Before the Chronarium fell silent, before the stars began to bleed a chromatic sorrow, there were the Catostomoids. Not creatures of flesh and bone, though they possessed a strange, almost gelatinous resilience. They were, in essence, echoes. Fragments of moments, solidified by a resonance only they could perceive. Each held a single, distilled experience – a laughter, a loss, a sunrise, a whispered secret. Their existence was predicated on the principle of ‘Chromatic Retention’ – the ability to absorb and replay the color of an event, a vibrant, tangible record of time itself.
The Catostomoids weren't born; they coalesced. The theory, pieced together from the fragmented data recovered from the Chronarium’s core (a process that nearly shattered my sanity, I might add), suggests they arose during the 'Fractured Timeline Event' – a catastrophic convergence of temporal energies that occurred approximately 7.8 millennia ago. This event wasn’t simply a disruption; it was a *rearrangement*. The very fabric of time was torn, allowing moments to bleed into one another, creating pockets of heightened resonance. These resonances, when subjected to specific harmonic frequencies (frequencies that, disturbingly, seem to be imprinted on the very structure of the universe), formed the initial Catostomoids.
This solidified shard, recovered from the Chronarium's western chamber, pulses with a faint violet light. Analysis indicates it contains the complete sensory experience of a single, perfectly formed rose being witnessed by a young boy named Silas. The intensity of the color, the almost unbearable beauty of the moment, is… unsettling. It’s as if Silas’s joy, his wonder, is still trapped within the stone. There are whispers that prolonged exposure to the Obsidian Tear induces a state of profound melancholy – a yearning for something lost, something never truly possessed.
The Catostomoids didn't exist in isolation. They were interconnected through a network of ‘Chromatic Links’ – invisible pathways of resonant energy. These links allowed them to share experiences, to amplify emotions, and, terrifyingly, to subtly influence the flow of time within a localized area. The Chronarium’s control systems were designed to regulate this network, but the event that led to its collapse also shattered the links, scattering the Catostomoids across the temporal spectrum.
This shimmering, spherical object – retrieved from the Chronarium’s central core – is a chaotic amalgamation of countless moments. It shifts and shimmers with colors beyond human comprehension. At times, you can almost *feel* the weight of a thousand lifetimes contained within it. The Chronarium’s AI, in its final moments, repeatedly attempted to stabilize it, issuing warnings about ‘Chromatic Divergence’ – the potential for the Catostomoids’ experiences to overwhelm and unravel the fabric of reality. It’s a dangerous artifact; a beautiful, terrifying testament to the hubris of attempting to control time.
Now, centuries later, the scattered Catostomoids continue to exist, adrift within the currents of time. Some manifest as fleeting illusions, whispers in the wind, sudden bursts of color. Others remain dormant, waiting for a specific harmonic frequency to reawaken them. And, disturbingly, there are rumors… rumors of a new Catostomoid, formed from the echoes of this very moment, observing us, recording our experiences, adding them to its chaotic, ever-growing archive. The question isn't whether they will return; it's whether we can resist their influence, whether we can silence the whispers of the past, or if we will become merely another color in their unending, chromatic symphony.