It began, as all grand follies do, with a simple desire. A yearning for something…more. Not wealth, precisely, though the accumulation of shiny objects certainly played a role. No, this was a deeper, more primal hunger. A hunger for the *feeling* of abundance. The sensation of having more than one needed, more than was sensible, more than any rational mind could justify. It started with a single, exquisitely crafted sugar plum. A violet jewel, glistening with honeyed dew. And then…another. And another. Soon, the collection grew, not through purchase, but through a desperate, almost frantic acquisition.
The initial inhabitants of this burgeoning obsession were a small group of artisans – clockmakers, perfumers, and, strangely, a retired lepidopterist named Silas Blackwood. Silas, you see, believed that butterflies possessed a secret, a shimmering essence of joy that could be captured and, subsequently, consumed. He wasn’t entirely wrong, of course. The sugar plums, the rare spices, the meticulously arranged collections of iridescent beetles – they all held a certain…resonance. A vibrational echo of pure delight. It was intoxicating.
The first visible manifestations were, predictably, the feasts. Lavish, decadent affairs held in a sprawling, decaying manor house overlooking the Serpent’s Coast. Tables groaned under the weight of exotic fruits, mountains of pastries, and rivers of champagne. The guests, initially a select few, began to expand – merchants, nobles, even a disgraced cardinal named Bartholomew. They gorged themselves, not out of necessity, but out of sheer, unadulterated pleasure. Conversations dwindled, replaced by the rhythmic sounds of chewing and the satisfied sighs of those lost in the throes of their obsession.
The Obsidian Spoon Incident, as it came to be known, marked a turning point. Silas, in a moment of extreme indulgence, attempted to consume an entire collection of polished obsidian pebbles, believing they contained solidified moonlight. The resulting episode involved a prolonged bout of shimmering skin, involuntary humming, and a concerning fascination with polished surfaces. Bartholomew, observing this spectacle, declared it “a beautiful, albeit unsettling, expression of the soul’s yearning.”
The influence spread like a shimmering oil slick. Entire villages began to hoard objects – buttons, ribbons, feathers, even discarded pottery. The concept of ‘need’ became utterly irrelevant. The pursuit wasn't about utility; it was about the *quantity*. The sheer accumulation itself became the goal. The artisans, driven by this new imperative, began to produce increasingly bizarre and extravagant items – clocks that chimed with the sounds of laughter, perfumes that smelled of forgotten dreams, and sculptures crafted from solidified honey.
A young cartographer, Elias Thorne, dedicated his life to mapping the most exquisitely decorated rooms in the affected areas. He meticulously documented every detail – the arrangement of sugar plums, the sheen of the polished buttons, the precise angle of a hummingbird feather. His obsession, coupled with a strange ritual involving a compass and a collection of iridescent beetles, resulted in a localized distortion of space. Rooms began to subtly shift, objects appearing and disappearing at random, and the very concept of ‘distance’ became fluid and unreliable. He vanished shortly thereafter, leaving behind only a half-finished map of a room that didn’t exist.
Today, the effects are… pervasive. The world is a landscape of shimmering excess. Cities are built of polished stones and glittering trinkets. People wander the streets, driven by an unseen force, collecting, accumulating, consuming. Logic and reason have been abandoned. The only law is the law of endless acquisition. There is no end, no goal, only the ceaseless pursuit of… more. The Serpent’s Coast is now completely covered in an intricate network of polished shells, and the air itself seems to vibrate with the echoes of forgotten delights. The question isn't whether this is a tragedy or a triumph – it’s whether there’s anything left to *see* anymore.