Diego scans the amphitheater seeing nothing but darkness and the statues, all the worlds a stage my dear boy and you're the main attraction his mother's playful words come back to him, indeed it is mother and indeed I am. He studies the music for an instant before the figures appear...then he studies them, how the remind him of his friends, Iromae and her beautiful delicateness, her fingers gliding over the harp strings, if she only knew. Vorenus, never meant a cat he could skin, exuding confidence at every turn and twist, manning the flute as naturally as telling a joke or ruining a quite moment with an off the cuff comment. Gods love him. Shenua, so precise and orderly, a mind as sharp as she is, dare I say, beautiful. Why had I not noticed that before? Even her steps, measured, sensuously crafted to move her along her way. Her rhythmic drum beats keeping precise time. Diego strums the first chord, the others joining in, then the haunting melody of a violin hits his hears...like some distant voice, forgotten in time, he turns to the unknown figure in black, the mournful voice of the instrument calling to him, calling to all of us....the lute and the violin playing off one another, the others answering it's tearful cry with the hope of the harp, the notes of the flute leading the way and the beat of the drum setting the pace as we draw the sound closer and closer...together in spirit yes, but this is my test Diego closes his eyes, thinks upon the faces of his friends, feeling them with him, with the next strum of his lute he will cast Minor Illusion to keep sounding the chords he's been playing with the other instruments. As he does he moves toward the unknown violin player, facing off like his uncles did at family gatherings growing up, then he takes the lead, strumming his lute in an impromptu solo while dancing around the figure. Then he yields the floor to the figure, moving back to playing with the others, hoping the figure will come forward with it's own solo.
As Vorenus steps forward, the silver thread seems to pulse faintly in his hands, a rhythm that matches the steady beat of his heart. The bridge beneath him creaks, the sound echoing ominously into the endless void below. The voices that whisper doubts become more insistent, their tones shifting from teasing to imploring. They call out to him in fragmented phrases:
"You cannot succeed ... You cannot carry this burden alone ... You will fail ..."
The silver strand resists slightly, as if testing his resolve, but each step forward strengthens its light. Behind him, faint murmurs of his companions — Iromae, Shenua, and Diego — are distant yet reassuring, anchoring him in the present.
Suddenly, the darkness ahead begins to shift. Shapes materialize, faint at first but growing in clarity. The silver thread tightens, leading him toward what appears to be a gateway, shimmering faintly like a mirage. Beyond the gateway, he can just make out a glimmer of light, warm and inviting, starkly contrasting with the cold, oppressive shadows surrounding him.
As the crystal slots into the automaton's chest, a soft hum fills the workshop, resonating with a soothing rhythm. Shenua feels it in her fingertips — a subtle vibration that spreads warmth through the air. The automaton’s red eyes flicker, dimming momentarily before a new light takes their place: a steady, golden glow that contrasts sharply with the threatening constructs advancing toward her.
The red-eyed constructs hesitate, their movements growing sluggish, as though the automaton’s presence disrupts their purpose. The workshop itself seems to shift subtly in response; the scattered flaws, the abandoned designs, and the imperfections she had noticed moments ago seem less glaring, as if softened by her acceptance.
Then, the automaton speaks. Its voice is deep, resonant, and surprisingly gentle, echoing with a sense of purpose: "Flaws are the forge of creation, Shenua. What you build from them shapes your legacy. What will you build now?"
The room falls eerily silent, save for the automaton's rhythmic whirring. The red-eyed constructs freeze entirely, but Shenua senses that their stillness is temporary, tied to her next decision. The automaton steps forward, awaiting her command or her next move.
As Diego’s solo finishes and the last chord fades into the silence of the amphitheater, the figure in black, still shrouded in shadow, remains motionless for a moment. Then, a subtle shift occurs — a spark of light gleams beneath the hood of the figure, revealing the edge of a smile, though the face remains obscured.
With an almost imperceptible nod, the figure lifts the violin again, and the music begins anew — this time, not in sorrow, but in a triumphant, melancholic wail. The bow dances over the strings, but it’s not just the violin anymore. The lute echoes back, and the drum, somewhere in the distance, picks up the beat. The violins, lutes, and other instruments all join in a full, harmonious melody, filling the air with a profound sense of unity.
The figure steps forward now, moving toward Diego with purpose. There’s an energy in the air, palpable and electric, as though the music is an extension of their very being, weaving together the elements of the scene.
As they approach, the figure’s hood falls back, revealing the face — a reflection of Diego’s mother. Her eyes, glowing with an eerie yet comforting intensity, meet his. The sorrow in her expression is fleeting, replaced by something deeper, something almost maternal.
"You were always meant for this, Diego," she speaks softly, the music now subsiding into a gentle hum around them. "The stage, the music, the heart of it all. You carry the weight of those who came before you, and yet, you are more than just a reflection. You are your own masterpiece."
The echo of her words lingers in the air, and the amphitheater around him begins to shift — slowly, at first — into something more vibrant, more real. The darkness recedes, and the stone seats of the amphitheater come to life, filled with phantom figures, ghosts of the past, watching in rapt attention.
While a dim cave would not likely have been Iromae's first choice of places to visit, under other circumstances she might have found walls of obsidian intriguing. Especially with their flickering shadows of unknown origin. But the darkness and eerily lit altar put her a little on guard in this situation. Her thread draws her there, to see the tome. And as she looks at it, the rune gives her a little sense of relief. 'A symbol of Deneir, that must be a good sign. And it means 'truth' - that is what we all want.'
The deep voice warns of sacrifice and cost. She nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. She had known there would likely be some sort of cost. But then the crimson figure - well, the figure currently obscured by the black hiding her own golden color - speaks. 'Do I recognize that voice?' she wonders. She thinks she might, though the memory is still uncertain. The question though seems to focus her. '
A puzzle,' she thinks. 'I need to solve this. To determine the most sensible course of action. I do not wish rewrite the past, for the past has happened and my role is to document that accurately.' She wasn't so foolish to know that each person brought a bias to their words when recording an event. But her role was to be as accurate as possible. Bleeding the truth from the quill also did not feel right to her. 'That would be using my words to influence the message. This is not the time for that. I need to simply reveal the truth. Well, and let it weave with the contributions from the others.'
Her eyes then shift to study the scales. 'The wisdom of discerning what is right,' she thinks. 'Yes, that is important. But at this moment, what am I to judge. I have no information. It is recovering that knowledge that comes first.' And so, only the key is left. 'But the crimson figure mentioned strength. I am not strong. Not in any way! If this is going to take strength, can I really do this?' Though obviously physical strength was truly not her strong suit, her mind also was considering other facets of herself. She was not strong emotionally, being the first of her friends to be crushed by some disappointment or saddened by tragedy. 'Diego is so strong in his passion for music. And Shenua is so strong in how she faces struggles and sets boundaries. And Vorenus is so strong and determined to show himself a great spellcaster. Why aren't they the ones asked to give of their strength?'
She feels the thread pulling at her. The color fading. There is a growing sense of urgency. While perhaps there is a moment of doubt, it passes quickly as she thinks about the words: the truth shall set you free. And she knows her friends are near at hand - somewhere here. If her strength falters, she knows she can count on them. 'And my decision was already made. Clearly the key will unlock the tome which is marked with the rune for 'truth'. This IS the choice.'
She picks up the key, using it to unlock the heavy clasp. Presuming it unlocks, she then carefully opens up the tome, turning to the first page.
Shenua smiles when the construct comes to life, despite her initial doubts. Its gentle voice makes her smile even wider, and when it poses the question of what she will build, the tiefling taps her chin thoughtfully. "What to build, huh? Hmm, I want to create something that can us rebuild the tapestry, so we can regain our memories and recover our missing companion."
Realizing that she hasn't given the construct a name, she eyes it, focusing mainly on the pulsing crystal acting as the creature's heart. "Well, Pulse," she says, "I have two options in mind. The first, an infused needle that allows us to reconstruct the tear in the tapestry. But," and she glances at the thread still wrapped around her wrist, "what if we could enhance our threads? Make them resonate with each other so they could vibrate even more powerfully than they do on their own, and in a frequency that matches the tapestry itself? It would be like tuning the strings of a lute to produce a more beautiful sound." She pauses and laughs softly. "I bet Diego would like this! Didn't he ask a while ago about applying the arcane to instruments? Well, let's try it. Will you help me, Pulse? I bet that core of yours can infuse this tool, and you can also keep an eye on the other constructs while I work."
And so, Shenua begins scribbling notes, drawing schematics, and searching the workshop for pieces of metal she can mold into what she is envisioning: a fork-like tuning artifact that, when struck against her thread, will cause it to vibrate—a vibration that will resonate with the tapestry's energies, amplifying the thread’s presence and helping it harmonize with the frequencies of her companions' threads. As she works, Shenua thinks of Vorenus, Iromae and Diego, hoping they are faring well in their own tests.
Vorenus feels reassured by the voices he can hear in the distance, his friends give him additional resolve and he ignores the negative voices coming from below. “Doubters. Don’t you know who you are dealing with? I am Vorenus, the Great! The greatest wizard of our age! Going to be, anyway. I see clearly what I must do! No holding back now..”. And he continues to use the sliver thread as a guide, not even looking down at his feet, but walking straight toward the white light, eyes remaining locked on it, feeling that his true destiny lies within.
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A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
The heavy clasp of the tome yields to the key with a satisfying click, the sound echoing faintly in the obsidian chamber. Iromae's fingers tremble slightly as she lifts the cover, revealing the first page. The parchment within is ancient, its edges tinged with gold that seems to shimmer faintly in the dim light. Written in an elegant, flowing script are words that glow faintly, almost as if they are being written anew as her eyes move across them:
"The truth is not always a beacon to guide, but a mirror to reveal. It demands strength, not of the body, but of the soul, to accept what is seen."
As the words settle in her mind, the flickering shadows along the walls intensify, their movements growing more chaotic. The crimson figure steps closer, still cloaked in darkness, but its presence is commanding. Its voice resonates, low and deliberate. "You have chosen wisely, Iromae, but the path of truth is rarely without pain. Are you prepared to face what the pages will reveal — not just about the world, but about yourself?"
The air grows heavier, and the altar pulses with a soft light. The tome’s pages begin to turn of their own accord, faster and faster, until they stop abruptly. The text on this new page is different, written in sharp, jagged lines that seem to stab at the paper:
"To uncover truth, one must confront the lie that binds them."
Suddenly, the room begins to shift and distort. The flickering shadows along the walls coalesce into figures, scenes from Iromae's past. Some are warm, comforting memories of her family and the early days with her friends. But others are darker — moments of doubt, of failure, of insecurity. A younger version of herself appears in one of the scenes, her golden hues vibrant and untarnished. This younger Iromae seems to embody both her hope and her fear, a stark reminder of who she once was.
The crimson figure speaks again, its tone almost compassionate. "This is your trial, chronicler. To face the truth of your own story and choose what to carry forward. Will you accept all that you are — the light and the shadow?"
Iromae doesn't like being reminded of her fear. The feeling comes back to her now, as she feels her chest tighten. She tries not to let her hand tremble but rather takes a deep breath to try to keep herself centered on the task at hand. 'Deneir and all the gods know I'm not perfect!' she thinks. 'I can do this.' She then voices the response she had just thought in her head. "Yes, I do accept all that I am. I certainly know I'm not without flaws. I shall do this." She then examines the page a bit more closely, to see what might be written there. Or if nothing on that page, she steels herself and turns to the next.
Diego taken back by the image of his mother, her words playing round in his head as he turns from her. Walking to middle of the stage, perching upon the lonely stool found there. He stares at the music on the stand before him, then looks over the crowd...
Good lords and lady's, he waves his arm toward the figure of his mother, my mother! He brings his hands together and leads a round of applause for the figure. Wise words she just gave to me, he begins tuning his lute, you are more than a reflection, you are your own masterpiece. He bows his head, a tear runs down his cheek, but she's wrong. We are reflections of our environment, of what and more importantly, who we surround ourselves with. He stands and confidently plays a single note on the lute, the sustain of the fine instrument allowing the nite to hang in the air. That is one note, that is me, or you, any one of you. It's empty, it's incomplete, it's alone. Not a masterpiece in its own right just one lonely note that fades into silence.
He strums the major chord of that same note, letting all the voices come together and fill the space around him. That is the same note, but with friends. You see we you surround yourself with more meaningful and beautiful notes then you become a masterpiece.
He strums the haunting minor chord of the same note. This is that same masterpiece missing part of it's reflection. Still beautiful, but sad and back to sounding very lonely. I've tried being a one note masterpiece and it doesn't work. Once upon a time I was surrounded by beautiful friends and our voices, our song, our very souls sang with beauty and joy...then we lost one of our notes and our beautiful song fell apart. But now, now is the time to bring them all back together and give the music life again.
Diego kicks the music stand before him, sending the sheet music flying into the air, as it starts to fall he cast prestidigitation to give the illusion of them turning into butterflies and fluttering away. He strums the lute and begins to sing, minor illusions and prestidigitation enhancing the sound.
without you, the stars lose their sparkle. The moon's glow obscured by clouds. Even the sun rises half-heartedly, knowing your radiance is gone. The bird's songs sound out of time, discordant notes filled with longing. Their wings beat against the empty sky, searching for you as I do. In the darkness, I hold sorrow close, count each moment we are apart. But dreams sustain me with tender hope of the blissful dawn of your return. My heart will blossom once more, when your joyful laughter rings out. the music slowly fades, the lights on the stage dim, Diego picks that single note again, using his magic to make it hold in the air not fading away...until then, I drift through our memories and whisper your beloved name. the note now slowly fading out.
As Shenua works on her tuning artifact, "Pulse" watches with its glowing crystal heart pulsing in sync with her determination. The design takes shape quickly, her sharp mind and deft hands producing a prototype that hums faintly when she strikes it against her thread. The vibration is subtle at first but grows stronger as it aligns with her intent, a resonant frequency that seems to echo beyond the room.
The other constructs in the workshop, initially dormant, begin to stir. Their eyes flash briefly before they settle into a steady glow. Pulse tilts its head, almost curious, and speaks in a soft, metallic voice. "You are not alone in your creation. The others awaken to assist. What you build here will resonate far beyond these walls. Shall we proceed to amplify the threads of your companions as well?"
The threads wrapped around Shenua’s wrist shimmer brightly, responding to the vibration. She feels a faint connection to her friends, as if their own threads are tugging gently at hers.
Vorenus strides forward confidently, his eyes locked on the white light ahead, the silver thread guiding him like a beacon. As he moves, the bridge beneath him begins to change, the rotting wood shifting into smooth stone with each step he takes. The voices from below grow quieter, fading into whispers and then silence. In their place, he begins to hear the faint echoes of laughter, camaraderie, and shared memories — his friends, their voices a chorus of encouragement.
As he nears the end of the bridge, the white light grows brighter, almost blinding. Stepping into it, he feels a rush of warmth and a sense of clarity. The light resolves into an archway carved with runes of protection and strength. Beyond it, he can see a shimmering tapestry — frayed at its edges but still whole.
The silver thread in his hand pulses, and a deep voice speaks from the archway: "Vorenus, the Great, your determination carries you far. But true greatness lies not just in confidence but in the strength you lend to others. Will you lend your thread to repair what has been broken?"
The next page of the tome reveals a series of intricate drawings, diagrams of interwoven threads forming a tapestry. Some threads are golden, others silver, crimson or blue. At first glance, the patterns seem chaotic, but as Iromae studies them, she realizes they depict moments from her life and the lives of her friends. Some threads are broken or frayed, but others remain strong, binding the tapestry together.
The crimson figure steps closer, its form flickering as if it is both there and not there. It speaks in a voice that is almost gentle. "Truth is not static, Iromae. It is ever-changing — shaped by those who witness it. To write it is to bear its weight; to weave it is to give it life. Will you take up this quill?"
A golden quill appears in the figure’s hand, offered to Iromae. The tome’s pages shimmer, blank spaces appearing among the diagrams. She understands that these spaces are hers to fill, her truths to add.
As Diego's final note fades into the stillness of the stage, the figure of his mother begins to shift and blur. She steps forward, her features softening into an ethereal glow. Around him, the amphitheater brightens, revealing rows of seated figures — not the statues he saw before, but faceless beings of light.
The violin player in black steps forward, their instrument echoing the haunting melody Diego had played. They lower their bow and speak, their voice rich and resonant. "Music binds the soul to memory, and memory to love. Your song has rekindled the notes of your companions. But a melody alone is not enough — it must harmonize to restore what was lost. Will you take this baton and guide the symphony?"
A conductor’s baton materializes, floating toward Diego. The figures of light hum faintly, their resonance harmonizing with the single note still lingering in the air.
Shenua, holding the arcane tuning fork she has just finished and tested against her own thread, follows Pulse's gaze toward the other automatons. Seeing their willingness to aid their cause fills her with quiet satisfaction.
When her attention returns to Pulse, she is struck again by the automaton’s intelligence and the metallic cadence of his speech, which she knows she will deeply miss once the test concludes. Oh, how she would love to have him as a companion in her work. Could she ever create something so intricate? The thought stirs her curiosity, and she’s already making mental notes on how she might attempt such an endeavour. With a sigh, Shenua pushes those thoughts aside. Pulse, the other automatons, and even the workshop itself will vanish, leaving her to miss them all dearly.
Refocusing on the task at hand, she nods toward Pulse. "Yes, of course. Let’s amplify Diego’s, Vorenus’, and Iromae’s threads. I hope they can feel it, and that it helps them with their tasks." Her thoughts linger on Iromae’s thread, which had appeared as pitch black. Will it shine golden the next time she meets the cleric?
Wishing for her companions' safety, Shenua raises the tuning fork to her wrist, and with a carefully measured motion, she strikes it against her thread. Closing her turquoise-over-black eyes, she lets the resonance envelop her, its hum enveloping her entirely.
Vorenus steps forward, growing closer and he hears the voice in his head. I get farther when I act with my heart and my gut rather than my eyes and my brain… he says to himself, an inner monologue. He sees the tapestry and he grows more excited, it is revealed to him and he continues to walk toward it.
“Yes, the only way we can solve this is to weave together our strands for strength. I don’t quite understand it, but I know that it is right. And I know it is what I can do to help my friends, to help all of us really. So yes, I will use my strand in that way. I will repair what has been broken. It can be… unbroken….” He continues to hold to the silver thread and move closer to the shimmering tapestry, looking to see how he can do that.
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A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Diego looks at the figure, then the wand, then to the other musicians figures on stage, seeing his friends represented in each of them. He reaches for the baton, for them, taking it in his hand.
He turns and looks at the crowd...for love. He sets the music stand back in place, picks up the sheet music and arranges it by page, studying it as he does. His back to the audience facing those on stage, he taps the baton on the edge of the the stand, bringing them to attention. He lifts his arms and starts to conduct.
Bringing the drums in first, Shenua setting our tempo with a guided measured beat. Then Iromae on the harp adding a heavenly melodic tone along with our unknown member, the figure of his mother on violin to join her. After a couple of measures he'll bring in the flute, Vorenus high pitch tones cutting through as he leads our way through this musical journey.
As the music flows along Diego starts singing along, anima del mio amico...ricordo del mio amico...amore del mio amico. (soul of my friend, memory of my friend, love of my friend)
When the crimson figure approaches with the golden quill, of course Iromae takes it. 'I did say I would do this afterall,' she thinks. Her attention turns back to the intricate drawings, and she realizes that she can understand how they show her the interwoven history of her and her friends from the past. 'No, there is a truth,' Iromae protests in her head, not wishing to confront the mysterious figure. 'But what is recorded, what gets preserved, that can change as it is colored through what gets recorded.'
The blanks spaces amongst the diagrams beckon to her. She knows that she needs to fill them in. She wants to do it accurately, to clearly represent what had happened. But she knew her own impressions and emotions would color those records. Yet, she would do her best to be faithful to what she sees in the threads.
Iromae starts with some of the earliest of the memories being depicted. At this point the silver and turquoise threads are more prominently woven together, but the golden threads start to appear and slowly intertwine with the others. It was when she first met Vorenus and Shenua, overhearing a bit of their discussion. It intrigued her enough that she overcame her usual tendency for solitude and butted in to ask some questions. She writes down both her recollections of that evening and of what she sees from the diagrams of threads.
Later, the interwoven silver, turquoise, and gold threads start to become interspersed with an amber one. That was the day that the trio had been present to hear Diego talk about his unique ways of looking at the arcane. Again, Iromae uses the golden quill in hand to fill in the details of that encounter - both her recollections and what she can glean from the diagrams.
And then she gets to where the crimson threads start to cross and fall into the weave of the other colors. She struggles a bit to recall her own impressions of these events. But she seems to be able to follow the diagrams. And so, she tries to document in words what she sees, and perhaps somewhere deep in her mind that she also remembers, from those events and how the four threads became strengthened with the fifth.
Completing the first few, she is a bit nervous. 'Have I done this correctly?' she wonders. 'I hope I haven't messed this up.' But try to reassure herself, she continues on, seeing what else there might be to fill in.
The tuning fork's hum deepens, resonating with the threads of your companions. Pulse observes the artifact intently, its glowing crystal dimming momentarily as if recalibrating. "The amplification reaches further than expected," it says, its voice tinged with surprise. "Your companions’ threads vibrate in response, but the tapestry is vast and tangled. A final calibration is required for maximum harmony."
The automatons stir, moving toward the tuning fork and surrounding you in a deliberate formation. Their metallic voices create a low, resonant chant that harmonizes with the fork’s vibration. The crystal on Pulse’s chest glows brighter, and it steps forward. "Will you attune your creation to the threads alone, or will you tie it to your own essence as well? The latter will bind you more deeply to the weave, but it may leave a mark that lingers beyond this test."
As you deliberate, the hum of the tuning fork grows sharper, sending out faint arcs of turquoise light that ripple through the air.
As you draw closer to the tapestry, the silver thread in your hand hums with a steady vibration, its energy amplifying with each step. The shimmering weave seems to react to your presence, shifting slightly to create a gap that matches the width of your thread. You sense an opportunity — but then, the voices of doubt surge louder, as though making a final attempt to pull you down.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure materializes between you and the tapestry. It’s robed in deep indigo, its form shrouded in mist. "So, you claim to understand the weave," it says, its voice resonant and cold. "But are you prepared to sacrifice your individuality to strengthen it? Can you let go of the illusion of greatness to become merely one thread in a greater design?"
The figure raises an ethereal hand, conjuring an image of the tapestry, now complete and perfect — but without your thread. "Will you weave yourself into the fabric, knowing it may obscure your brilliance? Or will you preserve your light at the cost of unity?"
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Diego scans the amphitheater seeing nothing but darkness and the statues, all the worlds a stage my dear boy and you're the main attraction his mother's playful words come back to him, indeed it is mother and indeed I am. He studies the music for an instant before the figures appear...then he studies them, how the remind him of his friends, Iromae and her beautiful delicateness, her fingers gliding over the harp strings, if she only knew. Vorenus, never meant a cat he could skin, exuding confidence at every turn and twist, manning the flute as naturally as telling a joke or ruining a quite moment with an off the cuff comment. Gods love him. Shenua, so precise and orderly, a mind as sharp as she is, dare I say, beautiful. Why had I not noticed that before? Even her steps, measured, sensuously crafted to move her along her way. Her rhythmic drum beats keeping precise time. Diego strums the first chord, the others joining in, then the haunting melody of a violin hits his hears...like some distant voice, forgotten in time, he turns to the unknown figure in black, the mournful voice of the instrument calling to him, calling to all of us....the lute and the violin playing off one another, the others answering it's tearful cry with the hope of the harp, the notes of the flute leading the way and the beat of the drum setting the pace as we draw the sound closer and closer...together in spirit yes, but this is my test Diego closes his eyes, thinks upon the faces of his friends, feeling them with him, with the next strum of his lute he will cast Minor Illusion to keep sounding the chords he's been playing with the other instruments. As he does he moves toward the unknown violin player, facing off like his uncles did at family gatherings growing up, then he takes the lead, strumming his lute in an impromptu solo while dancing around the figure. Then he yields the floor to the figure, moving back to playing with the others, hoping the figure will come forward with it's own solo.
Vorenus's Test
As Vorenus steps forward, the silver thread seems to pulse faintly in his hands, a rhythm that matches the steady beat of his heart. The bridge beneath him creaks, the sound echoing ominously into the endless void below. The voices that whisper doubts become more insistent, their tones shifting from teasing to imploring. They call out to him in fragmented phrases:
"You cannot succeed ... You cannot carry this burden alone ... You will fail ..."
The silver strand resists slightly, as if testing his resolve, but each step forward strengthens its light. Behind him, faint murmurs of his companions — Iromae, Shenua, and Diego — are distant yet reassuring, anchoring him in the present.
Suddenly, the darkness ahead begins to shift. Shapes materialize, faint at first but growing in clarity. The silver thread tightens, leading him toward what appears to be a gateway, shimmering faintly like a mirage. Beyond the gateway, he can just make out a glimmer of light, warm and inviting, starkly contrasting with the cold, oppressive shadows surrounding him.
Shenua's Test
As the crystal slots into the automaton's chest, a soft hum fills the workshop, resonating with a soothing rhythm. Shenua feels it in her fingertips — a subtle vibration that spreads warmth through the air. The automaton’s red eyes flicker, dimming momentarily before a new light takes their place: a steady, golden glow that contrasts sharply with the threatening constructs advancing toward her.
The red-eyed constructs hesitate, their movements growing sluggish, as though the automaton’s presence disrupts their purpose. The workshop itself seems to shift subtly in response; the scattered flaws, the abandoned designs, and the imperfections she had noticed moments ago seem less glaring, as if softened by her acceptance.
Then, the automaton speaks. Its voice is deep, resonant, and surprisingly gentle, echoing with a sense of purpose: "Flaws are the forge of creation, Shenua. What you build from them shapes your legacy. What will you build now?"
The room falls eerily silent, save for the automaton's rhythmic whirring. The red-eyed constructs freeze entirely, but Shenua senses that their stillness is temporary, tied to her next decision. The automaton steps forward, awaiting her command or her next move.
Diego's Test
As Diego’s solo finishes and the last chord fades into the silence of the amphitheater, the figure in black, still shrouded in shadow, remains motionless for a moment. Then, a subtle shift occurs — a spark of light gleams beneath the hood of the figure, revealing the edge of a smile, though the face remains obscured.
With an almost imperceptible nod, the figure lifts the violin again, and the music begins anew — this time, not in sorrow, but in a triumphant, melancholic wail. The bow dances over the strings, but it’s not just the violin anymore. The lute echoes back, and the drum, somewhere in the distance, picks up the beat. The violins, lutes, and other instruments all join in a full, harmonious melody, filling the air with a profound sense of unity.
The figure steps forward now, moving toward Diego with purpose. There’s an energy in the air, palpable and electric, as though the music is an extension of their very being, weaving together the elements of the scene.
As they approach, the figure’s hood falls back, revealing the face — a reflection of Diego’s mother. Her eyes, glowing with an eerie yet comforting intensity, meet his. The sorrow in her expression is fleeting, replaced by something deeper, something almost maternal.
"You were always meant for this, Diego," she speaks softly, the music now subsiding into a gentle hum around them. "The stage, the music, the heart of it all. You carry the weight of those who came before you, and yet, you are more than just a reflection. You are your own masterpiece."
The echo of her words lingers in the air, and the amphitheater around him begins to shift — slowly, at first — into something more vibrant, more real. The darkness recedes, and the stone seats of the amphitheater come to life, filled with phantom figures, ghosts of the past, watching in rapt attention.
While a dim cave would not likely have been Iromae's first choice of places to visit, under other circumstances she might have found walls of obsidian intriguing. Especially with their flickering shadows of unknown origin. But the darkness and eerily lit altar put her a little on guard in this situation. Her thread draws her there, to see the tome. And as she looks at it, the rune gives her a little sense of relief. 'A symbol of Deneir, that must be a good sign. And it means 'truth' - that is what we all want.'
The deep voice warns of sacrifice and cost. She nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. She had known there would likely be some sort of cost. But then the crimson figure - well, the figure currently obscured by the black hiding her own golden color - speaks. 'Do I recognize that voice?' she wonders. She thinks she might, though the memory is still uncertain. The question though seems to focus her. '
A puzzle,' she thinks. 'I need to solve this. To determine the most sensible course of action. I do not wish rewrite the past, for the past has happened and my role is to document that accurately.' She wasn't so foolish to know that each person brought a bias to their words when recording an event. But her role was to be as accurate as possible. Bleeding the truth from the quill also did not feel right to her. 'That would be using my words to influence the message. This is not the time for that. I need to simply reveal the truth. Well, and let it weave with the contributions from the others.'
Her eyes then shift to study the scales. 'The wisdom of discerning what is right,' she thinks. 'Yes, that is important. But at this moment, what am I to judge. I have no information. It is recovering that knowledge that comes first.' And so, only the key is left. 'But the crimson figure mentioned strength. I am not strong. Not in any way! If this is going to take strength, can I really do this?' Though obviously physical strength was truly not her strong suit, her mind also was considering other facets of herself. She was not strong emotionally, being the first of her friends to be crushed by some disappointment or saddened by tragedy. 'Diego is so strong in his passion for music. And Shenua is so strong in how she faces struggles and sets boundaries. And Vorenus is so strong and determined to show himself a great spellcaster. Why aren't they the ones asked to give of their strength?'
She feels the thread pulling at her. The color fading. There is a growing sense of urgency. While perhaps there is a moment of doubt, it passes quickly as she thinks about the words: the truth shall set you free. And she knows her friends are near at hand - somewhere here. If her strength falters, she knows she can count on them. 'And my decision was already made. Clearly the key will unlock the tome which is marked with the rune for 'truth'. This IS the choice.'
She picks up the key, using it to unlock the heavy clasp. Presuming it unlocks, she then carefully opens up the tome, turning to the first page.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Shenua smiles when the construct comes to life, despite her initial doubts. Its gentle voice makes her smile even wider, and when it poses the question of what she will build, the tiefling taps her chin thoughtfully. "What to build, huh? Hmm, I want to create something that can us rebuild the tapestry, so we can regain our memories and recover our missing companion."
Realizing that she hasn't given the construct a name, she eyes it, focusing mainly on the pulsing crystal acting as the creature's heart. "Well, Pulse," she says, "I have two options in mind. The first, an infused needle that allows us to reconstruct the tear in the tapestry. But," and she glances at the thread still wrapped around her wrist, "what if we could enhance our threads? Make them resonate with each other so they could vibrate even more powerfully than they do on their own, and in a frequency that matches the tapestry itself? It would be like tuning the strings of a lute to produce a more beautiful sound." She pauses and laughs softly. "I bet Diego would like this! Didn't he ask a while ago about applying the arcane to instruments? Well, let's try it. Will you help me, Pulse? I bet that core of yours can infuse this tool, and you can also keep an eye on the other constructs while I work."
And so, Shenua begins scribbling notes, drawing schematics, and searching the workshop for pieces of metal she can mold into what she is envisioning: a fork-like tuning artifact that, when struck against her thread, will cause it to vibrate—a vibration that will resonate with the tapestry's energies, amplifying the thread’s presence and helping it harmonize with the frequencies of her companions' threads. As she works, Shenua thinks of Vorenus, Iromae and Diego, hoping they are faring well in their own tests.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Vorenus feels reassured by the voices he can hear in the distance, his friends give him additional resolve and he ignores the negative voices coming from below. “Doubters. Don’t you know who you are dealing with? I am Vorenus, the Great! The greatest wizard of our age! Going to be, anyway. I see clearly what I must do! No holding back now..”. And he continues to use the sliver thread as a guide, not even looking down at his feet, but walking straight toward the white light, eyes remaining locked on it, feeling that his true destiny lies within.
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Iromae's Test
The heavy clasp of the tome yields to the key with a satisfying click, the sound echoing faintly in the obsidian chamber. Iromae's fingers tremble slightly as she lifts the cover, revealing the first page. The parchment within is ancient, its edges tinged with gold that seems to shimmer faintly in the dim light. Written in an elegant, flowing script are words that glow faintly, almost as if they are being written anew as her eyes move across them:
"The truth is not always a beacon to guide, but a mirror to reveal. It demands strength, not of the body, but of the soul, to accept what is seen."
As the words settle in her mind, the flickering shadows along the walls intensify, their movements growing more chaotic. The crimson figure steps closer, still cloaked in darkness, but its presence is commanding. Its voice resonates, low and deliberate. "You have chosen wisely, Iromae, but the path of truth is rarely without pain. Are you prepared to face what the pages will reveal — not just about the world, but about yourself?"
The air grows heavier, and the altar pulses with a soft light. The tome’s pages begin to turn of their own accord, faster and faster, until they stop abruptly. The text on this new page is different, written in sharp, jagged lines that seem to stab at the paper:
"To uncover truth, one must confront the lie that binds them."
Suddenly, the room begins to shift and distort. The flickering shadows along the walls coalesce into figures, scenes from Iromae's past. Some are warm, comforting memories of her family and the early days with her friends. But others are darker — moments of doubt, of failure, of insecurity. A younger version of herself appears in one of the scenes, her golden hues vibrant and untarnished. This younger Iromae seems to embody both her hope and her fear, a stark reminder of who she once was.
The crimson figure speaks again, its tone almost compassionate. "This is your trial, chronicler. To face the truth of your own story and choose what to carry forward. Will you accept all that you are — the light and the shadow?"
Iromae doesn't like being reminded of her fear. The feeling comes back to her now, as she feels her chest tighten. She tries not to let her hand tremble but rather takes a deep breath to try to keep herself centered on the task at hand. 'Deneir and all the gods know I'm not perfect!' she thinks. 'I can do this.' She then voices the response she had just thought in her head. "Yes, I do accept all that I am. I certainly know I'm not without flaws. I shall do this." She then examines the page a bit more closely, to see what might be written there. Or if nothing on that page, she steels herself and turns to the next.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
(Long post)
Diego taken back by the image of his mother, her words playing round in his head as he turns from her. Walking to middle of the stage, perching upon the lonely stool found there. He stares at the music on the stand before him, then looks over the crowd...
Good lords and lady's, he waves his arm toward the figure of his mother, my mother! He brings his hands together and leads a round of applause for the figure. Wise words she just gave to me, he begins tuning his lute, you are more than a reflection, you are your own masterpiece. He bows his head, a tear runs down his cheek, but she's wrong. We are reflections of our environment, of what and more importantly, who we surround ourselves with. He stands and confidently plays a single note on the lute, the sustain of the fine instrument allowing the nite to hang in the air. That is one note, that is me, or you, any one of you. It's empty, it's incomplete, it's alone. Not a masterpiece in its own right just one lonely note that fades into silence.
He strums the major chord of that same note, letting all the voices come together and fill the space around him. That is the same note, but with friends. You see we you surround yourself with more meaningful and beautiful notes then you become a masterpiece.
He strums the haunting minor chord of the same note. This is that same masterpiece missing part of it's reflection. Still beautiful, but sad and back to sounding very lonely. I've tried being a one note masterpiece and it doesn't work. Once upon a time I was surrounded by beautiful friends and our voices, our song, our very souls sang with beauty and joy...then we lost one of our notes and our beautiful song fell apart. But now, now is the time to bring them all back together and give the music life again.
Diego kicks the music stand before him, sending the sheet music flying into the air, as it starts to fall he cast prestidigitation to give the illusion of them turning into butterflies and fluttering away. He strums the lute and begins to sing, minor illusions and prestidigitation enhancing the sound.
without you, the stars lose their sparkle. The moon's glow obscured by clouds. Even the sun rises half-heartedly, knowing your radiance is gone. The bird's songs sound out of time, discordant notes filled with longing. Their wings beat against the empty sky, searching for you as I do. In the darkness, I hold sorrow close, count each moment we are apart. But dreams sustain me with tender hope of the blissful dawn of your return. My heart will blossom once more, when your joyful laughter rings out. the music slowly fades, the lights on the stage dim, Diego picks that single note again, using his magic to make it hold in the air not fading away...until then, I drift through our memories and whisper your beloved name. the note now slowly fading out.
Shenua's Test
As Shenua works on her tuning artifact, "Pulse" watches with its glowing crystal heart pulsing in sync with her determination. The design takes shape quickly, her sharp mind and deft hands producing a prototype that hums faintly when she strikes it against her thread. The vibration is subtle at first but grows stronger as it aligns with her intent, a resonant frequency that seems to echo beyond the room.
The other constructs in the workshop, initially dormant, begin to stir. Their eyes flash briefly before they settle into a steady glow. Pulse tilts its head, almost curious, and speaks in a soft, metallic voice. "You are not alone in your creation. The others awaken to assist. What you build here will resonate far beyond these walls. Shall we proceed to amplify the threads of your companions as well?"
The threads wrapped around Shenua’s wrist shimmer brightly, responding to the vibration. She feels a faint connection to her friends, as if their own threads are tugging gently at hers.
Vorenus's Test
Vorenus strides forward confidently, his eyes locked on the white light ahead, the silver thread guiding him like a beacon. As he moves, the bridge beneath him begins to change, the rotting wood shifting into smooth stone with each step he takes. The voices from below grow quieter, fading into whispers and then silence. In their place, he begins to hear the faint echoes of laughter, camaraderie, and shared memories — his friends, their voices a chorus of encouragement.
As he nears the end of the bridge, the white light grows brighter, almost blinding. Stepping into it, he feels a rush of warmth and a sense of clarity. The light resolves into an archway carved with runes of protection and strength. Beyond it, he can see a shimmering tapestry — frayed at its edges but still whole.
The silver thread in his hand pulses, and a deep voice speaks from the archway: "Vorenus, the Great, your determination carries you far. But true greatness lies not just in confidence but in the strength you lend to others. Will you lend your thread to repair what has been broken?"
Iromae's Test
The next page of the tome reveals a series of intricate drawings, diagrams of interwoven threads forming a tapestry. Some threads are golden, others silver, crimson or blue. At first glance, the patterns seem chaotic, but as Iromae studies them, she realizes they depict moments from her life and the lives of her friends. Some threads are broken or frayed, but others remain strong, binding the tapestry together.
The crimson figure steps closer, its form flickering as if it is both there and not there. It speaks in a voice that is almost gentle. "Truth is not static, Iromae. It is ever-changing — shaped by those who witness it. To write it is to bear its weight; to weave it is to give it life. Will you take up this quill?"
A golden quill appears in the figure’s hand, offered to Iromae. The tome’s pages shimmer, blank spaces appearing among the diagrams. She understands that these spaces are hers to fill, her truths to add.
Diego's Test
As Diego's final note fades into the stillness of the stage, the figure of his mother begins to shift and blur. She steps forward, her features softening into an ethereal glow. Around him, the amphitheater brightens, revealing rows of seated figures — not the statues he saw before, but faceless beings of light.
The violin player in black steps forward, their instrument echoing the haunting melody Diego had played. They lower their bow and speak, their voice rich and resonant. "Music binds the soul to memory, and memory to love. Your song has rekindled the notes of your companions. But a melody alone is not enough — it must harmonize to restore what was lost. Will you take this baton and guide the symphony?"
A conductor’s baton materializes, floating toward Diego. The figures of light hum faintly, their resonance harmonizing with the single note still lingering in the air.
Shenua, holding the arcane tuning fork she has just finished and tested against her own thread, follows Pulse's gaze toward the other automatons. Seeing their willingness to aid their cause fills her with quiet satisfaction.
When her attention returns to Pulse, she is struck again by the automaton’s intelligence and the metallic cadence of his speech, which she knows she will deeply miss once the test concludes. Oh, how she would love to have him as a companion in her work. Could she ever create something so intricate? The thought stirs her curiosity, and she’s already making mental notes on how she might attempt such an endeavour. With a sigh, Shenua pushes those thoughts aside. Pulse, the other automatons, and even the workshop itself will vanish, leaving her to miss them all dearly.
Refocusing on the task at hand, she nods toward Pulse. "Yes, of course. Let’s amplify Diego’s, Vorenus’, and Iromae’s threads. I hope they can feel it, and that it helps them with their tasks." Her thoughts linger on Iromae’s thread, which had appeared as pitch black. Will it shine golden the next time she meets the cleric?
Wishing for her companions' safety, Shenua raises the tuning fork to her wrist, and with a carefully measured motion, she strikes it against her thread. Closing her turquoise-over-black eyes, she lets the resonance envelop her, its hum enveloping her entirely.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Vorenus steps forward, growing closer and he hears the voice in his head. I get farther when I act with my heart and my gut rather than my eyes and my brain… he says to himself, an inner monologue. He sees the tapestry and he grows more excited, it is revealed to him and he continues to walk toward it.
“Yes, the only way we can solve this is to weave together our strands for strength. I don’t quite understand it, but I know that it is right. And I know it is what I can do to help my friends, to help all of us really. So yes, I will use my strand in that way. I will repair what has been broken. It can be… unbroken….” He continues to hold to the silver thread and move closer to the shimmering tapestry, looking to see how he can do that.
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Diego looks at the figure, then the wand, then to the other musicians figures on stage, seeing his friends represented in each of them. He reaches for the baton, for them, taking it in his hand.
He turns and looks at the crowd...for love. He sets the music stand back in place, picks up the sheet music and arranges it by page, studying it as he does. His back to the audience facing those on stage, he taps the baton on the edge of the the stand, bringing them to attention. He lifts his arms and starts to conduct.
Bringing the drums in first, Shenua setting our tempo with a guided measured beat. Then Iromae on the harp adding a heavenly melodic tone along with our unknown member, the figure of his mother on violin to join her. After a couple of measures he'll bring in the flute, Vorenus high pitch tones cutting through as he leads our way through this musical journey.
As the music flows along Diego starts singing along, anima del mio amico...ricordo del mio amico...amore del mio amico. (soul of my friend, memory of my friend, love of my friend)
When the crimson figure approaches with the golden quill, of course Iromae takes it. 'I did say I would do this afterall,' she thinks. Her attention turns back to the intricate drawings, and she realizes that she can understand how they show her the interwoven history of her and her friends from the past. 'No, there is a truth,' Iromae protests in her head, not wishing to confront the mysterious figure. 'But what is recorded, what gets preserved, that can change as it is colored through what gets recorded.'
The blanks spaces amongst the diagrams beckon to her. She knows that she needs to fill them in. She wants to do it accurately, to clearly represent what had happened. But she knew her own impressions and emotions would color those records. Yet, she would do her best to be faithful to what she sees in the threads.
Iromae starts with some of the earliest of the memories being depicted. At this point the silver and turquoise threads are more prominently woven together, but the golden threads start to appear and slowly intertwine with the others. It was when she first met Vorenus and Shenua, overhearing a bit of their discussion. It intrigued her enough that she overcame her usual tendency for solitude and butted in to ask some questions. She writes down both her recollections of that evening and of what she sees from the diagrams of threads.
Later, the interwoven silver, turquoise, and gold threads start to become interspersed with an amber one. That was the day that the trio had been present to hear Diego talk about his unique ways of looking at the arcane. Again, Iromae uses the golden quill in hand to fill in the details of that encounter - both her recollections and what she can glean from the diagrams.
And then she gets to where the crimson threads start to cross and fall into the weave of the other colors. She struggles a bit to recall her own impressions of these events. But she seems to be able to follow the diagrams. And so, she tries to document in words what she sees, and perhaps somewhere deep in her mind that she also remembers, from those events and how the four threads became strengthened with the fifth.
Completing the first few, she is a bit nervous. 'Have I done this correctly?' she wonders. 'I hope I haven't messed this up.' But try to reassure herself, she continues on, seeing what else there might be to fill in.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Shenua's Test
The tuning fork's hum deepens, resonating with the threads of your companions. Pulse observes the artifact intently, its glowing crystal dimming momentarily as if recalibrating. "The amplification reaches further than expected," it says, its voice tinged with surprise. "Your companions’ threads vibrate in response, but the tapestry is vast and tangled. A final calibration is required for maximum harmony."
The automatons stir, moving toward the tuning fork and surrounding you in a deliberate formation. Their metallic voices create a low, resonant chant that harmonizes with the fork’s vibration. The crystal on Pulse’s chest glows brighter, and it steps forward. "Will you attune your creation to the threads alone, or will you tie it to your own essence as well? The latter will bind you more deeply to the weave, but it may leave a mark that lingers beyond this test."
As you deliberate, the hum of the tuning fork grows sharper, sending out faint arcs of turquoise light that ripple through the air.
Vorenus's Test
As you draw closer to the tapestry, the silver thread in your hand hums with a steady vibration, its energy amplifying with each step. The shimmering weave seems to react to your presence, shifting slightly to create a gap that matches the width of your thread. You sense an opportunity — but then, the voices of doubt surge louder, as though making a final attempt to pull you down.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure materializes between you and the tapestry. It’s robed in deep indigo, its form shrouded in mist. "So, you claim to understand the weave," it says, its voice resonant and cold. "But are you prepared to sacrifice your individuality to strengthen it? Can you let go of the illusion of greatness to become merely one thread in a greater design?"
The figure raises an ethereal hand, conjuring an image of the tapestry, now complete and perfect — but without your thread. "Will you weave yourself into the fabric, knowing it may obscure your brilliance? Or will you preserve your light at the cost of unity?"