This is a broken place.
The sky is an almost fractal pattern of pulsating colors belonging to a very specific hour of twilight-- Like one would see in Desnid's climate. Sources of dim-to-bright orange are snuffed out harshly by brilliant violets that stain like ink against wet paper. Despite the bright lights being cut off so abruptly, the starburst of colors appear to be a single, continuing, clear sky, rather than something broken up by clouds, despite it flagrantly disobeying known behaviors of light. There is no grass to be seen, and is only sparsely populated with any type of ground, for the amount of endless space this place takes up. Suspended, it is like one is caught within a massive cabochon marble, which is exposed to a brilliant light at all corners. The aberrant patterns shift every so often, swirling like mixing chemical reagents, toying with the light. Whatever pattern this place follows, it allows light to be distributed evenly, despite the sky itself being broken up like so, preventing any pain from looking where ever one wished to look.
A structure floats in the center of this endless expanse, like an uprooted sapling. It is made of unadorned stone, and its architecture is brutalist. The grand, sprawling complex is comprised of a fractured reality, hallways, cells, and rooms spread along more like a cardiovascular system; veins and arteries, rather than any real architecture. Some hallways are even unfinished, lacking anything resembling walls, and some rooms lack roofs. There is no true method behind this place, in the standpoint of an engineer. It is like a broken memory of a place half-forgotten, rather than a creation of man's design. A place in which nestles itself in the crook of one's mind, and while it firmly takes root within dreams and instincts... Simply is forgotten, elsewhere. Like a senile man, forced to remember the room of his birth. It can be almost nauseating to witness this place, but it strangely rests itself upon the precipice of neutrality, and unnerving. For every negative, a positive. For every positive, a negative. It never strays into excessive discomfort, or comfort, for the observer with no preconceptions.
The central hub is where all the branching hallways and rooms eventually lead, should one follow the path towards, not away.
A grand chamber of a crescent shape, hollowed out at the very center. Its walls are creased as though chiseled for an amphitheater, reverberating silence until any voice makes itself known. The opening of the roof is as though an adage to the sky's glory itself, tendrils of stone grasping up, pleading. Yet the concept of 'up' is confused, with light coming from all directions, this effect being repeated for the crescent opening through the floor itself, as well. A fountain lies precariously on the lip of the indent of the opening, its basin shattered by a pickax and bleeding into the colorful void below; the pickaxe remaining embedded upon the basin itself. The stone spigot endlessly flowing water. The subject of the fountain's sculpture seems to shift, and warp, the more one looks at it, much like a game of trying to name what a cloud looks like.
Figures occasionally dance along the borderlands of this place. Spectral shadows of people, imprinting upon the walls and the floors. Sometimes words are left behind in chalk of the same color; but it's never legible.
Sibyl, a figure struggling to exist, sits upon the stone lip of the fountain itself. Its form is tangentially connected to it, the edges of the entity's outline bleeding into the stone, like ligaments between the muscles of the heart, and the thoracic cavity. It seems to be flaking off as quickly as it can heal, into ashy, ember-like pieces. Akin to a paper being burned from the top-down, yet somehow retaining its shape. It, as though a part of the fountain, remains still, observant, as though locked into introspection, unless roused.