The Weaver’s Tattered Shroud

The Loom of Atrophy KRA-AAK. The screech of rusted gears bites through the suffocating silence. The ground beneath your boots shudders. You stand before the Great Loom. A colossus of iron and basalt, it pulses like a living beast in the belly of the volcano. Translucent filaments of light hang from the cavern ceiling—massive, glowing nerves of a forgotten god. They hum with a pale, sickly luminescence, casting long shadows across your sweat-streaked face. Your hand is trembling. Violently. «... Why won't my fingers stay still? ...» You take a step forward. “Do not touch the Crimson Thread.” Cyprian’s voice cuts through from the dark behind you. It is dry, like the sound of hooves striking hollowed wood. You turn, slowly. His black robes are impossibly long, coiling around his feet like roots searching for nutrients in the dead stone. His eyes are sunken pits that refuse to catch the light. «... This old man... was he standing there the whole time? ...» «... He smells of abandoned graveyards. ...» You press on toward the machine's heart. The air here is thick, cloyed with the scent of singed linen and aeons of dust. CLANG. The iron latch slams shut behind you. There i…