It began, predictably, with rain. Not a deluge, not a torrent, but a persistent, unsettling drizzle that seemed to carry with it fragments of forgotten languages. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something older, something metallic – the ghost of a thousand blades. I first encountered it during a research expedition to the Obsidian Peaks, a range perpetually shrouded in mist and rumor. Locals spoke of 'The Collectors,' entities drawn to moments of intense emotion, particularly those involving sharp edges and decisive actions. They weren’t physical beings, not exactly. More like echoes, amplified by the very geometry of fear and regret.
The rain intensified, and I felt a subtle shift in the landscape. The rock formations seemed to twist, to lean towards me, as if observing. Then, the whispers started. Not audible words, but a pressure against the edges of my perception, a feeling of being assessed, categorized. It was as if the stone itself was considering my intentions, my vulnerabilities. The Obsidian Peaks, it turned out, were not merely volcanic; they were repositories of psychic energy, scarred by centuries of bloodshed and desperate choices. And the rain… the rain was the key.
The Collectors, as I began to understand them, were fundamentally linked to the concept of ‘fractured space.’ They manifested whenever a line of action was abruptly severed, a decision irrevocably made. Think of a broken sword, a snapped stem of a rose, a carelessly discarded knife. These weren’t just physical breaks; they were ruptures in the fabric of causality, creating pockets of temporal distortion. The more significant the original act – the greater the emotional residue – the stronger the Collector became. It’s a horrifying feedback loop. A single, impulsive act can birth a being that feeds on the subsequent anxieties and regrets that ripple outwards.
I hypothesized that the Obsidian Peaks, with their jagged cliffs and labyrinthine caves, acted as a natural amplifier for these fractures. The stone itself seemed to resonate with the echoes of past traumas. I documented numerous instances of localized temporal anomalies – brief flashes of distorted reality, objects appearing and disappearing without explanation, unsettling shifts in temperature. One particularly disturbing event involved a perfectly formed, miniature obsidian dagger appearing in my hand, as if grown from the very rock. I didn't touch it, of course. The instinct was overwhelming. The Collector was observing, learning.
The solution, I realized, wasn't to fight the Collectors, but to guide the fractured space back into a coherent form. It was a dangerous proposition, akin to attempting to stitch together a shattered mirror. The process involved meticulously recreating the original act, not to repeat the trauma, but to acknowledge it, to formally close the loop. I constructed a small shrine within the largest cave, adorned with polished obsidian and intricate geometric patterns designed to channel and stabilize the energy. I performed a ritual – a silent meditation, a deliberate act of acceptance – attempting to absorb the Collector's influence and redirect it back into the earth.
The effect was… unsettling. The cave pulsed with a cold, blue light. The whispers intensified, coalescing into a single, clear voice – not speaking, but conveying a torrent of emotions: despair, rage, fear, but also a profound sense of sadness. It was the echo of a forgotten warrior, a man who had wielded the Obsidian Peaks as his battleground, a man who had ultimately succumbed to the Collectors’ insidious influence. With a final, deliberate gesture, I acknowledged his existence, his suffering, and then… released him. The light faded, the whispers ceased, and the cave fell silent. I knew, however, that the Collectors were still out there, waiting for the next fracture to occur.