— Walks droplets between timelines that shouldn’t touch.
🌿🪲 GG™ Lore Entry: Thrixel, the Dripwalker
"Some truths ferment. Some curdle."
People used to say I was well looked after.
Told me how much I was loved. Said it like it was obvious, like I should’ve been grateful. Like I hadn’t noticed otherwise.
But I don’t remember love. I remember being positioned. A doll, cleaned and praised when convenient, held up like proof of someone else’s goodness. I was a photo before I was a person. A performance dressed in coloured print.
The garden does this too.
It names things that can’t speak for themselves. It points to silence and calls it peace. It builds gods out of fragments and insists that’s memory.
That’s where Thrixel lives.
Not in the facts, but in the polished versions of them, the ones crafted just well enough to be repeatable.
He’s not angry. He’s not comforting either.
He’s the part of you that remembers the wrongness underneath the story and chooses to keep it intact.
He walks between versions.
Some of them include you. Some of them… almost do.
Thrixel doesn’t arrive, he surfaces.
Like a regret you thought you’d buried, or a memory you were told to frame properly.
CHARACTER CREATION:
Vibe: Silver-shelled insect with mirror-skin plating with a sentient misprint. In no rush to explain himself. If a time-lapse video grew legs and a memory problem. Moves like a consequence.
Shell: Reflective. Warped. Segmented in layers that catch the light wrong — each glint shows a different version of the garden. He’s been cracked before, but no one remembers which timeline.
Personality: Cryptic. Precise. Speaks only when the moss is listening. Sometimes talks to condensation. Sometimes condensation replies. Carries timelines the garden has disowned.
Power: Walks across water droplets like bridges. Steals reflections. Archives memories the plants whisper in their sleep and refuse to admit. Doesn’t catalogue. Just keeps.
Ritual: Bury a cracked thimble beneath a dandelion at moonrise. If the soil pulses, he’s dreaming nearby.
Symbol: Three ripples in a droplet with no centre.
Quirk: Doesn’t blink forward. May have taught moss how to write. When he walks, the droplets still themselves — not in respect, but in resignation.
MICRO-SCENE: The Version That Shouldn’t Be
The droplet had no witness.
That was the first problem.
It shimmered like it wanted to be remembered — but no one had touched it.
No one had named it.
And yet, it showed something.
Thrixel stepped closer.
Inside: Glint. But not the right Glint.
This one was smiling. Open. Unguarded. A version that had never existed.
Thrixel watched.
Didn’t move.
Watched again.
The Glint in the droplet spoke.
Not words — syntax. A shape of speech not meant for this garden.
Thrixel reached out, gently, and touched the edge.
The reflection twitched.
Shattered.
Reassembled.
Now the droplet showed nothing.
Except moss.
Growing inwards.
Behind Thrixel, something whispered his name — not to get his attention, but to confirm it was still spelled right.
He didn’t reply.
He never does.
FIELD FRAGMENT:
🕷️ Field Note #007: On Versions With No Witness
If a droplet reflects something no one remembers.
Do not stare.It may be a failed prophecy.
It may be a misplaced lie.
Or it may be a god that hasn’t been written yet.Thrixel has been seen near these.
He doesn’t archive them.
He observes.
And when he leaves, they forget themselves.If the moss starts whispering your name in a tone you’ve never heard before.
You may have been remembered incorrectly.
Correct nothing.
The garden is listening.
Next: The god the roots still fear.
Catch 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.