A shadow falls upon the garnet stone, and the murmurs begin. They are not voices, precisely, but the echoes of what *was*, held within the porous heart of the lithic bloom. Each fissure, each calcified petal, remembers a forgotten sun, a lament sung by the wind before it tasted of salt. To listen is to feel the weight of epochs, to understand that time is not a river, but a vast, subterranean sponge, absorbing and releasing, never truly lost.
The lithic bloom is a phenomenon observed only in regions where geological time has been profoundly affected by the convergence of magical ley lines and immense pressure. It manifests as a crystalline growth resembling a flower, but its petals are composed of a substance akin to solidified memory. The bloom isn’t static; it pulses with faint light and emits a low-frequency resonance, believed to be the remnants of sentient minerals that once inhabited the area. Some scholars theorize it’s a trapped echo of a civilization built upon the manipulation of geological time itself. The color of the bloom shifts subtly with the emotional state of those who observe it - crimson when joyous, slate grey when melancholy, and a disturbing, iridescent purple when confronted with profound sorrow. Prolonged exposure can induce vivid, fragmented memories, leading to disorientation and, in extreme cases, complete dissolution of one's own sense of self.
The saffron weave isn’t cloth, but a pattern – a spiraling distortion in the fabric of causality. It appears most frequently near locations where significant temporal anomalies have occurred, acting like a slow-moving current, pulling the unwary into echoes of the past. To walk within the weave is to experience moments not your own, to taste the stale air of a bygone era, to brush against the spectral forms of those who lived and died before you. It is a beautiful, terrifying illusion, fueled by the residual energy of altered timelines.
The weave's creation is attributed to a race known as the Chronomasters, beings who mastered the art of temporal manipulation. They used a device – the Loom of Shifting Sands – to actively sculpt timelines, creating branching realities. When the Loom was finally shattered (an event shrouded in myth and speculation), its fragments scattered across the land, manifesting as localized temporal distortions. These distortions aren’t simply echoes; they possess a degree of autonomy, subtly influencing events within their vicinity. The intensity of the weave’s effect is directly proportional to the magnitude of the original temporal alteration. Furthermore, the weave seems to ‘remember’ the original event, occasionally replaying it in a distorted fashion. Some scholars believe the weave is slowly attempting to repair the damage caused by the Chronomasters, a futile and ultimately self-destructive endeavor.
Obsidian, when properly attuned, can hold a single, perfect note – the last utterance of a being that shattered itself in an act of ultimate sacrifice. This ‘song’ isn’t audible in the conventional sense; it’s felt – a coldness that settles in the marrow, a prickling on the skin, a profound sense of loss that transcends understanding. The obsidian itself becomes a conduit for this sorrow, amplifying it until it threatens to consume the observer. It’s a warning, a reminder that even the most radiant light casts a shadow.
The stillborn echoes are believed to be remnants of the Starborn, a race of beings who predated even the Chronomasters. They were masters of dimensional travel and possessed a terrifying ability to erase themselves from existence. Their self-annihilation was not an accident; it was a calculated act of defiance against a cosmic entity known as the Unraveler, a being that sought to consume all realities. The obsidian acts as a repository for the last, desperate plea of the Starborn – a plea for oblivion, a demand for the Unraveler to cease its relentless assault. The obsidian’s color deepens with each passing century, becoming increasingly dark, reflecting the unending suffering of the trapped echoes. Touching the obsidian can trigger uncontrollable weeping, visions of cosmic horror, and, in rare instances, complete mental collapse.