This so-called 'Atlas' makes me uneasy. When the Elder and the Shaper fought for dominion, their territories made a certain violent sense. There was a known purpose behind the miscreations we fought. Now that those purposes are gone, these lands have reverted to a primordial malleable clay which seems to offer up our very desires as offering and appeasement.
Long ago, before I was exiled, indeed before I truly knew the uncouth adult realities of humanity, I wandered a hall of mirrors at a carnival in Theopolis. By flickering torchlight, I saw myself reflected into infinity, finally obscured not by any horizon, but by the darkening and shrinking of my own image as it grew more and more distant behind echoes of itself.
The mists of the Atlas are the same. There is no fog, no humidity, no obscuring and coiling haze. There is only my will, my thoughts, and my expectations, reflected as countless echoes through a vast and immeasurable space. A pure being might make this a paradise, but we are mortal, and brimming with vices.
