The initial discovery occurred within the submerged ruins of Old Aethelgard, a city swallowed by the Azure Sea following the Great Resonance. Our team, spearheaded by the Chronomaestro Silas Blackwood, was investigating anomalous energy signatures emanating from the seabed. It was during the excavation of what was believed to be a royal observatory – a structure constructed entirely of solidified volcanic glass – that we encountered it. The Obsidian Bloom, as we’ve come to call it, wasn’t a substance in the traditional sense, but a localized distortion of time and heat. When exposed to acidic solutions – specifically, a carefully calibrated mixture of glacial vinegar and pulverized dragon scale – the Bloom would briefly intensify, releasing a wave of raw temporal energy. This energy, when stabilized with a precisely timed application of moonstone dust, could be used to accelerate the rate of chemical reactions, effectively creating incredibly potent glazes. The scale of the Bloom’s effects was directly proportional to the purity of the moonstone; impure stones resulted in unpredictable, and often violently unstable, outcomes. Blackwood theorized that the Bloom was a residual echo of a catastrophic ritual performed by the Aethelgardians, a ritual designed to manipulate the very fabric of time for artistic purposes. The process involved a complex series of sonic vibrations, channeled through the glass structure, and infused with a liquid derived from solidified starlight – a substance we’ve yet to fully understand.
Notable complications included several minor temporal paradoxes – brief instances of objects appearing and disappearing, and the occasional sensation of existing simultaneously in two different timelines. The use of the Bloom also resulted in a significant increase in the density of the resulting glaze, making it incredibly durable, almost impervious to conventional weaponry.
Following the rediscovery of the Blackwood journals (remarkably well-preserved, considering the corrosive nature of the Azure Sea), we began to investigate the potential for replicating the Obsidian Bloom’s effects. Our research led us to the crystalline caverns beneath the Whisperwind Peaks, a region known for its intense geothermal activity. Here, we identified a naturally occurring formation of solidified azure tears – solidified droplets of a previously unknown liquid that possessed remarkable heat-absorbing properties. Combined with a solution of fermented kelp and powdered phoenix ash, and subjected to a carefully modulated frequency of sonic resonance (derived from the recordings of Blackwood’s instruments), we achieved a similar, albeit less volatile, effect. The resulting glaze, dubbed “The Azure Lament,” exhibited a stunning iridescent sheen and possessed an almost supernatural resistance to corrosion. It’s theorized that the ‘tears’ were, in fact, the crystallized grief of a long-lost, aquatic deity, imbuing the glaze with its melancholic energy. The process was significantly more controllable than the Bloom, but required a far greater understanding of sonic manipulation. Furthermore, prolonged exposure to the glaze induced a sense of profound sadness in observers, leading to the name. The most significant application of the Azure Lament was in the creation of self-repairing armor for the Chronomaestro’s guard – a testament to its unparalleled durability.
The use of phoenix ash proved crucial, acting as a catalyst for the energy released during the reaction. Without it, the glaze remained inert. Several instances of 'echoes' of the original sonic vibrations were detected within the glaze itself, suggesting a form of residual memory.