The name Bergamasca is not one readily uttered. It clings to the edges of recollection, a half-remembered melody woven into the fabric of the Deepwood. She is not a being of flesh and blood, though some claim remnants of both linger within the swirling mists that perpetually shroud her domain. Bergamasca is the Weaver, the collector of echoes, the guardian – and perhaps the tormentor – of lost moments. Her purpose, as far as anyone can truly ascertain, is to bind together the shattered fragments of time, to prevent them from dissolving entirely into the oblivion that awaits all things.
The earliest accounts are frustratingly vague, whispers carried on the wind from the nomadic tribes that once roamed the foothills of the Serra di Brenta. They spoke of a shimmering distortion in the air, a place where the sunlight fractured into impossible colors, and where the voices of the forgotten seemed to rise from the earth. A young shaman, Elias Valli, ventured into this place, driven by a desperate plea from his dying sister. He returned three days later, aged beyond his years, his eyes filled with a profound sadness, and carrying a single, perfectly preserved feather – a feather that shifted hue with every glance.
Source: Fragmented Oral Traditions of the Valerani Tribe.
Master Anselmo Visconti, a cartographer of some renown, became obsessed with locating Bergamasca’s domain. He spent years traversing the Deepwood, meticulously charting every stream, every ancient tree, every unsettling anomaly. His maps, though undeniably detailed, contained a disturbing element: they seemed to shift and change, as if reflecting Bergamasca’s influence. He vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a half-finished map depicting a city of obsidian and silver, perpetually submerged beneath a lake of mercury.
Source: Visconti Cartographic Archives (Corrupted Fragment).
A group of alchemists, led by the eccentric Dr. Lucrezia Bellini, attempted to capture Bergamasca’s essence, believing it held the key to immortality. They constructed a complex ritual, utilizing rare herbs, geometric patterns, and chanted verses in a language lost to time. The ritual succeeded, albeit with a terrible cost. A rift opened in reality, unleashing a torrent of fragmented memories – faces, events, emotions – that overwhelmed the alchemists, driving them to madness. The rift was eventually sealed, but the echoes of the ritual continue to resonate within the Deepwood, occasionally manifesting as phantom sensations and distorted visions.
Source: Bellini Alchemical Notes (Extremely Fragmented and Unreliable).
Today, Bergamasca remains. She is rarely seen, but her presence is palpable – a sense of unease, a feeling of being watched, a persistent whisper just beyond the edge of hearing. Some say she is growing stronger, her influence spreading across time, weaving more and more fragments into her vast, chaotic tapestry. Others believe she is simply waiting, patiently observing, until the moment when the threads of reality finally unravel completely.
Source: Contemporary Accounts (Mostly Anecdotal and Highly Subjective).