the end, only a few quarters survived on the island, with enough natives to keep the memory from fading away completely.

Everyday life in Wobbleland is woven entirely from magic and immutable traditions. Electricity as we know it is unheard of here: in the evenings, the alleyways are bathed in a soft glow seeping from the central cauldron, and dinners are prepared on hearths where the firewood rarely burns out completely. The role of the postal service has been assumed by chatty chickens, who sedately strut down the cobblestones delivering letters from doorstep to doorstep. However, birds are regularly kidnapped here, at which point the city newspapers explode with sensational stories dripping with thick gossip. Should you find yourself lacking a pinch of salt or a portion of fresh news, you need only step out onto the porch to await a hen with a crumpled envelope in her beak. And yet, gates here are kept strictly locked: everyone, from the baker to the elder, knows that the town's true wealth lies not in gold, but in the ability to intercept someone else's chicken in time.

Wobbleland is steeped in a sweet aroma: natural springs of syrup burst forth here, forming the foundation of the local economy. A strict tax is levied on its extraction, and any attempt to smuggle the viscous nectar off the island is punished as a grave crime. The urban industry flourishes, offering tinctures for every occasion, from healing potions to brews that grant vigor or peace. However, lurking in the shadows of legal shops are dealers trading in forbidden syrups of dubious effect, with whom the city guard wage a relentless and perilous battle.

Allow me to lift the veil and introduce you to the architecture of our towns and the whimsical tapestry of their traditions; let this serve as the foundation upon which we will build our narrative. Much as I would hate to tire you with a dry enumeration: as we delve deeper into the intricate fates of our heroes, we will inevitably return to these origins, discovering new details in familiar surroundings. But let this chapter serve as your guidebook to a world hitherto unknown.