Records of the Tapestry

1234 years, 123 days, 1 hour, 2 minutes, and 3 seconds since Start

Era of Realism

The rainbow once again fills the sky. How bright and pleasant a day, where the stroke of a brush returns the heavens to its beautiful lustre. None have painted as perfectly as the ones who Started it all. Joy as bright as the sun fills my eyes and the restoration of their work.

Nothing can darken my heart this cycle. For even if I can never ask the artists again, I can see their patterns, their personality in their work. And I have seen splendor! I rejoice that I have continued to be faithful to the weave. Constantly watching the flow and ebb of the needle.

Ah but I illuminate far too much, I shall knit as I have always done.

Strands of the Tapestry:

A bundle of red

A bolt of orange

A bundle of yellow

A large spool of green

A bundle of blue

A bundle of Indigo

A bundle of violet

A half bolt of purple

A single strand of pink

A large spool of gray

A bundle of brown

A spool of black

A spool of white

A lush canopy sprawling across the sky. Light filtering through, dancing over Yuclaus’ eyes. A gentle breeze encouraging the leaves to dance in the wind. The glories of a forest... is not what our protagonist woke up to. I bet you didn't expect me to do it twice! Let me fix it real quick.

Rough cobblestone, with cracks adorning its surface. A jagged rock, digging into Yuclaus’ back. A gentle breeze pushing a tumbleweed into his face. The glories of an abandoned village, is the reality that our protagonist woke up to. Keep in mind he jerked awake, so the tumbleweed got some hang time. There was a forest within eyesight too I guess. Just kind of plug in my earlier description when we get to that part.

Yuclaus, still panicking after his heart had slowed down to the point that his brain thought he was dying, took a minute to calm down. The tumbleweed by this point continued its epic quest to journey across the world. For all that, it traveled five feet before getting caught in a puddle. Make sure you remember the tumbleweed, it becomes a crucial plot element in the following chap—my memories of this event. Yes. Exactly. Shhhh... no fourth wall has been destroyed here, nope, not this chapter.

Yuclaus took in the scene before him. His surroundings consisted of a broken-down medieval-esque town, if medieval towns had a strange attachment to circular holes in the facades of its buildings.

Stone brick roads ran on straight paths dividing the little town into blocks. There seemed to be no particular destination the roads traveled towards. No large manor greeted them where they gathered. At least, not one that still stood. Posts stood watch over the few buildings that remained. A few dull reflections could be seen from underneath them, the shards of glass reflecting the sun above. The shattered streetlights spoke of a civilization that was beyond the era it resembled.

The buildings were made with rough-hewn stone identical to the streets, a mark of a more refined city planning. This was clearly once a bustling town, now long abandoned. The stone would allow for a slower spread of fire, and diminish the damage to buildings. It is a shame their fireproofing did not extend to the roofs, they were markedly missing from the structures; they must have burned down around the time this town was deserted.

And deserted the town was. The few buildings that remained with more than two walls were surrounded by the fall of their brethren. Tenacious weeds struggled to pry apart the stone, squeezing through gaps to secure freedom.

A large pile of rubble surrounded the town once a proud siege defender, the wall now lay defeated like its charge. It circled the ruins, encompassing an area of several city blocks. Were one to count the concentrations of debris through the town, it would seem that over two hundred structures once proudly stood.

Yuclaus would only understand these finer details of the town throughout the coming weeks. For now he found himself in the middle of one of the roads, the blue sky overhead. Coincidentally, this sky is what captured his attention. The white sun hung behind a cloud directly above him.

However, the white sun was not what he was focused on. No, it was the planet that loomed over him, ready about to wipe his life out of existence. Yet no matter how long he waited for his inevitable demise, the planet never got closer. It simply stared back at him, seated lazily upon the horizon, akin to a bird perched on a branch.

Out of the corner of his eye he also caught sight of the moon. It was larger than he expected. How, oh watcher of the night, do you find thyself sapphire? Why is your face scarred with freckles, a spattering of algae alight upon you? Our hero took a brief moment to come to the proper conclusion. Ah, yet another abode for the aware and oblivious alike. There, slightly smaller than the larger world, was yet another planet.

The surprises didn't stop there, as sprawling across the skyline was a line of planets, reaching from horizon to horizon. The end of the heavenly march unseen behind the curve of the planet he found himself on.

After an uncertain amount of time, Yuclaus stood up, intending to brush off a few stubborn pebbles off his behind. However, his hand paused after a single swipe. Rather than the smooth texture of khakis, he was met with a rough woven one.

Looking down at himself, Yuclaus saw that he was not wearing his work clothes like he assumed. His brain took a lunch break for a second. Two. Three. Then he came to the only logical conclusion.

Ah my aspirations, my dreams, are you not satisfied with the time I give you as I lay upon mine bolster in the darkest hours of the dying day? Here you trap me in your embrace. Trapped, yet aware. Lucid. Yuclaus proceeded to stand there. A burst of air escaped his nose in a half-chuckle before he fully devolved into madness. He flung his arm to the side, then returned it to his cheek with a startling speed.

SLAP! His hand married his face in a brief union. Rather than break the marriage bond quickly, the hand slowly slid down his face, dropping to his side, like a limp noodle in a pot of sad, lukewarm water. What do you want it to be, hot water? I’m just trying to write an analogy like Yuclaus ok? Give me a break.

Yuclaus finally let himself laugh fully then. He guffawed, chortled, chuckled, cackled, and howled. For the next thirty minutes all sorts of noises escaped his countenance alongside a healthy amount of snot and tears, as he repeatedly slapped himself. He felt nothing. Not a hint of pain, not a sudden jerk awake. Nothing. If anything he felt like he blanked out while he slapped himself. Almost as if his key to making him aware was doing the exact opposite.

After his bout of objective insanity —it really was out of the ordinary for him— Yuclaus sat back down and continued his test of reality. He pinched his arm, punched the stone, poked his eye (after a few tries wussing out, also, don’t eyes not feel pain?), and performed all sorts of techniques to wake up.

He laid down, closed his eyes, opened them again, closed once more, widened them an additional time. Nothing he did would awaken him from his dream. At the same point, he felt nothing. I find my wit trapped upon its wittiness. Paraphrase: “I’m trapped in a dream”. But the impossibility of a solution beyond logical assumption speaks of my accuracy. “It has to be a dream, there's no other option, I feel no pain.” He didn't say the pain part, I’m just assuming that.

Why do I grapple with the concept of escape? Should I not avail myself to the treat I have been served? Instead of accelerating inevitably, I shall repose, unwind from the tangle of life. Entertain my mind with itself. Yuclaus, who always loved the journey more than the destination, decided this was a trip he wanted to enjoy. He would appreciate this moment, and when he reached his eventual destination, he would awake, and this would all be but a distant memory.

Yuci, claus, hmmmm, I never really gave him a nickname. Let's go with cause. Why? Hmmm, just cause. Anyway, Cause rolled to his stomach, pushed himself up, and resumed what he was doing before his apparent Joker audition: inspecting his clothes. The tumbleweed was still where it was last seen.

His pants had been replaced with roughspun cotton trousers. Big surprise, huh? His shirt, thankfully not his previous collared plaid, was instead a leather jerkin —long cotton sleeves peeking out. On his back, whipping in the wind (in reality it made a mild undulation in the breeze), was a magnificent cloak which made his heart shudder. It made me shudder too.

While he was mildly uncomfortable, he was overall quite pleased with his clothing. Dapper and refined, like the cant from mine chops. He did a quick about-face, watching his cloak twirl behind him. A grin spread across his face as he continued to strike various poses and swish his clothes around. He walked to a nearby puddle, the one the tumbleweed earlier claimed, to get a better look at himself.

What stared back at him could only be considered handsome. What reflected in the puddle was a sharp angular face, with long obsidian locks framing it. The eyes which peered back at him, radiated a deep intellect. Skin painted with a bronze that would make any regular at a tanning salon jealous. The reflection in the puddle could only be called beautiful. It wasn’t Yuclaus.

Yet when he moved, the reflection followed. It seemed either his insecurities got the best of him, or his mind just unpredictably made him attractive. After looking into the reflection of his orange eyes for a moment, enjoying the stubble on his face, and generally getting used to his temporary appearance, Yuclaus stepped away and took in his surroundings.

He spotted the forest around him, *insert earlier explanation*. He took in the town around him, *insert other explanation*, and spotted something that was until now overlooked. A singular bag lay in hands reach. Plastic or silicon in make, it was rolled at the top. Clipped down, I believe not even air could travel into it. Yes, it was his bag.

Cause walked over to it, amusing himself with the possibilities of the gifts his mind could have given him. He undid the clips, unrolled the top, and opened the orifice wide. Inside, greeted him what he would expect were he awake. A laptop, slightly damp with condensation sat along one side. Beneath it, a charger, and a mouse. The cause for its moisture was beside it, six energy drinks.

Imagination, how you answer my subconscious. Mine boon companion, whilst I lay in addled state, placed his package within the confines of this art. Consciousness concluded what transpired, and added it to my ephemeral belongings. He looked at his now six energy drinks, and decided he would enjoy them in a moment.

Otherwise, in his bag, was a BICC lighter, his flask, his phone, a scuffed notepad, and a Pilot G7 black, fine, retractable, gel ink pen; with a .5 mm diameter tip. There was another object that he didn’t recognize: a large sphere of amethyst. He assumed his mind had left him a gift, after all, it had already been an odd day.

It radiated a faint light from its depths, like a heart beating; it’s beauty was not unlike a purple hued diamond. He reached out to it, preparing to fit the softball size crystal in his hand. Yet the moment he touched it, it vanished.

Beauty, why do you escape me so! He paused for a moment, shrugged, and blamed it on dream logic. He looked up, and decided he would find a nice panorama to enjoy a drink over.

The tumbleweed was gone.