Browse the Clivilius Storiverse Library.
Kain Jeffries was born into Tasmania's most enigmatic dynasty, but he wanted calluses, not inheritance. He chose construction sites over boardrooms, built a life with Brianne, and counted down the months until their daughter arrived. Then someone pushed him through a door that shouldn't exist. Brianne followed. Their daughter was born in a world with no hospitals, no safety, no way back. And Kain learned what a father becomes when there's nowhere left to run.
Jerome Smith has always been better with things that don't talk back. Insects pinned by heat to a windowsill. A garden dragged from soil that didn't want to give. A dog so traumatised she flinched at her own shadow. He grew up fifth in a household built on faith he couldn't feel, and he learned early that the safest way to belong was to be useful without being loud. The silence that makes him good at what he does is the same silence that lets everyone forget he's even there."
When a terrified friend thrust a yellow package into Nathan Cowdrey's hands in a Hobart laneway, comfortable reality fractured forever. An Adelaide-born dreamer with boundless curiosity, Nathan found himself navigating impossible portals, cryptic warnings, and a conspiracy that erased people from existence itself. From Melbourne's vanishing passengers to Switzerland's hidden laboratories, from brotherly bonds tested by extraordinary truth to the mist-shrouded cliffs of an alien settlement called Saint Phillis—Nathan's archive preserves the complete consciousness of a man who stepped through fear into the role of Guardian, nurturing life where only desolation existed before.
James Longey learned early that watching people was easier than knowing them, and that getting close enough to be caught was part of the pleasure. The basement job at Hobart Police gave him a salary for the same instinct; his cousin Sarah's death gave him permission to stop apologising for it. He still works for Tasmania Police. He also, after hours, takes the credentials a faceless employer pays him in and walks through the lives of people who once stood close enough to touch — and the closer he gets to being caught, the less he is able to stop.
Adrian Pafistis built things the way his father played poker — with patience, calculation, and the discipline to never move before he was certain. He built homes across two states, a company with his name on it, a house that was his manifesto in stone and glass. Then one morning he drove to a job that wasn't a job, and everything he'd built was behind him. They didn't take him because he'd done something wrong. They took him because he was good. He's still building. And he hasn't forgiven a thing.
Jeremy Harding built a career on being the man witnesses trust and evidence obeys. He learned in Adelaide to make a case from a fingerprint and a phone record, to walk into a room and have a frightened woman tell him the truth. Then Broken Hill gave him a string of murders he could not solve and a disappearance that did not behave like one. Every morning he opens the files again. Either his judgement is failing him, or the world is not the place his methods were built to read. He no longer knows which would frighten him more.
Ellen Margaret Lowe has spent over three decades as the invisible architecture of Tasmania Police—the keeper of institutional memory, the guardian of unrecorded truths, and the woman who knows which doors to open and which to quietly close. From her modest beginnings in 1963 Hobart to her position as Hobart Police Station's indispensable administrative officer, Ellen's life is a masterclass in the power of quiet competence and the weight of secrets held in service to something larger than herself.
There is a kind of man who walks into a room and notices what nobody else is meant to notice. A colleague's affair. A constable's small lie. A wife who flinched in the bakery beside her husband. Detective Glen Crosswell files what he sees in a small cabinet at the back of his head. Most days he does not need to open the drawer. The days he does, he tells himself information has a price in his building, and he does not pretend otherwise.
She has never looked at anything — a locked cabinet, a casino floor, a stranger's composure — without seeing where it comes apart. Beatrix Cramer was reading secrets before she could spell her own name: insect husks, neighbours' brooches, the weight of a lie. She schemed with one partner and built with another — an emporium in a sandstone church, funded by instincts she never shared. He was murdered. She wasn't done. Now she operates between worlds, and the instinct that ruined her is the only thing anyone wants her for.
In a town this size there is one detective they bring the worst interviews to. Felicity Massey is her. Witnesses tell her things they have never told their mothers. She does not flinch. Afterwards she folds the tea towel the way her mother folded it, pours one more glass than she meant to, and tells herself it is the work. The girl with the dark hair and bare feet has been coming home with her for just as long.
She learned to read the world on her knees in Tasmanian undergrowth, cataloguing beetle husks with a father who taught her that small things hold everything together. Decades later, Karen Owen had built a life from that patience—a career, a marriage, a cottage at the edge of the wild where theory became practice. Then a man walked into her kitchen and tore reality apart. Now she tends soil that shouldn't exist, in a world that swallowed her whole. The woman who knelt in the undergrowth is still in there somewhere. She thinks.
Every family has one — the child who learned that laughter buys what silence won't. Charles Smith was the youngest of six, born into a household where every role was already taken. So he made them laugh. Sugar for salt, shoes vanished, stunts that turned invisibility into applause. It worked. It always works. The performance has been running so long that even he doesn't know whether there's someone underneath it or whether the act is all there is.
There is a silence a man can hold by putting his hands inside an engine. Noah Smith has been holding it for forty years — through the night his first wife was taken away, through Sunday services he never once missed, through kitchen tables where his sons waited for a father who was always in the other room. He is holding it still, in a place he would never have believed in, because the work is still the work, and the work is all he has.
There has never been a moment in Greta Smith's life when she did not believe she was doing the right thing. Not the years she told herself she loved her husband's two small boys exactly as her own. Not the afternoons she sat across from a struggling daughter-in-law and gently, gently suggested that prayer would help. Not the morning she stood at her granddaughter's grave and decided the Lord had asked her to bear it. She has been the right kind of woman all her life. Ask her. She will tell you.
Rose Smith noticed everything. The way her father had gone quiet at dinner. The way her mother had stopped looking at him over the breakfast table. The small grey weather that started up inside the house when nobody was speaking. Rose was the kind of child who carried Ribbons everywhere, because Ribbons was a stuffed rabbit and Ribbons did not have to be brave. Then one afternoon a woman Rose had never seen smiled at her in a playground, and the grey weather inside her parents' house became the least wrong thing in Rose's life.
Ask anyone in Broken Hill about Claire Smith and the answer is the same. The patient dance teacher. The devoted mother of two. The kind of woman whose composure makes a difficult room go quieter the moment she walks into it. Ask her sister and you get the same answer in a slightly sharper voice. Ask the woman herself, inside her own head, on a bad day, and the answer is a voice you already know.
William Jeffries was sent to Van Diemen's Land in chains for a crime he had not committed, and decided in the convict hold that the world had used up its right to judge him. The rest was collection. He built an estate on the Derwent, married a girl who learned too late what she had married, and struck a bargain in London: young men, unmissed, for the wealth that bought his name. He ran a cellar door beneath his own house until the door took him, and died in the world he had been feeding, refusing to call it punishment.
For thirty years, Charlie Claiborne stood where few dare—between innocence and the darkness that stalks it. A brilliant detective whose instincts saved lives and broke cases others abandoned. A man who gave everything to justice, and paid in pieces of himself he'll never recover. But some truths don't stay buried. Some secrets reach back. And when shadows Charlie spent his life chasing finally turn to face him, he'll learn that the most dangerous case he ever worked was always his own.
Douglas Schofield could tell which children were being hurt at home from the way their eyes moved when a parent came into the room. He was rarely wrong, and almost never able to prove it. The ones he couldn't prove he kept in a leather notebook no file was allowed to hold — telling himself it was for them, when it was also the closest thing he had to company. He had been reading people since boyhood, studying the brother nobody could explain, and he never learned another way to love them: only this, from the exact distance of a man taking notes.
From a violent birth in 1984 Adelaide to the discovery of an inter-dimensional Portal in 2018 Tasmania, Luke Nathaniel Smith's archive chronicles a life where reality and nightmare blur. Through childhood trauma, hospital secrets, first love, and family breakdown, Luke's journey culminates in becoming the reluctant keeper of a threshold between Earth and Clivilius—transforming from haunted survivor to guide of impossible worlds.
The collected chapters of Sarah Jane Lahey—from orphaned child in Tasmania's highlands to tenacious detective in Hobart's Criminal Investigation Branch. These first-person accounts trace a life shaped by loss and driven by an unrelenting need for truth, spanning her grandmother's deathbed to storm-soaked pursuits through wilderness, from partnership with Karl Jenkins to the fatal meeting in Myrtle Forest. Witness a woman whose exceptional investigative instincts were matched only by her capacity for misguided devotion, whose pursuit of justice became entangled with impossible choices, and whose story ended at twenty-nine in circumstances that remain as complex as the cases she investigated.
Every family has the one who holds it together — the sister who returns what the other stole, who cleans up, who files the feeling under later and gets on with it. Gladys Cramer held it together through three dead men, a career destroyed by a blood test, and the night she stood in a forest clutching the neck of a broken wine bottle over a woman who would never get up again. Now, somewhere cold and far from anything she recognises, the wine never lasts the night.
From Tasmanian theatre stages to teaching drama in Hobart, Jenny Triffett's life shatters when her husband vanishes in 2018. Her desperate search unveils watchers in shadows and violations that defy explanation. But when she and young Sammy are forced through a portal to Clivilius, Jenny's story transforms—from earthly nightmare to inter-dimensional journey. Reunited with Nial in this strange new world, she must rebuild everything whilst navigating realities beyond imagination. Her Archive spans two worlds, chronicling a mother's fierce love transcending dimensional boundaries.
A decorated detective who could see patterns no one else noticed—and a man who couldn't connect with anyone around him. Born into a household where discipline replaced affection, Karl Jenkins built his career on relentless pursuit and emotional distance. From a childhood in Adelaide to investigations across three Australian police forces, he sacrificed everything for the job. Then came the Tasmanian case that consumed him entirely. What happens when a mind engineered for order finally confronts chaos? Some answers don't lead to resolution. Some lead through the floor of reality itself.
