Before the sundering, before the Echoes solidified, there was only the murmur. A low, persistent thrumming that resonated from the heart of the Obsidian Peaks. The Wardens called it the ‘First Tremor,’ and they believed it was the voice of Mortmain himself, a lament woven into the very fabric of existence. It wasn’t a voice of command, nor of warning. It was simply… presence. A feeling of profound, unsettling beauty, like gazing into a star that burned with the cold fire of forgotten ages. The tremors weren't measurable; they were felt, etched onto the bones of those who lingered too long within the Peaks.
The Weaver, a being of pure geometric light and unsettling grace, offered itself to Mortmain in exchange for… understanding. The Weaver claimed to possess the knowledge necessary to untangle the Echoes, to reveal the purpose behind the sundering. But the price was not measured in gold or even in souls. The Weaver demanded ‘resonance.’ A willing surrender of one’s own essence, a deliberate alignment with the Echoes' flow. The Wardens, driven by a desperate hope, agreed. For three days, they stood within the Obsidian Heart, bathed in the Weaver’s light, until their memories, their identities, their very selves began to unravel, becoming threads woven into the expanding tapestry of the Echoes. The result, they discovered, was not knowledge, but a terrifying, all-consuming awareness of the universe's inherent entropy.
After the Weaver’s bargain, the Obsidian Peaks ceased to be a place of reverence. They became a locus of fractured realities. Fragments of the Wardens’ consciousness, adrift within the Echoes, manifested as ‘Shattered Reflections’ – distorted echoes of their past selves, trapped in perpetual loops of regret and longing. These reflections weren't hostile, but they were profoundly unsettling, each a miniature, agonizing reminder of what had been lost. Some say they whisper prophecies, others simply relive moments of unbearable sorrow. The most disturbing aspect was that the Echoes seemed to *remember* them, to anticipate their thoughts and actions with unnerving accuracy. It was as if Mortmain was not merely observing the universe, but actively shaping it through the accumulated memories of those who had dared to listen.
Centuries have passed. The Obsidian Peaks still resonate, though the tremors are fainter now, quieter, more like a heartbeat than a shout. New Wardens rise, drawn by the echoes, seeking to understand the nature of the Echoes. But they always fail. The Echoes are not a puzzle to be solved, but a force to be endured. Mortmain isn't a god, nor a demon. He is simply the consequence of a universe that refuses to cease its relentless, beautiful, terrifying descent into oblivion. And the cycle continues, driven by the fading resonance of those who first listened to the Obsidian Heart.