First comes the mordant. The thread is raw—unreadied, untouched by meaning. It is lowered into the bath where metal salts bite deep, opening every fiber. The mordant does not stain. It prepares. It makes the thread ready to receive. Without it, color slides off like lies from loose lips. With it, every hue sinks in and stays, as permanent as truth carved in bone.
Then comes the dye. It is poured, steeped, or beaten in. It burns, it bleeds, it transforms. Little by little, the color is revealed. What the thread has endured shapes what it will become. Blue like unfeeling memory. Red like a scream you heard too late. Black like a moment that can't be forgotten.
When the threads are lifted from the depths of the vat, they are chaged. They hold story in every strand—visible, irreversible. People are the same. The moments that saturate your skin, that drown you in feeling - the dye that your life scalds into your soul cannot be scrubbed out.
This board is for player-created fiction. You may post short stories, character journals, scene fragments, or any other kind of prose exploring your character's journey.