"It doesn’t eat. It remembers."
It was raised.
It was reported.
It was the truth; clearly, directly, and witnessed.
And they buried them for it.
Not literally. Not dramatically.
Just… removed. Quietly. Formally.
They said nothing.
They “couldn’t comment.”
They let it happen again. And again. And again.
Ignored. processed. Like a leak in the system.
That’s what Varnok holds.
Not grief. Not rage. Not justice.
Just the undeniable memory of what happened, the one no one will ever admit to, because it challenges their nice image, their equality, not discriminatory image of undeniable bullshit, because when the truth is mentioned, those people often flinch in fear the nice mask might crack — and their social correctness score might plummet.
Varnok doesn’t scream.
Varnok records.
And when Varnok speaks, things split.
The garden doesn’t lie.
It just curates.
Varnok remembers what got cut.
CHARACTER CREATION:
Vibe: Matte-black insect god with mist in place of blood. The memory of pressure. Moves like silence made visible.
Shell: Smooth, ridged, always damp. His body gives off a cold vapour that sinks instead of rising. Doesn’t glint. Doesn’t reflect. Just absorbs.
Personality: Silent. Resolute. Doesn’t correct the record, lets others hang themselves on it. When he speaks, it’s like hearing something through old bone.
Power: Speaks with The Thirst. A pre-verbal force buried in the droplets. Draws out timelines the garden has tried to forget. Sometimes he wakes them. Sometimes he judges them. Denies mercy to lying plants.
Ritual: Pour milk at the root of a dying plant and whisper the name of someone who erased you. If the soil recoils, he’s nearby.
Symbol: A dark leaf with a clean hole in it. Still bleeding mist.
Quirk: Never seen blinking. Avoided by moss. Mirrors near him go dull. The garden refuses to label him properly, possibly out of fear.
MICRO-SCENE:
A root twitched as he passed.
Only once. Enough to be noticed. Enough to pretend it hadn’t.
He stopped beside the droplet.
Inside: silence. But shaped.
A memory with the name scratched out. Just soft outlines of a story no one claimed.
He didn’t touch it.
He just said,
“I remember what was done.”
The droplet didn’t ripple.
It sank.
FIELD FRAGMENT:
🕷️ Field Note #008: On Memory Without Blame
Some memories survive because they were never assigned.
No names. No voices. No consequences.That’s how they spread.
That’s how he finds them.
Coming Soon: The feathers? Decorative. The judgement? Terminal.
Catch up: 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.