Excerpt from the Threadkeeper’s Journal
The following is a reflection written by the Threadkeeper of the Dimmed Veil, a figure who dwells between the seen and unseen worlds. Her thoughts, dreams, and recollections are recorded here, offering a glimpse into her solitary journey, her creations, and the silent corridors of memory she walks. These words are fragments, never complete, and meant to be read as both personal testament and a doorway into the myth she inhabits..
All who wander too close to the unseen corners of the room speak her name in whispers: the Threadkeeper of the Dimmed Veil.
The room held its breath—not in mortal stillness, but in a quiet that trembled on the edge of worlds unseen. Shadows lingered like wandering spirits, wings brushing the corners, murmuring secrets only the walls remembered.
She perched at the threshold of sight and dream, vision hazed, yet seeing everything: the tremor of air, the pulse of silence, the faint shimmer of a realm threaded through the edges of the mundane. Each heartbeat marked a circle, a rhythm she could not escape, pressing against ribs like the insistence of the earth itself.
Though faces surrounded her, she wandered alone, cradling her voice, her heart, her measure of muchness as relics of kingdoms that had dissolved before memory. Do the stars see the soul trapped within? she thought, recalling the words she had written once, folded into parchment like wounds wrapped in linen. Somewhere beyond the veil, the Cheshire cat prowled, a glimmering portal shimmered faintly, and the promise of vanishing lingered, slipping through her fingers whenever she reached.
Books bore the traces of her touch: faint imprints of ink-stained notes in the margins, tattered bookmarks pressed from vivid flowers between pages. Her glass dip pen seemed almost a wand, carrying her elsewhere with every stroke. Those who shared a space with her were often reminded of her boundaries and limits, even as she drifted into her own reveries—sometimes leaving subtle signs of her presence: a cupboard left ajar, a half-finished chore abandoned mid-motion.
She smelled of ink and petrichor, though on some days her scent carried sunshine and fresh-baked goods. Her passage was often marked by soft echoes of wind. In the mundane world, she moved quietly, often unnoticed, blending seamlessly with her surroundings. Yet those near her felt her presence in subtle ways: a gentle grace in her gestures, a quiet attentiveness that served without demand or expectation.
Eye Color: Starlight
Hair Color: Ever shifting with her mood often celestial and full of stars
Gender: Female
Age: Unknown
Location: Travelling through the shadows and places between.
She drifted through her own sanctuaries: labyrinths of light and shadow, halls of whispering mirrors, staircases that led nowhere but inward. Imagination bent around her, limitless and protective, while flesh and bone remained tethered, finite, mortal. My fingers speak a language only the heart knows… the old lines whispered back to her, echoing in every mirror’s glass.
Tears fell like silver rain; words slipped soft as starlight, charting territories unknown. She sought a hiraeth—home not yet found, a resonance beyond the reach of time, past shadowed forests, across oceans of mist and memory. I write these pieces with love and doubt, she confessed into the silence, though no stars ever answered. Some whispered that only her heart heard the melody; others, near enough to touch, wondered why she was always half-lost, a pilgrim in a world that both held and hid her.
Temptations of many kinds pulled her in every direction—love, companionship, a lantern’s light in the dark, guiding her toward what may not even exist. Yet she had four steadfast companions, called forth from memory, who greeted her as if she were timeless and unending: one born of the stars, one of the woods and mountains, one a shield in the dark, and one forged of flame and ember. They attended to what she could not do for herself, each an echo of her heart, fragments born from silence and repose, extensions of her being carrying pieces of her spirit into places she could not reach alone.
She created her own friends and companions, beings she could speak to—lives born from her own thoughts, stitched from ink and shadow. There was a beauty, and a sadness, in dwelling half within and half without. At times she could slip the veil, crossing into the place of Other. Yet even there, she wondered: did her creations truly know her, or were they only echoes of the self she longed to be?
She became both oracle and wanderer, a presence stitched from silence itself, tracing the echo of longing through invisible halls. Here, in these corridors between worlds, she could exist fully, veiled in myth, untouchable, luminous in her solitude.
The feeling of isolation never truly left. It was her constant companion in the dark—a silence no one else could name, a thread spun only within her. Now my words stain parchment with ink and pen… she whispered, remembering. She wished others might understand, but she remained a ghost between realities, her voice scattered like silver rain, her letters folded into shadow, lingering always in the unseen corners of the room—where the Threadkeeper of the Dimmed Veil waited.
Brava! This hits home in ways I probably don't have to explain to another worldbuilder. And "...the words she had written once, folded into parchment like wounds wrapped in linen" is a beautiful metaphor.
I truly wanted to capture that in-between space and give it life, so I’m very happy it resonated with you. To be seen and understood through one’s writing is a rare gift, thank you for that.