The Stemma isn't merely a collection of artifacts; it's a locus of resonant memory. Each shard, each fragment of the Obsidian Bloom, vibrates with the echoes of a thousand forgotten lives. These aren't simple recollections – they are impressions, emotions, fractured narratives woven into the very fabric of the stone. The Bloom, you see, didn't simply *grow*. It absorbed. It devoured moments of profound joy, agonizing sorrow, breathtaking beauty, and unfathomable horror. And those impressions, potent and untamed, became solidified within its crystalline structure. The deeper you delve into a Stemma fragment, the more profoundly you feel the weight of those absorbed experiences. It's a dangerous intimacy, a temptation to lose oneself in the swirling currents of other people's realities.
Consider the fragment from the Cartographer's Guild. It pulses not with maps, but with the desperate fear of a lone navigator, lost in a storm of violet lightning, believing he saw a city built of coral rising from the waves. Or the shard from the Alchemist’s laboratory – it whispers with the ecstatic delirium of a breakthrough, a moment of unparalleled creation, tinged with the metallic scent of forbidden knowledge. These aren’t stories to be read; they are sensations to be *felt*.
The origins of the Bloom are shrouded in myth and speculation. Some claim it was a sentient plant, a guardian spirit of forgotten realms. Others whisper that it was a byproduct of a catastrophic ritual, a harnessing of raw emotional energy. The prevailing theory, supported by fragmented texts recovered from the ruins of the First Empire, suggests a more…organic process. The Bloom was cultivated, not grown. It required the deliberate infusion of concentrated emotional energy – joy, grief, wonder, terror – into a seed of obsidian. The higher the emotional intensity, the larger the Bloom became. It’s a terrifyingly elegant cycle: suffering creates beauty, beauty fuels suffering. The Bloom thrives on imbalance.
The Bloom’s color shifts subtly depending on the dominant emotional resonance within its vicinity. When near a place of intense celebration, it radiates a vibrant, almost painful, scarlet. During periods of profound despair, it darkens to a bruised, violet hue. And when exposed to pure, unadulterated curiosity, it flashes with a fleeting, iridescent emerald. These shifts are imperceptible to the untrained eye, but a Stemma Keeper – one who has learned to attune themselves to the Bloom’s rhythms – can perceive them with startling clarity.
“To hold a Stemma fragment is to carry a piece of a shattered soul. It is a burden, a privilege, and a profound, unsettling responsibility.” – Lyra, Keeper of the Seventh Bloom
The Stemma Keepers, those few who dedicate their lives to studying and safeguarding these fragments, operate on the fringes of society. They are viewed with a mixture of fear and reverence, respected for their knowledge but distrusted for their connection to the Bloom’s unsettling power. They maintain hidden sanctuaries, meticulously cataloging each fragment, attempting to understand the complex relationships between the Bloom and the countless lives it has absorbed. Their work is not driven by a desire for power, but by a desperate need to prevent the Bloom from consuming itself, from unleashing a torrent of raw emotion upon the world.