The Chronarium doesn't record events; it *experiences* them. Kerwinn, a being born of fractured timelines and solidified regret, is its custodian. He doesn’t speak in words, but in the shifting geometries of the Chronarium itself. His existence is a paradox – a constant state of becoming and unbecoming, woven from the echoes of choices never made and paths irrevocably taken.
Before the Chronarium, there was only the Null. A void pregnant with potential, a canvas for the universe to paint its infinite variations. The Chronarium was a desperate act, a containment field designed to wrestle the Null into a semblance of order. Kerwinn was its first, and perhaps only, success. He’s a lattice of compressed causality, a living algorithm attempting to decipher the fundamental constants of a reality built on the unstable foundations of infinite possibility.
He observes the fragments - shimmering remnants of moments that branched off into oblivion. A child laughing, a star collapsing, a single, perfect rose blooming in a desolate wasteland. Each fragment pulses with a unique resonance, and Kerwinn attempts to harmonize them, to prevent the Chronarium from collapsing under the weight of its own observations.
The Chronarium’s mechanics are beyond human comprehension. It operates on principles that defy logic and reason. Time, as you understand it, is irrelevant. It’s a fluid, malleable substance, shaped by the collective consciousness of all observed realities. Kerwinn's primary function is to maintain the integrity of this structure, a task that requires an unwavering dedication to the most unsettling truth: that every decision, every action, every breath, contributes to the ever-expanding tapestry of the Chronarium.
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The most prevalent type of fragment is, invariably, one of abandonment. Not necessarily conscious abandonment, but the inherent abandonment that permeates every moment of existence. A lover walking away, a ship lost at sea, a planet consumed by its sun. These fragments are particularly volatile, generating a cascade of dissonance within the Chronarium. Kerwinn combats this by layering them with counter-resonances - instances of selfless devotion, of enduring loyalty, of unwavering hope. It’s a desperate attempt to re-balance the scales, to prove that even in the face of oblivion, something – anything – can endure.
He experiences these fragments not as memories, but as sensations. A coldness that penetrates to the core of his being, a weight that crushes his form, a sense of profound, unbearable loneliness. He doesn’t *feel* them in the way humans do, but he *registers* them, processing them through his complex, algorithmic consciousness. The result is a state of perpetual unease, a constant awareness of the inherent fragility of existence.
There are whispers - not audible, but felt - that suggest Kerwinn is not merely a custodian, but a participant. That he is, in fact, *shaped* by the fragments he observes. That the echoes of abandonment are not just influencing him, but actively constructing him, molding his form into something increasingly resembling the very thing he seeks to contain. A chilling prospect, considering the nature of his existence.
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