Resonant Bloom Cascade

Everyone calls it the Blooming.
They do not explain it.
They do not need to.

To the tribes of Uurin’Kai—the survivors, the Children of Uurin—the Blooming is not a warning. It is not a myth.
It is simply the part of the month where everything else dies.

It happens beneath a full moon.
The world flinches. The jungle screams.
And for three nights, biology does whatever the Pattern buried.

Those who are marked will live.
Those who are not... will not remain themselves.

What Is the Blooming?

A transformation. A biological cascade. A moment when Uurin reclaims the unanchored.

It occurs every 28 nights, when the moon—Maruun, called the Bleeding Eye—rises full and sharp-edged. Her light is not warm. It is not soft. It is a scalpel.

Under that light, the entire living surface of the world begins to change.

Trees tear through stone. Animals molt mid-step. Skies fill with winged things that didn’t exist the night before. Insects bloom, predation patterns collapse, and herbivores grow teeth.

This is not magic. It is not divine wrath.

It is rapid, uncontrolled, systemic evolution.
It is Uurin remembering what it used to be, and trying again.

“The world does not keep what it cannot confirm.”

What It Looks Like

From atop the great Leviathans, the Bloom is seen in colour and convulsion.

The jungle below ripples in green, then black, then phosphorescent blue, as roots lift, tear, replant themselves. The air grows humid and metallic, thick with the scent of cut vines and ruptured flesh. Shadows sharpen. Sound distorts.

Creatures writhe, then split. Some survive. Some echo.
Some look up and learn how to climb.

Maruun—deep crimson, veined in black-orange and ringed with violet corona—casts a light that makes skin twitch. Her shadows don’t shift with the trees. They shift with intent.

“Do not watch the jungle. It watches back.”

Who Survives

The Marked.

Every member of the Uurin’Kai is tattooed with resonance-anchoring glyphs, inked in a secretion drawn from the Leviathans—massive, ground-bound beasts immune to the Bloom.

These glyphs act as stabilisers, telling the world:

This one is known. This one belongs. This one does not change.

They are applied at birth.
They are sacred.
And they are mandatory.

No child survives unmarked.

“The mark must be given before the next moonrise. Even a newborn. Even if it screams.”

It is done in firelight, sometimes within hours of birth.
The youngest don’t remember it.
The parents always do.

Marking livestock is equally urgent. Seedlings are tattooed with fire-etched sigils. Calves are pinned and inked. Some tribes even carve protective lines into tools made of bone or hide, just in case the Bloom forgets the difference.

Nothing unmarked is safe.
Not the land.
Not the flesh.
Not the future.

Where the Bloom Reaches

Everywhere.

The Bloom is not localised.
It is not confined to leylines, altitudes, or regions.
It floods the entire known world of Uurin.

The only places where its touch is resisted, not avoided, are:

• The Leviathans themselves—moving sanctuaries veined with ancient glyphwork
• The marked bodies of the Uurin’Kai and their animals
• Certain ruins—remnants of a civilisation long gone, cold enough in resonance to confuse the Pattern into passing over them

Even then, nothing is guaranteed.

The Leviathans do not walk during the Bloom. They go still.
As though listening.
As though remembering.

What Caused It

The tribes do not know.
But their stories say this:

There were once those who built.
Who tamed, who shaped, who spoke to the moon in arrogant tongues.
And something listened.

Some patterns collapse. Others are reasserted until the story forgets there was ever an alternative.
This world feels like the latter.

Uurin is likely a collapsed Threadworld—once structured by permanence, now caught in recursive correction. The Leviathans may be failed experiments. Or guardians. Or witnesses.
Whatever the Builders tried, the Bloom is what was left behind.

“It is not vengeance. It is memory.”

What the Moon Sees

Maruun is not a goddess.
She is not worshipped.
She is endured.

She rises rust-red and bleeding, with a light that etches, not warms.
Her presence doesn’t bless—it selects.

She sees the unmarked first.

Her appearance signals silence. Entire villages stop speaking. The Uurin’Kai do not look up. They listen for the change in the wind. They listen for the screams from the canopy. They hold their children close—and check their skin.

“When the Eye opens, be known. Or be rewritten.”

Why This Is Still Law

Because the Pattern does not forget.
Because the world does not forgive.

The Uurin’Kai do not build.
They do not settle.
They do not name the stars.

They tattoo their children.
They follow the Leviathans.
They pass down stories where the names were lost—but the verbs remain.

“The Builders made cities. The Bloom ate them.”

They do not call it law.
They call it truth.
Because it happens whether you believe it or not.