After what felt like eons drifting through that vast new world, I finally felt it—that tug, subtle and certain, like gravity made personal. I followed it across windswept plains and quiet ruins, through storms and silence. Then, there she was.
She sat beneath a twisted tree, its bark pale as ash, cradling a strange, reed-crafted instrument in her lap. Myrrh. Her name rang in my mind not as something told, but as something remembered.
I drew near, unseen in body but present in soul, and whispered. Not with lips, but with essence.
"You are the one."
She flinched, fingers tightening on the strings. Her eyes searched the empty air before her.
“...Are you a memory?” she asked aloud, voice barely above the breeze. “An echo? An inspiration? Why am I hearing things?”
Her voice trembled, not in fear, but in longing. She couldn’t see me, not fully. But she felt me.
I let silence stretch before answering, not with words this time, but with warmth. A hush. A presence like the calm before song. Her hand moved unconsciously, plucking a note.
The sound shimmered.
Images flickered in the air like smoke. Children dancing in a forgotten village, a younger Myrrh laughing, firelight and soot. Her breath caught.
She clutched her chest.
"...You're not just in my head," she whispered. "You're... something more."
And though I couldn't speak aloud, she began to understand.
"Why? Why have you chosen me?"
---
She woke up like any other day.
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Eyes, blinked open. Check!
Nose, still caught the bread from the nearby bakery. Check!
Mouth and throat, she tested them with a hum, then a gentle cough. Final Check!
Then came her quiet ritual. Sitting cross-legged by her travel bag, she placed a hand on her chest and began a series of voice checks. Low hum, mid-tone trill, a whistle sharp and rising. Her voice, though soft, moved smoothly.
Finally, she sang a brief, wordless melody, half lullaby, half dawn-prayer. The notes were like strands of silk unraveling into the air, brushing against leaves and morning mist.
She moved through her daily routine with practiced ease, folding blankets, tuning her instrument, braiding her hair. Everything felt... normal.
Except...
There was a whisper in the back of her thoughts, a strange emptiness where something should’ve been. Yesterday’s afternoon. The time was gone, not in a haze, but like it had been gently set aside. Out of reach.
“I spoke to someone,” she murmured under her breath, frowning. “Or something…”
Her brow furrowed. Not out of fear. Just a quiet puzzle she couldn’t solve.
Before she could delve deeper into her thoughts, her eyes drifted upward. The sky was a quite clear yet still smeared with slow-moving clouds.
One looked like a giant curled hand. Another like an open mouth. And then one that looked like a harp. Or was it a lyre? The shape shifted with the wind.
She smiled faintly. “Hmm. Maybe…”
With a soft breath, she reached for her instrument. Inspiration stirred.
---
She performed quite well tonight, considering that she only received this request last night.
The square had been hastily swept, lanterns strung between leaning posts, and the stage—if one could call it that—was just a raised cart with fresh hay thrown down to soften the boards. She hadn’t even known this town existed until last night, when a note was slipped beneath her lodging door: “The people of Redmere would welcome a song.”
So she came. And she sang. And her fingers danced across reed and string, and her voice told a tale of stars that wept for forgotten names, and of a hearth that once burned for all, noble and pauper alike. The air had thickened with memory. A few in the crowd wept. More stood silent, haunted by something they couldn't name.
The noble of Redmere?
Well... let’s just say he didn’t clap.
Apparently, the message of her song struck a nerve. Or a dozen. Rumors sparked like dry tinder that Myrrh of the Broken Reed was inciting rebellion, stirring the hearts of commoners with dangerous ideas. That her voice was a weapon dressed in melody.
Which was absurd, of course. But not entirely wrong. She never meant to incite uprising. But emotion? Longing? Regret? Hope? Yes. Absolutely. What use was her voice if it couldn’t reach in and shake the dust off someone's soul?
Unfortunately, nobles tend to fear anything they can’t leash. And so, while the crowd lingered in thought, and the noble whispered to his captain with pale knuckles and furrowed brow, Myrrh slipped away from the town. And now, she’s on the run.
A rhyme, don’t you think?
She might've chuckled at that bad rhyme, if she can. But instead, her laughter lived in the rhythm of her hurried steps and the quiet, lilting hum she dared to let escape as she vanished down the road.
Info Dump #5:
- There are total of 10 Godlings hatched from the 34th cluster.