The Lithic Drift isn't simply a geological phenomenon; it's a resonance. A fracturing of the temporal plane where the very surfaces of ancient continents bleed into the present. Initially, the scientists dismissed it as a rare form of crystalline growth, but the data consistently defied explanation. The patterns aren’t random; they mirror the movements of stars across millennia, subtly altering the flow of time within their confines. It’s theorized that the Lithic Drift is a wound, a scar left by a forgotten cosmic collision. The deeper one delves into the surface patterns, the more the sensation of *displacement* becomes overwhelming – a disorientation not of the body, but of the soul. There are whispers of structures – impossible geometries – that appear and vanish within the drifts, held together by forces we cannot comprehend. The most unsettling aspect is the *memory* embedded within the stone. Not visual, but tactile, emotional. A profound sense of loss, of watching civilizations rise and fall, not as history, but as a lived experience.
Professor Silas Blackwood dedicated his life to mapping the surface patterns, driven by a singular obsession. His initial maps were meticulous, almost obsessive. Then, they began to shift. Not in a way that could be explained by observation alone – he started reporting 'corrections' to his own maps, notations that appeared to be drawn by a hand he didn't recognize. His lab became a labyrinth of layered projections, holographic overlays, and physical models, all vying for dominance. He claimed to be 'listening' to the surface, interpreting its silent language. His final entry, scrawled in frantic handwriting, speaks of a 'gateway' – a point where the surface isn’t just reflecting the past, but *becoming* it. He vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a single, perfectly smooth stone, radiating an unnatural cold. The stone now resides in a containment unit, constantly monitored for any fluctuations. The unsettling reality is that the patterns *respond* to observation. The more intensely one studies the surface, the more pronounced the shifts become. It’s a feedback loop, a dangerous dance with the unknown.
The Obsidian Chorus is located deep within the volcanic plains of Aethelgard. It's composed entirely of a single, colossal obsidian sheet, unnaturally smooth and reflective. What sets it apart is the auditory phenomenon – a constant, low-frequency hum that resonates within the listener's bones. The hum isn't random; it’s a complex sequence of vibrations, seemingly encoded with information. Initial attempts to decipher the pattern led to a collective psychological breakdown among the research team. The experience was described as 'overwhelming,' 'violating,' and 'utterly senseless.' The only consistent result was a shared, primal fear – a feeling of being watched by something vast and ancient. It's believed that the Obsidian Chorus is a focal point for the Lithic Drift, amplifying the temporal distortions. The deeper you venture into its presence, the more susceptible you become to the echoes of forgotten voices, the fragments of shattered realities. Some claim to have glimpsed entire epochs, fleeting moments of unimaginable beauty and terrifying horror. The surface itself seems to *shift* in your peripheral vision, a subtle distortion that plays on the mind. It’s a surface that doesn’t just reflect; it *invites* you to fall through.
The Static Bloom is perhaps the most disconcerting manifestation of the Lithic Drift. It appears as a field of iridescent, crystalline structures, each perfectly geometrically shaped and emitting a faint, pulsating light. The light isn't static; it shifts in color and intensity, creating a hypnotic visual effect. The most disturbing aspect is the associated auditory phenomenon – a constant, white noise, punctuated by brief, fragmented sentences in languages unknown. These sentences seem to be directed at individuals, sometimes addressing them directly. The nature of the messages is always ambiguous, often nonsensical, but occasionally, there are glimpses of profound sadness or desperate pleas. The area surrounding the Bloom is subject to extreme temporal distortions – brief periods of accelerated or decelerated time. Objects appear to age rapidly or remain frozen in place. The Bloom seems to be actively trying to communicate, to record, to preserve. It's a surface that doesn't just reflect the past; it's attempting to *rewrite* it.