"He’s not lying. He’s fermenting."
Remember that horrible little kid on the playground? Spoilt, never saw consequences, never took accountability, you know the little brat. The one who’d cry the second they were called out, then run back to their mammy to be told how special they were.
They had a look.
You know the one.
That smarmy, smug expression — the “I know something you don’t” face. Like they’d just been told a cosmic secret and were keeping it for the sheer joy of watching others squirm. Not because they can’t share, but because it’s fun to make you wait. The sort of kid who needed a backhander and a leash.
That’s Glint.
He’s not wise. He’s not even helpful.
But unlike that kid, Glint actually knows things. And he’ll make you earn them.
I didn’t mean to make him a god.
But he already had the attitude. Like the Greek ones: petty, flawed, vindictive, and weirdly human. Just... humans on acid, turned up to eleven to match their powers, stories, and never-ending drama.
So, I gave him a job: keeper of memories and broken versions of the truth.
Then I gave him a name.
And now we’re here.
CHARACTER CREATION:
Vibe: Jet-black beetle crossed with an archivist’s grudge. Like if a secret wore a crown and refused to explain itself.
Shell: Obsidian. Cracked open, deliberately. Always counting something no one else can hear.
Personality: Aloof. Arch. Always mid-sentence or mid-judgement. Speaks in riddles, even when no one’s listening. Stores all his own memories in puzzles he forgets on purpose. Untrustworthy in the same way a locked diary dares you to open it.
Power: Extracts memories from droplets and hides them in his shell until they ferment — sometimes into prophecy, sometimes into lies. He doesn’t check which.
Ritual: Whisper a half-truth into a puddle at dawn. If it ripples, he’s listening. If it stills, run.
Symbol: A cracked mirror inside a beetle shell.
Quirk: The garden is starting to misspell his name, accidentally on purpose. Soon, he may be renamed Glynt.
MICRO-SCENE: Misnamed by the Moss
A droplet shivered as he leaned over it.
Inside: someone’s memory, writhing like a trapped insect.
Glint tilted his head. Counted. Clicked his mandibles once, twice.
The memory screamed when he touched it, but only softly.
He slipped it into the crack of his shell.
It hissed, fizzed, and went silent.
Behind him, the moss whispered his name.
Wrong.
“Glynt.”
He stopped counting.
FIELD FRAGMENT:
🕷️ On Names That Change Themselves
Some names rot faster than others.
Some come back sharper.
If your name starts echoing wrong in the garden, don’t correct it.
It’s not for you anymore.
Next up: He creeps where the roots don’t look. Sharp tongue, sharper teeth, a chatter that chews.
Catch up: The slow one who walks like he’s seen this happen before.
Catch up: An origin story for the gods at the bottom of the garden.