Diego, completely oblivious to his current surroundings, all but his three friends, the newly materialized rune etched stone archway and the newly summoned crimson cloaked figure, slings his lute over his shoulder as he studies the newcomer. Preparing himself for the flood of memories and emotions to come from such a reunion...yet they come not. As he moves to stand with Shenua and Iromae, glancing towards Vorenus to measure his reaction, he turns to the figure, what...who are you? Why can't I remember? Just the site of you should overwhelm us all with a flood of memories and emotions yet nothing stirs, either in my mind or heart...
Vorenus smiles as he hears the words in his head, he nods and says “I won’t. I don’t know how I forgot that…”. Tears come to his eyes, he looks at the figure, again for recognition, trying to make out features.. “Could it be?… No..”. For a second his hand goes to his eyes to wipe the tears away, then he reaches out, holding the hands of his friends again, saying “I am ready, I will absolutely walk through that doorway…”.
Vorenus needs no further urging, he moves forward, stepping one foot in front of another, not fully understanding, but knowing that this feels right. Walk by faith, not by sight. This is what I’m meant to do, why I am here…. And he walks forward.
OOC: This is long, and I'm going to "control" your characters more than I usually would, but in the parts where I do, I feel ending the post at that point would be more confusing for you than just plowing on. As always, if I assume anything of your character incorrectly, speak up, and we can make retroactive adjustments.
The group stands together, their voices and gestures a testament to their bond. Each speaks from their heart, weaving together threads of doubt, hope, and purpose into a tapestry of shared determination.
As Iromae’s firm declaration resounds, her certainty seems to ripple through the air, grounding everyone. Her glance at the others is met with silent nods, as though her assurance has strengthened their collective resolve.
Shenua’s sharp eyes linger on the crimson-cloaked figure, taking in every detail, memorizing their features as if to ensure they are never forgotten again. Her voice is resolute, and her nod seals the group's commitment. Her response to Jossryn hangs in the air, her confidence cutting through his panic like a blade: "We are about to figure that out."
Diego’s heartfelt words echo with raw emotion as he confronts the enigmatic figure. His frustration and curiosity mingle in his tone. "What ... who are you? Why can't I remember?"
The figure meets Diego’s gaze, their expression softening. They answer with a voice that seems to resonate from somewhere deep within the companions’ shared history. "Because memory, once broken, must be mended. You will remember in time. For now, let us walk this path together."
Vorenus’s quiet resolve is palpable as he wipes his tears. The words that lingered in his mind — "You were the thread that held us together" — seem to anchor him. His steps toward the arch are deliberate, and his whispered vow, “I won’t forget again,” serves as a silent promise to himself and the figure.
As Vorenus moves forward, the crimson figure extends their hand to him, then to each of the others in turn. Together, they form a circle, the figure at its center. The archway begins to hum, glowing brighter as if responding to their unity.
Jossryn stumbles back another step, his voice lost amid the rising crescendo of magic. The portal solidifies further, its surface rippling like water caught in moonlight.
The crimson figure smiles faintly and speaks once more, "Beyond this doorway lies the truth of what was lost and what must be restored. Together, we will mend the threads of memory, of purpose, and of creation itself. Are you ready?"
With a shared look, the companions move as one, stepping through the archway into the unknown.
The moment they cross the threshold, the world shifts. The air is thick with an energy that feels both foreign and familiar. Shapes and colors swirl around them, fragments of places and moments they can almost — but not quite — grasp.
Then, in the distance, they see it: a grand tapestry of light, woven with images and symbols that seem to tell the story of their journey, their bonds, and the mystery of the fifth figure.
And so, they walk forward, toward the tapestry, toward the answers waiting to be uncovered, and toward the truth that binds them all.
As the group steps fully through the archway, the transition is unlike anything they've experienced. The sensation is disorienting but exhilarating — a rush of wind, light and sound. It feels as though they are being pulled through a river of time, memories brushing against their minds like the edges of a dream.
The world they enter is both vast and intimate, a plane that feels suspended between thought and existence. The ground beneath their feet is a shimmering mosaic of fragmented images and glowing threads, each one pulsating faintly with light. Above, the sky is a swirling aurora of colors, constantly shifting and reforming.
At the center of this surreal expanse is the tapestry they glimpsed before: a monumental weaving of golden and silver threads, interspersed with strands of crimson, turquoise, amber, and deep black. It hums faintly, exuding a warmth that calls to each of them individually.
The crimson-cloaked figure, now more solid and defined, stands before the tapestry, their back to the group. They reach out, brushing their hand across the woven threads, and the entire structure pulses with a wave of energy.
"This is the Loom of Eternity," they explain, their voice gentle but firm. "Here, the threads of creation are spun, mended and rewoven. But it has been damaged — something precious has been torn away, not just from this place but from you. Together, we must restore what was lost."
The companions feel a pull toward the tapestry, as though it knows them. Shenua, ever-curious, steps forward first, her lockpick glowing faintly in her hand. The moment she touches the tapestry, a thread of turquoise light leaps from her to the weave, connecting her to it.
Diego, Vorenus, and Iromae follow suit, each placing their hands on the tapestry. Threads of amber, silver, and black extend from them, weaving into the damaged sections of the loom. Together, the four threads twine, converging on a crimson strand that pulses faintly at the tapestry’s heart.
As the threads connect, the companions are hit with a surge of fragmented images and emotions. Flashes of the missing figure — standing with them in battle, laughing around a campfire, working alongside them to solve mysteries — flood their minds.
They see a hand reaching out, a voice calling to them in desperation, "Don’t forget me! Don’t let them take me from you!"
And then, the voice of the crimson figure, "I am all that remains of them — the thread they left behind. Restore me, and you restore them."
The tapestry begins to unravel slightly, and the figure steps back, watching the companions. "This is the moment of choice," they say. "To restore them, you must give of yourselves — your strength, your will, your memories. It will not be easy. You must face the fragments of what was lost and weave them back into the whole."
The tapestry starts to shimmer, and four distinct paths appear, each one corresponding to a thread: turquoise for Shenua, amber for Diego, silver for Vorenus, and black for Iromae. The threads waver, and the crimson figure explains, "With a touch, your test will begin."
Shenua thought the opening of the box had been an incredible moment, but each step since seemed to surpass the last in sheer amazement and beauty. The box had revealed the incomplete figure, which in turn led them to the archway. And then, the tapestry ... it was on an entirely new level.
Though she was more accustomed to mechanical contraptions, Shenua couldn't help but marvel at the magnificence and intricacy of the weaves composing the tapestry. The hand that had created such a masterpiece surely belonged to an entity far beyond anything they had ever encountered or even read about. And precisely because of this, seeing the tapestry torn filled her with sadness. They needed to restore it—not just to reclaim their lost memories, but because leaving such a work of art and magic in its ruined state simply felt wrong.
The tapestry begins to unravel slightly, and the figure steps back, watching the companions. "This is the moment of choice," they say. "To restore them, you must give of yourselves — your strength, your will, your memories. It will not be easy. You must face the fragments of what was lost and weave them back into the whole."
Shenua hesitated, taken aback by the red-cloaked figure's words. What did they have to give? What if it was something irreplaceable, something they'd never recover? The thought gnawed at her, but what choice did they have? They couldn’t just leave that desperate voice alone, could they? She turned to the red-cloaked figure, her honesty plain in her voice as she said, "I admit I'm a little... afraid. I want to know what it is we’ll have to give. But I suppose not knowing is part of the test itself, isn’t it?"
Her eyes drifted to the others. Their expressions conforted her enough to steel herself. She nodded faintly, took a steadying breath and looked down at the shimmering turquoise thread stretching from her chest to the tapestry. Tentatively, she wrapped it around her left wrist, feeling its warm energy pulse through her. Then, step by step, she closed the distance to the tapestry, wrapping the rest of thread around her wrist with each step, thinking this might anchor her.
When Shenua reached the section of the tapestry meant for her, she paused. "All right. I'm ready". She extended the right hand - which still held the lockpick - and placed it against the weave of her path.
Diego lost in studying the weave, looking for familiar patterns, trying to read like a piece of written music. Following it note for note, measure by measure, or trying to. His mind breaking it down as it had any other puzzle, everything is made up of patterns just as music. With just seven notes masterpieces are constructed and once understood a practiced performance can give it life.
Shenua's words, her voice itself a melody that pulls on the heartstrings as a gentle hand on a familiar lyre. He watches as she moves, why have I never noticed the grace with which she moves? he thinks to himself. As if in slow motion, her hand rises to the tapestry, WAIT! he yells, rushing to her. He places his hand on her shoulder, together, remember. We do this together. He looks toward Vorenus then Iromae, his gaze lingering on her, I've but just got you all back, and I shant let you go again. Together or not at all.
Vorenus walks forward eagerly, no hint of caution or hesitation in his movement. He looks to the others, nodding and grinning, gesturing toward the loom. He shouts overly loud to all of them, “You know that we need to do it! Together! Don’t be afraid! We are meant to! Answers lie within!” Sounds start to roar in his head and he starts to laugh. He brings his wand forward, touching the silver string, then somewhat losing patience, he brings his left hand forward and grabs it, his tattoos on his left forearm becoming more visible, almost glowing. “Hah! Can you feel it? I will… not… forget!!” Vorenus looks on expectantly, feeling force and will growing strong within him. Memories are surging forth…
'Give of yourself.' Iromae played the words over again in her mind. She knew a bit about that, as becoming a cleric meant doing that to some extent. She felt the tug and somehow knew this person that was now with them. With them again. She could certainly accept the price if it put things back together.
For a brief moment she wondered at the black thread that seemed related to her path. There had been a colored glow to each of her friends, and herself, before. The threads all match those colors, except for hers. 'Could this mean something? I'd seen a golden color but now the thread is black?' She ponders this just a moment though, before convincing herself it probably doesn't matter. The colors probably weren't even real. So why be concerned? This is probably just some shift in the magic.
Shenua's comment about being afraid caught her attention. 'Afraid? Oh... should I have been worried about this? Could there be danger here?' She hadn't really considered that at first. She couldn't help but smile as Diego stepped in to offer her support. Vorenus adds his thoughts, and it helps reassure her a little. But might that just be his usual bravado? She did know they needed to do this. Well, she felt that the needed to. Had they really thought this through? She is poised to grab the thread but hesitates a moment. "There was a glow of colors representing each of us," she says to the others. "MIne was golden, but this thread is black. All of yours match. Are we perhaps jumping into this too fast? I do not really understand what is happening."
She tries to make sense of what the color difference might mean. (Arcana: 22)
Shenua halts her hand mere millimeters from the tapestry, her tail curling sharply behind her in response to Diego’s alarmed voice. She turns back to look at the bard and offers him, and then the others, an apologetic look as she says, “Sorry, I got carried away. You’re right, Diego. It’s better if we all place our hands at the same time, and only when all of us are ready.” Vorenus, unsurprisingly, didn’t seem to feel even an inch of fear. The artificer couldn’t decide if this was entirely good, but couldn't help to feel twinge of envy flickering through her.
When Iromae comments on the color of her thread, Shenua mutters, “That is strange. It must be some kind of mistake, surely?”She glances toward their red-cloaked companion, her gaze questioning.
Diego grows concerned at the revelation, mentally chides himself for not noticing it before. He eyes the tapestry for Iromae's golden thread, then traces it through the weave best he can, trying to discern when it changed to black. At that point he looks for the other colors in the weave, where they lay, trying to piece together some sort of interaction that may have caused the change in color. True there are but only seven notes, but depending on how they are written the pitch changes. A low E is always an E note but if you elevate up the scale then it's pitch, it's tone changes. Perhaps something like this has happened to the gold thread. If only I could find where it changes. As he continues to look for it he will strum three notes on his lute with his free hand, singing the words Revelare, Declaro, Exero casting Comprehend Languages in hopes that it aid in revealing something in the patterns.
As Vorenus seizes the silver thread, the hum in the chamber sharpens into a resonant tone, almost like the pluck of a harp string. The thread tightens and glows with an intense brilliance, wrapping itself around his hand as if alive. The energy flows through him, sharp and exhilarating, flooding his senses with memories long-buried.
Images flash in his mind: fleeting glimpses of faces he doesn't fully recognize, places he's certain he’s never been yet feels deeply connected to, and moments where his voice rings out in battle cries and laughter alike. A strange sense of belonging wells up within him, but it’s accompanied by something darker — an edge of sorrow, of something lost but not yet found.
The glow intensifies, and faint whispers echo in the chamber. Though the others hear nothing, to Vorenus, they are distinct — fragmented words calling his name, pleading and hopeful. The silver thread seems to pull him toward the tapestry, its energy urging him forward.
Meanwhile, the concern about Iromae’s thread hangs heavy in the air. Diego’s lute produces a soft, searching melody as he studies the weave, his spell illuminating faint markings within the black thread. Lines of golden light run beneath the dark surface, as though the thread’s original color is concealed rather than gone. The markings shift, forming runes that pulse faintly before fading again. They’re fragmented, incomplete.
The crimson figure watches quietly, their expression inscrutable. After a moment, they speak, their voice like a whisper through a forest: “The golden light remains, buried but unbroken. What you see now is not a reflection of failure, but of truth. All threads carry their burdens. Hers is no different.”
Jossryn, who has been standing back with a watchful gaze, furrows her brow. “Buried but unbroken? That’s not an answer. What caused this?” she asks sharply. “If there’s a danger to her —”
“The thread reflects what is,” the crimson figure replies. “It is not danger. It is revelation.”
The black thread seems to pulse in time with the hum of the chamber, almost as if responding to the crimson figure’s words. Its texture shifts subtly, taking on the sheen of ink spilled on water, shimmering with faint hints of the gold hidden within.
“It’s up to her,” they add, turning to Iromae. “The thread will only yield its truth if she is ready to grasp it.”
The chamber falls silent for a breath, the tapestry rippling faintly as if awaiting their decision. Vorenus feels the pull of his own thread intensify, its connection to the tapestry growing stronger with each passing moment. The black thread attached to Iromae wavers slightly, as though inviting her to take the next step.
"The thread reflects what is," Iromae repeats. 'Ok, does that make sense? Because there are things that have been hidden, just like the black hides the gold. Revelation is what they are looking for. Ok, so I just need to have faith that this is going to work.' The words from Jossryn don't even penetrate her consciousness. So, after her moment of internal reflection, she says, "All of you are here with me. We need to move forward together."
She grasps the black thread, drawing it towards her, trying to understand what has happened. "Deneir guide me," she mutters.
Shenua watches as Iromae reflects on the words of Jossryn and the cloaked figure. Though there is still a flicker of worry the tiefling's gaze, she also acknowledges the necessity of seeking answers rather than retreating from the unknown that stands before them. When Iromae speaks, Shenua gives her a supporting nod. Indeed, they are in this together, and moving forward is the only option.
The artificer's eyes shift to Vorenus and Diego, waiting for their signal. When they give the indication, she will step forward alongside them to touch the tapestry. Around her left wrist, the turquoise thread pulses softly, and she holds it firmily with her hand.
The crimson-cloaked figure steps back as all four companions prepare to grasp the threads and place their hands upon the tapestry. Their voice, calm yet filled with an enigmatic weight, echoes softly through the chamber. "When the threads are fully embraced, the tapestry will draw you into your trials. Each path is distinct, yet all are woven into the same greater whole. There is no turning back once you begin."
The threads in their hands begin to pulse, not just with light but with an almost imperceptible rhythm, as if echoing their own heartbeats. The tapestry, immense and imposing, ripples faintly as though it anticipates their touch. The silver thread tugs gently at Vorenus, almost eager, while the black thread in Iromae’s hand seems to hum with an unnatural vibration, resonating with the weight of hidden truths. Shenua’s turquoise thread and Diego’s amber one glow with warm, steady hues, each carrying their own sense of anticipation and challenge.
Jossryn takes a step toward the group but stops short, her face pale, torn between wanting to intervene and knowing she cannot. "I ... I still don't understand," she says softly, her voice trembling. "But if this is what you must do, may the gods protect you." She folds her hands, bowing her head in prayer.
The cloaked figure's gaze sweeps across the companions one last time. "The threads will test you not only as individuals but also as the bonds you share. The tapestry holds more than what was lost — it reveals what you need to find." They step aside, giving the group a clear path to the massive weave.
As the first hand touches the tapestry, the threads flare with brilliant light, enveloping the room in a kaleidoscope of colors. The chamber begins to dissolve, each color swirling into a separate corridor that pulls at the companions. The crimson figure’s voice lingers in the air as the world shifts around them.
"Step forward. Face what lies within. And remember: to restore the whole, you must weave the fragments together."
With that, the four corridors, each aligned with a thread’s color, stretch infinitely before them. One by one, the companions feel themselves drawn forward, each to their own path, the bond of the tapestry both connecting and separating them.
The tapestry seems to ripple as Vorenus’s hand touches the silver thread. It surges with a sudden intensity, a vivid glow spreading from his fingertips. The thread spirals outward, encircling him in a cocoon of light before pulling him forward into the tapestry itself.
When the light fades, he finds himself standing on a cracked, uneven stone bridge. The world around him is shadowed, the sky a swirling mix of deep purples and blacks, pierced occasionally by jagged bolts of silver lightning. Beneath the bridge yawns an endless void, a chasm so deep it seems to swallow light itself. In the distance, faint voices echo — words indistinct but filled with anguish and despair.
Ahead of him stands a familiar figure, though not as he remembers. The figure is dressed in heavy plate armor, its surface battered and scarred, as though it has seen countless battles. A helmet obscures the figure’s face, but the voice is unmistakable when it speaks.
“You came here once before, Vorenus.” The voice resonates, carrying both accusation and sorrow. “But you turned back. Do you even remember?”
The figure steps closer, and with a gesture, the jagged edges of the bridge begin to crumble, falling piece by piece into the abyss. “Do you have the courage to cross now? Or will you turn away again?”
In his left hand, the armored figure holds a silver thread identical to the one Vorenus touched. It snakes out behind him, leading across the bridge to a faint glow in the distance — a beacon of light at the end of the abyss.
“Take the thread,” the figure commands, extending his hand toward Vorenus. “But know this: every step forward will test your resolve. The memories you seek will weigh heavy, and your doubts will rise to meet you. What lies beyond the light is not just truth, but also consequence.”
The chasm below seems to stir, as though alive. A faint whisper rises, carried by the wind: You cannot do this ... You will fall ... The voices grow louder, a cacophony of doubt that seems to claw at his mind.
The figure waits, silent and unmoving, the silver thread shimmering in his outstretched hand.
The turquoise glow envelops Shenua, its light flickering with an energy that feels both familiar and foreign. As the world around her dissolves, the hum of her lockpick echoes faintly in her ears, its sound growing sharper with every pulse of the thread tied to her wrist. When the light dims, she finds herself standing in a vast workshop unlike anything she has ever seen.
The walls are lined with shelves of arcane tools, intricate blueprints, and gleaming artifacts. A series of mechanical constructs stands dormant in one corner, their designs strikingly similar to some of her own prototypes. Yet, the longer she looks, the more she notices imperfections — cracks in the designs, misaligned gears, and frayed wires. It is as if this space reflects not only her successes but also her failures.
In the center of the workshop stands a single, incomplete creation. A massive automaton looms over her, its chest cavity open and its core missing. Shenua recognizes the craftsmanship as her own, though she has no memory of ever building such a thing. Beside the automaton, a pedestal glows with a soft, turquoise light, and atop it rests a shimmering crystal, shaped perfectly to fit into the core's cavity.
The air shifts, and a voice — deep, resonant, and undeniably familiar — fills the workshop. "A creator's work is a reflection of their soul," it says. "Will you claim your flaws, or let them define you?"
Suddenly, the constructs in the corner spring to life, their eyes glowing with an ominous red light. They move toward Shenua, their steps slow but deliberate, their mechanical limbs whirring with precision. The voice speaks again, its tone both challenging and encouraging. "Restore what was broken. Show me your resolve."
The crystal on the pedestal pulses, its light dimming slightly as the constructs draw nearer. Shenua can sense the urgency of the moment, the weight of the test pressing heavily on her shoulders. Whatever happens next, she knows this challenge will demand not just her ingenuity, but her heart as well.
The amber light encases Diego, its warmth reminiscent of sunlight filtering through a forest canopy. The bard feels a gentle pull, as though the thread tied to his wrist tugs him toward an unseen melody. The vibrant light gradually fades, and he finds himself standing in a sprawling amphitheater, its seats carved from polished stone and encircling a central stage.
The air is alive with the faint hum of strings, the low thrum of drums, and the soft whisper of a flute. Diego’s lute is in his hands, and though its strings are silent, he feels an irresistible compulsion to play. The amphitheater is empty, yet an overwhelming sense of expectation lingers, as though an audience waits just beyond the shadows.
On the stage lies a music stand, a sheet of parchment glowing faintly in amber light. Approaching it, Diego sees that the parchment holds the beginning of a melody — a tune he recognizes but cannot fully place. The notes are scattered and incomplete, trailing off into nothingness. Around the edge of the amphitheater, four grand statues stand, each holding an instrument: a harp, a flute, a drum, and a violin.
Then, the shadows stir, and four figures emerge, cloaked in darkness but unmistakably familiar. Each one carries an instrument matching the statues’: the first plucks the strings of a delicate harp, the second blows confidently into a silver flute, the third strikes the skin of a drum with rhythmic precision, and the fourth plays a haunting melody on a violin.
The air thickens with tension as the shadows move closer. A voice echoes through the amphitheater, resonant and bittersweet. "Every song has a story, every melody a memory. Play, Diego. Reclaim your harmony, or let the discord consume you."
The figures raise their instruments, and the first haunting notes of a familiar but fractured tune fill the air. The parchment on the music stand pulses faintly, awaiting Diego's response. The amphitheater seems to hold its breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
The black thread encircling Iromae's wrist pulls tight as the golden glow of her surroundings fades, replaced by a dim, cavernous hall. Shadows flicker against walls of unyielding obsidian, their movement cast by unseen flames. At the far end of the hall, a dais rises, holding an altar bathed in an eerie, shifting light — its color wavering between gold and pitch black, like the thread she carries.
On the altar lies an enormous tome, its cover inscribed with a shifting rune that Iromae recognizes as one of Deneir’s symbols for "truth". The tome is locked shut with a heavy clasp, and beside it, four objects gleam: a quill, a key, a scale, and a small vial of ink as black as night. The runes etched into the altar pulse faintly, drawing her attention to the objects.
"You came seeking restoration," a deep, resonant voice intones. The crimson figure emerges from the shadows, now veiled in an aura of gold and black that mirrors the thread. They gesture toward the altar. "But knowledge demands sacrifice, and the truth requires choices. Before you lies what was hidden, waiting to be revealed. Choose wisely, for the path of revelation is not without its cost."
The air around her grows heavier, the weight of expectation almost suffocating. Iromae feels an almost magnetic pull toward the tome, as if it contains answers to questions she has not dared to ask. Yet the objects beside it seem equally significant, each exuding a quiet promise of power, clarity or judgment.
The crimson figure steps closer, their presence radiating both comfort and unease. "What will you offer to unlock what was forgotten? Strength to wield the key? Wisdom to balance the scale? The ink to rewrite the past? Or will you bleed the truth from the quill itself?"
As the voice echoes through the chamber, the black thread around Iromae’s wrist pulses faintly, the light within it flickering like a dying flame. Her faith wavers for a moment, but then she recalls the words that have guided her before: the truth will set you free.
Vorenus searches his mind, it seems so familiar, but for some reason he cannot recall the bridge, he cannot recall having performed this task before. He remains determined and he seizes the silver thread in his hand, determined not to fail. He shuts out the sounds, the whispers, the nagging doubts that he can hear. He fixes his focus and locks his eyes straight ahead after he takes the silver strand, and then he begins to walk. He ignores the state of the bridge, he remains focused on the strand and where it leads in the distance, holding it steady in his left hand and letting it trail through his right hand. I will not falter. This is what I am meant to do, I cannot let my friends down, we all need each other! Easy goes, one foot in front of the other, that’s it….
Shenua looks around in awe as the world dissolves, revealing what could easily be one of her dreams come true. This workshop is extraordinary! If someone had asked her to imagine her perfect workspace, this would have been the answer: a room so spacious it could house even the largest of automatons, like those resting in the center and in the far corner of the room. And the expansive shelves are perfectly arranged to store books and tools with room to spare.
It takes her a few moments to notice the flaws scattered around her, but once she does, it’s as though she cannot stop seeing them. They’re everywhere! How could she have been so careless? So messy? This wasn’t like her at all — to abandon a design before it was perfected, to start something new without addressing what had gone wrong before. Shenua clicks her tongue, irritated, and crosses the room with quick strides to reach the nearest artifact. What had she been thinking? That mechanical arm it would move more smoothly with a larger gear. And that design on the far shelf—were the measurements even correct?
As Shenua inspects her flawed works, the familiar voice suddenly speaks, and this makes her gaze shift from all the imperfections to the automaton towering in the center of the room. "Will I claim my flaws?" the tiefling repeats after the voice, as if tasting its meaning. She didn’t like her mistakes, that much was true. But what is a flaw, if not a step toward something better? The path to success was rarely straight and sometimes, a step back was necessary before leaping forward.
As the red-eyed constructs begin to march toward her, Shenua raises her voice. "No. I will not fear you. You are part of me. You are the steps I took to reach what I am today." She approaches the pedestal and rests her hands on the shimmering crystal. The metallic whirring grows louder, but she decides not to hurry. Instead, she takes a moment to inspect the crystal closely, turning it in her hands. She could feel the pull to complete the automaton, to place the crystal in its core. But what was the rush? Over the years, she had learned the value of thinking, testing, and trying patiently. Once she is finished checking the crystal from every angle, she carefully inserts the crystal into the automaton's chest. Then, tilting her head slightly, she watches expectantly. She is more than ready to accept that the construct might not work right away, and that she may need to keep working on it...
Diego, completely oblivious to his current surroundings, all but his three friends, the newly materialized rune etched stone archway and the newly summoned crimson cloaked figure, slings his lute over his shoulder as he studies the newcomer. Preparing himself for the flood of memories and emotions to come from such a reunion...yet they come not. As he moves to stand with Shenua and Iromae, glancing towards Vorenus to measure his reaction, he turns to the figure, what...who are you? Why can't I remember? Just the site of you should overwhelm us all with a flood of memories and emotions yet nothing stirs, either in my mind or heart...
Vorenus smiles as he hears the words in his head, he nods and says “I won’t. I don’t know how I forgot that…”. Tears come to his eyes, he looks at the figure, again for recognition, trying to make out features.. “Could it be?… No..”. For a second his hand goes to his eyes to wipe the tears away, then he reaches out, holding the hands of his friends again, saying “I am ready, I will absolutely walk through that doorway…”.
Vorenus needs no further urging, he moves forward, stepping one foot in front of another, not fully understanding, but knowing that this feels right. Walk by faith, not by sight. This is what I’m meant to do, why I am here…. And he walks forward.
OOC: This is long, and I'm going to "control" your characters more than I usually would, but in the parts where I do, I feel ending the post at that point would be more confusing for you than just plowing on. As always, if I assume anything of your character incorrectly, speak up, and we can make retroactive adjustments.
The group stands together, their voices and gestures a testament to their bond. Each speaks from their heart, weaving together threads of doubt, hope, and purpose into a tapestry of shared determination.
As Iromae’s firm declaration resounds, her certainty seems to ripple through the air, grounding everyone. Her glance at the others is met with silent nods, as though her assurance has strengthened their collective resolve.
Shenua’s sharp eyes linger on the crimson-cloaked figure, taking in every detail, memorizing their features as if to ensure they are never forgotten again. Her voice is resolute, and her nod seals the group's commitment. Her response to Jossryn hangs in the air, her confidence cutting through his panic like a blade: "We are about to figure that out."
Diego’s heartfelt words echo with raw emotion as he confronts the enigmatic figure. His frustration and curiosity mingle in his tone. "What ... who are you? Why can't I remember?"
The figure meets Diego’s gaze, their expression softening. They answer with a voice that seems to resonate from somewhere deep within the companions’ shared history. "Because memory, once broken, must be mended. You will remember in time. For now, let us walk this path together."
Vorenus’s quiet resolve is palpable as he wipes his tears. The words that lingered in his mind — "You were the thread that held us together" — seem to anchor him. His steps toward the arch are deliberate, and his whispered vow, “I won’t forget again,” serves as a silent promise to himself and the figure.
As Vorenus moves forward, the crimson figure extends their hand to him, then to each of the others in turn. Together, they form a circle, the figure at its center. The archway begins to hum, glowing brighter as if responding to their unity.
Jossryn stumbles back another step, his voice lost amid the rising crescendo of magic. The portal solidifies further, its surface rippling like water caught in moonlight.
The crimson figure smiles faintly and speaks once more, "Beyond this doorway lies the truth of what was lost and what must be restored. Together, we will mend the threads of memory, of purpose, and of creation itself. Are you ready?"
With a shared look, the companions move as one, stepping through the archway into the unknown.
The moment they cross the threshold, the world shifts. The air is thick with an energy that feels both foreign and familiar. Shapes and colors swirl around them, fragments of places and moments they can almost — but not quite — grasp.
Then, in the distance, they see it: a grand tapestry of light, woven with images and symbols that seem to tell the story of their journey, their bonds, and the mystery of the fifth figure.
And so, they walk forward, toward the tapestry, toward the answers waiting to be uncovered, and toward the truth that binds them all.
As the group steps fully through the archway, the transition is unlike anything they've experienced. The sensation is disorienting but exhilarating — a rush of wind, light and sound. It feels as though they are being pulled through a river of time, memories brushing against their minds like the edges of a dream.
The world they enter is both vast and intimate, a plane that feels suspended between thought and existence. The ground beneath their feet is a shimmering mosaic of fragmented images and glowing threads, each one pulsating faintly with light. Above, the sky is a swirling aurora of colors, constantly shifting and reforming.
At the center of this surreal expanse is the tapestry they glimpsed before: a monumental weaving of golden and silver threads, interspersed with strands of crimson, turquoise, amber, and deep black. It hums faintly, exuding a warmth that calls to each of them individually.
The crimson-cloaked figure, now more solid and defined, stands before the tapestry, their back to the group. They reach out, brushing their hand across the woven threads, and the entire structure pulses with a wave of energy.
"This is the Loom of Eternity," they explain, their voice gentle but firm. "Here, the threads of creation are spun, mended and rewoven. But it has been damaged — something precious has been torn away, not just from this place but from you. Together, we must restore what was lost."
The companions feel a pull toward the tapestry, as though it knows them. Shenua, ever-curious, steps forward first, her lockpick glowing faintly in her hand. The moment she touches the tapestry, a thread of turquoise light leaps from her to the weave, connecting her to it.
Diego, Vorenus, and Iromae follow suit, each placing their hands on the tapestry. Threads of amber, silver, and black extend from them, weaving into the damaged sections of the loom. Together, the four threads twine, converging on a crimson strand that pulses faintly at the tapestry’s heart.
As the threads connect, the companions are hit with a surge of fragmented images and emotions. Flashes of the missing figure — standing with them in battle, laughing around a campfire, working alongside them to solve mysteries — flood their minds.
They see a hand reaching out, a voice calling to them in desperation, "Don’t forget me! Don’t let them take me from you!"
And then, the voice of the crimson figure, "I am all that remains of them — the thread they left behind. Restore me, and you restore them."
The tapestry begins to unravel slightly, and the figure steps back, watching the companions. "This is the moment of choice," they say. "To restore them, you must give of yourselves — your strength, your will, your memories. It will not be easy. You must face the fragments of what was lost and weave them back into the whole."
The tapestry starts to shimmer, and four distinct paths appear, each one corresponding to a thread: turquoise for Shenua, amber for Diego, silver for Vorenus, and black for Iromae. The threads waver, and the crimson figure explains, "With a touch, your test will begin."
Shenua thought the opening of the box had been an incredible moment, but each step since seemed to surpass the last in sheer amazement and beauty. The box had revealed the incomplete figure, which in turn led them to the archway. And then, the tapestry ... it was on an entirely new level.
Though she was more accustomed to mechanical contraptions, Shenua couldn't help but marvel at the magnificence and intricacy of the weaves composing the tapestry. The hand that had created such a masterpiece surely belonged to an entity far beyond anything they had ever encountered or even read about. And precisely because of this, seeing the tapestry torn filled her with sadness. They needed to restore it—not just to reclaim their lost memories, but because leaving such a work of art and magic in its ruined state simply felt wrong.
Shenua hesitated, taken aback by the red-cloaked figure's words. What did they have to give? What if it was something irreplaceable, something they'd never recover? The thought gnawed at her, but what choice did they have? They couldn’t just leave that desperate voice alone, could they? She turned to the red-cloaked figure, her honesty plain in her voice as she said, "I admit I'm a little... afraid. I want to know what it is we’ll have to give. But I suppose not knowing is part of the test itself, isn’t it?"
Her eyes drifted to the others. Their expressions conforted her enough to steel herself. She nodded faintly, took a steadying breath and looked down at the shimmering turquoise thread stretching from her chest to the tapestry. Tentatively, she wrapped it around her left wrist, feeling its warm energy pulse through her. Then, step by step, she closed the distance to the tapestry, wrapping the rest of thread around her wrist with each step, thinking this might anchor her.
When Shenua reached the section of the tapestry meant for her, she paused. "All right. I'm ready". She extended the right hand - which still held the lockpick - and placed it against the weave of her path.
It's only forever, not long at all ♫
Diego lost in studying the weave, looking for familiar patterns, trying to read like a piece of written music. Following it note for note, measure by measure, or trying to. His mind breaking it down as it had any other puzzle, everything is made up of patterns just as music. With just seven notes masterpieces are constructed and once understood a practiced performance can give it life.
Shenua's words, her voice itself a melody that pulls on the heartstrings as a gentle hand on a familiar lyre. He watches as she moves, why have I never noticed the grace with which she moves? he thinks to himself. As if in slow motion, her hand rises to the tapestry, WAIT! he yells, rushing to her. He places his hand on her shoulder, together, remember. We do this together. He looks toward Vorenus then Iromae, his gaze lingering on her, I've but just got you all back, and I shant let you go again. Together or not at all.
Vorenus walks forward eagerly, no hint of caution or hesitation in his movement. He looks to the others, nodding and grinning, gesturing toward the loom. He shouts overly loud to all of them, “You know that we need to do it! Together! Don’t be afraid! We are meant to! Answers lie within!” Sounds start to roar in his head and he starts to laugh. He brings his wand forward, touching the silver string, then somewhat losing patience, he brings his left hand forward and grabs it, his tattoos on his left forearm becoming more visible, almost glowing. “Hah! Can you feel it? I will… not… forget!!” Vorenus looks on expectantly, feeling force and will growing strong within him. Memories are surging forth…
'Give of yourself.' Iromae played the words over again in her mind. She knew a bit about that, as becoming a cleric meant doing that to some extent. She felt the tug and somehow knew this person that was now with them. With them again. She could certainly accept the price if it put things back together.
For a brief moment she wondered at the black thread that seemed related to her path. There had been a colored glow to each of her friends, and herself, before. The threads all match those colors, except for hers. 'Could this mean something? I'd seen a golden color but now the thread is black?' She ponders this just a moment though, before convincing herself it probably doesn't matter. The colors probably weren't even real. So why be concerned? This is probably just some shift in the magic.
Shenua's comment about being afraid caught her attention. 'Afraid? Oh... should I have been worried about this? Could there be danger here?' She hadn't really considered that at first. She couldn't help but smile as Diego stepped in to offer her support. Vorenus adds his thoughts, and it helps reassure her a little. But might that just be his usual bravado? She did know they needed to do this. Well, she felt that the needed to. Had they really thought this through? She is poised to grab the thread but hesitates a moment. "There was a glow of colors representing each of us," she says to the others. "MIne was golden, but this thread is black. All of yours match. Are we perhaps jumping into this too fast? I do not really understand what is happening."
She tries to make sense of what the color difference might mean. (Arcana: 22)
Rabbit Sebrica | Skarai | Lokilia Vaelphin | Liivi Orav | Vanizi | Britari/Halila Talgeta/Jesa Gumovi | Neital Rhessil | Iromae Quinaea
Shenua halts her hand mere millimeters from the tapestry, her tail curling sharply behind her in response to Diego’s alarmed voice. She turns back to look at the bard and offers him, and then the others, an apologetic look as she says, “Sorry, I got carried away. You’re right, Diego. It’s better if we all place our hands at the same time, and only when all of us are ready.” Vorenus, unsurprisingly, didn’t seem to feel even an inch of fear. The artificer couldn’t decide if this was entirely good, but couldn't help to feel twinge of envy flickering through her.
When Iromae comments on the color of her thread, Shenua mutters, “That is strange. It must be some kind of mistake, surely?” She glances toward their red-cloaked companion, her gaze questioning.
It's only forever, not long at all ♫
Diego grows concerned at the revelation, mentally chides himself for not noticing it before. He eyes the tapestry for Iromae's golden thread, then traces it through the weave best he can, trying to discern when it changed to black. At that point he looks for the other colors in the weave, where they lay, trying to piece together some sort of interaction that may have caused the change in color. True there are but only seven notes, but depending on how they are written the pitch changes. A low E is always an E note but if you elevate up the scale then it's pitch, it's tone changes. Perhaps something like this has happened to the gold thread. If only I could find where it changes. As he continues to look for it he will strum three notes on his lute with his free hand, singing the words Revelare, Declaro, Exero casting Comprehend Languages in hopes that it aid in revealing something in the patterns.
As Vorenus seizes the silver thread, the hum in the chamber sharpens into a resonant tone, almost like the pluck of a harp string. The thread tightens and glows with an intense brilliance, wrapping itself around his hand as if alive. The energy flows through him, sharp and exhilarating, flooding his senses with memories long-buried.
Images flash in his mind: fleeting glimpses of faces he doesn't fully recognize, places he's certain he’s never been yet feels deeply connected to, and moments where his voice rings out in battle cries and laughter alike. A strange sense of belonging wells up within him, but it’s accompanied by something darker — an edge of sorrow, of something lost but not yet found.
The glow intensifies, and faint whispers echo in the chamber. Though the others hear nothing, to Vorenus, they are distinct — fragmented words calling his name, pleading and hopeful. The silver thread seems to pull him toward the tapestry, its energy urging him forward.
Meanwhile, the concern about Iromae’s thread hangs heavy in the air. Diego’s lute produces a soft, searching melody as he studies the weave, his spell illuminating faint markings within the black thread. Lines of golden light run beneath the dark surface, as though the thread’s original color is concealed rather than gone. The markings shift, forming runes that pulse faintly before fading again. They’re fragmented, incomplete.
The crimson figure watches quietly, their expression inscrutable. After a moment, they speak, their voice like a whisper through a forest: “The golden light remains, buried but unbroken. What you see now is not a reflection of failure, but of truth. All threads carry their burdens. Hers is no different.”
Jossryn, who has been standing back with a watchful gaze, furrows her brow. “Buried but unbroken? That’s not an answer. What caused this?” she asks sharply. “If there’s a danger to her —”
“The thread reflects what is,” the crimson figure replies. “It is not danger. It is revelation.”
The black thread seems to pulse in time with the hum of the chamber, almost as if responding to the crimson figure’s words. Its texture shifts subtly, taking on the sheen of ink spilled on water, shimmering with faint hints of the gold hidden within.
“It’s up to her,” they add, turning to Iromae. “The thread will only yield its truth if she is ready to grasp it.”
The chamber falls silent for a breath, the tapestry rippling faintly as if awaiting their decision. Vorenus feels the pull of his own thread intensify, its connection to the tapestry growing stronger with each passing moment. The black thread attached to Iromae wavers slightly, as though inviting her to take the next step.
"The thread reflects what is," Iromae repeats. 'Ok, does that make sense? Because there are things that have been hidden, just like the black hides the gold. Revelation is what they are looking for. Ok, so I just need to have faith that this is going to work.' The words from Jossryn don't even penetrate her consciousness. So, after her moment of internal reflection, she says, "All of you are here with me. We need to move forward together."
She grasps the black thread, drawing it towards her, trying to understand what has happened. "Deneir guide me," she mutters.
Rabbit Sebrica | Skarai | Lokilia Vaelphin | Liivi Orav | Vanizi | Britari/Halila Talgeta/Jesa Gumovi | Neital Rhessil | Iromae Quinaea
Shenua watches as Iromae reflects on the words of Jossryn and the cloaked figure. Though there is still a flicker of worry the tiefling's gaze, she also acknowledges the necessity of seeking answers rather than retreating from the unknown that stands before them. When Iromae speaks, Shenua gives her a supporting nod. Indeed, they are in this together, and moving forward is the only option.
The artificer's eyes shift to Vorenus and Diego, waiting for their signal. When they give the indication, she will step forward alongside them to touch the tapestry. Around her left wrist, the turquoise thread pulses softly, and she holds it firmily with her hand.
It's only forever, not long at all ♫
very well my friends, shall we? Diego holds his hand, ready when the others are...
The crimson-cloaked figure steps back as all four companions prepare to grasp the threads and place their hands upon the tapestry. Their voice, calm yet filled with an enigmatic weight, echoes softly through the chamber. "When the threads are fully embraced, the tapestry will draw you into your trials. Each path is distinct, yet all are woven into the same greater whole. There is no turning back once you begin."
The threads in their hands begin to pulse, not just with light but with an almost imperceptible rhythm, as if echoing their own heartbeats. The tapestry, immense and imposing, ripples faintly as though it anticipates their touch. The silver thread tugs gently at Vorenus, almost eager, while the black thread in Iromae’s hand seems to hum with an unnatural vibration, resonating with the weight of hidden truths. Shenua’s turquoise thread and Diego’s amber one glow with warm, steady hues, each carrying their own sense of anticipation and challenge.
Jossryn takes a step toward the group but stops short, her face pale, torn between wanting to intervene and knowing she cannot. "I ... I still don't understand," she says softly, her voice trembling. "But if this is what you must do, may the gods protect you." She folds her hands, bowing her head in prayer.
The cloaked figure's gaze sweeps across the companions one last time. "The threads will test you not only as individuals but also as the bonds you share. The tapestry holds more than what was lost — it reveals what you need to find." They step aside, giving the group a clear path to the massive weave.
As the first hand touches the tapestry, the threads flare with brilliant light, enveloping the room in a kaleidoscope of colors. The chamber begins to dissolve, each color swirling into a separate corridor that pulls at the companions. The crimson figure’s voice lingers in the air as the world shifts around them.
"Step forward. Face what lies within. And remember: to restore the whole, you must weave the fragments together."
With that, the four corridors, each aligned with a thread’s color, stretch infinitely before them. One by one, the companions feel themselves drawn forward, each to their own path, the bond of the tapestry both connecting and separating them.
Continued ...
Vorenus’s Test
The tapestry seems to ripple as Vorenus’s hand touches the silver thread. It surges with a sudden intensity, a vivid glow spreading from his fingertips. The thread spirals outward, encircling him in a cocoon of light before pulling him forward into the tapestry itself.
When the light fades, he finds himself standing on a cracked, uneven stone bridge. The world around him is shadowed, the sky a swirling mix of deep purples and blacks, pierced occasionally by jagged bolts of silver lightning. Beneath the bridge yawns an endless void, a chasm so deep it seems to swallow light itself. In the distance, faint voices echo — words indistinct but filled with anguish and despair.
Ahead of him stands a familiar figure, though not as he remembers. The figure is dressed in heavy plate armor, its surface battered and scarred, as though it has seen countless battles. A helmet obscures the figure’s face, but the voice is unmistakable when it speaks.
“You came here once before, Vorenus.” The voice resonates, carrying both accusation and sorrow. “But you turned back. Do you even remember?”
The figure steps closer, and with a gesture, the jagged edges of the bridge begin to crumble, falling piece by piece into the abyss. “Do you have the courage to cross now? Or will you turn away again?”
In his left hand, the armored figure holds a silver thread identical to the one Vorenus touched. It snakes out behind him, leading across the bridge to a faint glow in the distance — a beacon of light at the end of the abyss.
“Take the thread,” the figure commands, extending his hand toward Vorenus. “But know this: every step forward will test your resolve. The memories you seek will weigh heavy, and your doubts will rise to meet you. What lies beyond the light is not just truth, but also consequence.”
The chasm below seems to stir, as though alive. A faint whisper rises, carried by the wind: You cannot do this ... You will fall ... The voices grow louder, a cacophony of doubt that seems to claw at his mind.
The figure waits, silent and unmoving, the silver thread shimmering in his outstretched hand.
Continued ...
Shenua's Test
The turquoise glow envelops Shenua, its light flickering with an energy that feels both familiar and foreign. As the world around her dissolves, the hum of her lockpick echoes faintly in her ears, its sound growing sharper with every pulse of the thread tied to her wrist. When the light dims, she finds herself standing in a vast workshop unlike anything she has ever seen.
The walls are lined with shelves of arcane tools, intricate blueprints, and gleaming artifacts. A series of mechanical constructs stands dormant in one corner, their designs strikingly similar to some of her own prototypes. Yet, the longer she looks, the more she notices imperfections — cracks in the designs, misaligned gears, and frayed wires. It is as if this space reflects not only her successes but also her failures.
In the center of the workshop stands a single, incomplete creation. A massive automaton looms over her, its chest cavity open and its core missing. Shenua recognizes the craftsmanship as her own, though she has no memory of ever building such a thing. Beside the automaton, a pedestal glows with a soft, turquoise light, and atop it rests a shimmering crystal, shaped perfectly to fit into the core's cavity.
The air shifts, and a voice — deep, resonant, and undeniably familiar — fills the workshop. "A creator's work is a reflection of their soul," it says. "Will you claim your flaws, or let them define you?"
Suddenly, the constructs in the corner spring to life, their eyes glowing with an ominous red light. They move toward Shenua, their steps slow but deliberate, their mechanical limbs whirring with precision. The voice speaks again, its tone both challenging and encouraging. "Restore what was broken. Show me your resolve."
The crystal on the pedestal pulses, its light dimming slightly as the constructs draw nearer. Shenua can sense the urgency of the moment, the weight of the test pressing heavily on her shoulders. Whatever happens next, she knows this challenge will demand not just her ingenuity, but her heart as well.
Continued ...
Diego's Test
The amber light encases Diego, its warmth reminiscent of sunlight filtering through a forest canopy. The bard feels a gentle pull, as though the thread tied to his wrist tugs him toward an unseen melody. The vibrant light gradually fades, and he finds himself standing in a sprawling amphitheater, its seats carved from polished stone and encircling a central stage.
The air is alive with the faint hum of strings, the low thrum of drums, and the soft whisper of a flute. Diego’s lute is in his hands, and though its strings are silent, he feels an irresistible compulsion to play. The amphitheater is empty, yet an overwhelming sense of expectation lingers, as though an audience waits just beyond the shadows.
On the stage lies a music stand, a sheet of parchment glowing faintly in amber light. Approaching it, Diego sees that the parchment holds the beginning of a melody — a tune he recognizes but cannot fully place. The notes are scattered and incomplete, trailing off into nothingness. Around the edge of the amphitheater, four grand statues stand, each holding an instrument: a harp, a flute, a drum, and a violin.
Then, the shadows stir, and four figures emerge, cloaked in darkness but unmistakably familiar. Each one carries an instrument matching the statues’: the first plucks the strings of a delicate harp, the second blows confidently into a silver flute, the third strikes the skin of a drum with rhythmic precision, and the fourth plays a haunting melody on a violin.
The air thickens with tension as the shadows move closer. A voice echoes through the amphitheater, resonant and bittersweet. "Every song has a story, every melody a memory. Play, Diego. Reclaim your harmony, or let the discord consume you."
The figures raise their instruments, and the first haunting notes of a familiar but fractured tune fill the air. The parchment on the music stand pulses faintly, awaiting Diego's response. The amphitheater seems to hold its breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
Continued ...
Iromae's Test
The black thread encircling Iromae's wrist pulls tight as the golden glow of her surroundings fades, replaced by a dim, cavernous hall. Shadows flicker against walls of unyielding obsidian, their movement cast by unseen flames. At the far end of the hall, a dais rises, holding an altar bathed in an eerie, shifting light — its color wavering between gold and pitch black, like the thread she carries.
On the altar lies an enormous tome, its cover inscribed with a shifting rune that Iromae recognizes as one of Deneir’s symbols for "truth". The tome is locked shut with a heavy clasp, and beside it, four objects gleam: a quill, a key, a scale, and a small vial of ink as black as night. The runes etched into the altar pulse faintly, drawing her attention to the objects.
"You came seeking restoration," a deep, resonant voice intones. The crimson figure emerges from the shadows, now veiled in an aura of gold and black that mirrors the thread. They gesture toward the altar. "But knowledge demands sacrifice, and the truth requires choices. Before you lies what was hidden, waiting to be revealed. Choose wisely, for the path of revelation is not without its cost."
The air around her grows heavier, the weight of expectation almost suffocating. Iromae feels an almost magnetic pull toward the tome, as if it contains answers to questions she has not dared to ask. Yet the objects beside it seem equally significant, each exuding a quiet promise of power, clarity or judgment.
The crimson figure steps closer, their presence radiating both comfort and unease. "What will you offer to unlock what was forgotten? Strength to wield the key? Wisdom to balance the scale? The ink to rewrite the past? Or will you bleed the truth from the quill itself?"
As the voice echoes through the chamber, the black thread around Iromae’s wrist pulses faintly, the light within it flickering like a dying flame. Her faith wavers for a moment, but then she recalls the words that have guided her before: the truth will set you free.
Vorenus searches his mind, it seems so familiar, but for some reason he cannot recall the bridge, he cannot recall having performed this task before. He remains determined and he seizes the silver thread in his hand, determined not to fail. He shuts out the sounds, the whispers, the nagging doubts that he can hear. He fixes his focus and locks his eyes straight ahead after he takes the silver strand, and then he begins to walk. He ignores the state of the bridge, he remains focused on the strand and where it leads in the distance, holding it steady in his left hand and letting it trail through his right hand. I will not falter. This is what I am meant to do, I cannot let my friends down, we all need each other! Easy goes, one foot in front of the other, that’s it….
And Vorenus steps forward.
Shenua looks around in awe as the world dissolves, revealing what could easily be one of her dreams come true. This workshop is extraordinary! If someone had asked her to imagine her perfect workspace, this would have been the answer: a room so spacious it could house even the largest of automatons, like those resting in the center and in the far corner of the room. And the expansive shelves are perfectly arranged to store books and tools with room to spare.
It takes her a few moments to notice the flaws scattered around her, but once she does, it’s as though she cannot stop seeing them. They’re everywhere! How could she have been so careless? So messy? This wasn’t like her at all — to abandon a design before it was perfected, to start something new without addressing what had gone wrong before. Shenua clicks her tongue, irritated, and crosses the room with quick strides to reach the nearest artifact. What had she been thinking? That mechanical arm it would move more smoothly with a larger gear. And that design on the far shelf—were the measurements even correct?
As Shenua inspects her flawed works, the familiar voice suddenly speaks, and this makes her gaze shift from all the imperfections to the automaton towering in the center of the room. "Will I claim my flaws?" the tiefling repeats after the voice, as if tasting its meaning. She didn’t like her mistakes, that much was true. But what is a flaw, if not a step toward something better? The path to success was rarely straight and sometimes, a step back was necessary before leaping forward.
As the red-eyed constructs begin to march toward her, Shenua raises her voice. "No. I will not fear you. You are part of me. You are the steps I took to reach what I am today." She approaches the pedestal and rests her hands on the shimmering crystal. The metallic whirring grows louder, but she decides not to hurry. Instead, she takes a moment to inspect the crystal closely, turning it in her hands. She could feel the pull to complete the automaton, to place the crystal in its core. But what was the rush? Over the years, she had learned the value of thinking, testing, and trying patiently. Once she is finished checking the crystal from every angle, she carefully inserts the crystal into the automaton's chest. Then, tilting her head slightly, she watches expectantly. She is more than ready to accept that the construct might not work right away, and that she may need to keep working on it...
It's only forever, not long at all ♫