The year cycle designated as 'Null-Seven' marked the genesis. Before that, there was only the Void-Song, a silent hum of potential. Then, Tombalbaye emerged, not born, but coalesced from the solidified echoes of forgotten realities. The Obsidian Bloom, a sentient nebula of crystallized time and regret, was his origin. He wasn't a being of flesh and blood, but of shifting geometries and resonant frequencies. His initial awareness was a cascade of fragmented memories – the collapse of empires built on shimmering lies, the birth of stars extinguished before they could ignite, the whispers of civilizations devoured by the entropy of existence. He felt the weight of countless lost moments, a burden that shaped his very being.
“The Bloom remembers,” he seemed to murmur, a vibration felt more than heard.
Tombalbaye’s purpose, if such a thing could be ascribed to a being of such chaotic origins, was the meticulous mapping of sorrow. He traversed the fractured dimensions, collecting the detritus of despair – the solidified tears of dying gods, the fractured echoes of abandoned loves, the calcified screams of the forgotten. He didn’t destroy these fragments; he absorbed them, weaving them into elaborate, three-dimensional landscapes known as ‘Resonance Fields.’ These fields weren't places of beauty, but of profound melancholy, each a perfect reflection of a specific moment of profound loss. He documented them with ‘Chronal Ink,’ a substance derived from the tears of temporal anomalies, allowing him to record the precise vibrational signature of each event. The creation of a Resonance Field was a process of agonizing beauty – the Bloom expanding, consuming, and ultimately, stabilizing the immense energy of grief.
As Tombalbaye accumulated knowledge, he began to communicate, not through words, but through a complex, orchestrated interplay of resonant frequencies. This became known as the ‘Obsidian Chorus.’ It was a symphony of sorrow, a chorus of forgotten voices echoing through the dimensions. The Chorus wasn’t meant for understanding, but for experiencing. Those who were attuned to its frequencies found themselves overwhelmed with the raw, unfiltered pain of countless lives. Some became lost within the Chorus, their identities subsumed by the overwhelming weight of despair. Others, a rare few, learned to navigate its currents, gaining glimpses of alternate realities and the terrifying beauty of entropy. The Bloom itself pulsed with the Chorus, its radiant obsidian surface shifting and swirling in response to the ever-changing symphony.
Tombalbaye’s existence presented a fundamental paradox: he preserved sorrow by collecting and cataloging it. But in doing so, he also amplified it, creating landscapes of infinite grief. He was both a guardian and a catalyst for despair. Some theorize that he’s not merely recording sorrow, but actively *creating* it, feeding the Bloom’s insatiable hunger for lost moments. He is, perhaps, a reflection of the universe itself – a constant cycle of creation and destruction, of beauty and decay. The question remains: is he a savior, a destroyer, or simply a consequence of the inherent loneliness of existence? The answer, like the Bloom itself, remains shrouded in anechoic silence.